North Macedonia: The long history behind the country’s new name

The main square in North Macedonia’s capital of Skopje. Image: Getty.

Macedonian fans at the Handball World Cup, contested in Germany earlier this year, were easily idenitifiable, from the Alexander the Great helmets they wore to support their team, who played as Macedonia – despite the dispute with Greece over their country’s name coming to its conclusion with the new name of North Macedonia.

These helmets, of course, get to the heart of this dispute, with the Greeks seeing the ancient conqueror as a Hellenic figure and important part of Greek culture. Indeed it was Alexander the Great, the infamous ruler of ancient Macedon, who inaugurated the Hellenistic period of ancient Mediterranean history in the third to first centuries BC. It’s objections like this from Greece that have led to 28 years of the official name for its northern neighbour being The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, or FYRO-Macedonia for short.

The new North Macedonia is only part of the modern region of Macedonia (and indeed of the ancient kingdom, which existed from about the 600sBC to the Roman conquest in 167BC). Northern Greece around the city of Salonica and the south-western part of Bulgaria also form part of the region, with those living in those areas also self-identifying as Macedonians.

Disentangling who has best claim to the name is fraught. The ancient Macedonians spoke a Hellenic language, conquered Greece and spread Hellenic culture across the Mediterranean. The modern Macedonian language is South Slavic, a language group that was only introduced to the Balkan in the fourth or fifth centuries AD. However, language is not the same as genetics; indigenous peoples adopt new languages over time. English, for example, only came to Britain around the same time and many modern English people are descended from ancient Britons as well as Anglo-Saxons. Indeed it was the Byzantine monks Cyril and Methodius who first codified the South Slavic languages in the 800sAD, what today is known as Old Church Slavonic.

The dispute is cultural, though it has led to political implications, up until now blocking North Macedonia from NATO or EU membership. The name was seen as laying claim to the heritage and perhaps territorially to the whole region. Neighbouring places – the country and the Greek regions – having the same name was also seen as confusing, although doing so would not be unique: two countries are called Congo and four have Guinea as part of their name. Within Europe, the Belgian province of Luxembourg neighbours the country of Luxembourg (the capital of which is also called Luxembourg). Moldova is the eastern part of Moldavia, the western part being in Romania and the northern and southern parts in Ukraine. Further apart, Georgia is a country in the Caucasus and a US state.

To resolve the issue, the UN suggested various names, each of which added a distinguishing adjective: New Macedonia, Upper Macedonia, Vardar Macedonia, Macedonia-Skopje and North Macedonia.

New Macedonia could have referred to the fact that the country only recently gained independence, in 1991. And it would sit alongside New Zealand, which was named after the Dutch province of Zeeland (Zealand is also the largest Danish island, including its capital Copenhagen). But it would negate the long history of the region.

Upper Macedonia would be a geographical expression, since the country is generally at a higher altitude. Bolivia was known as Upper Peru before its independence from Spain, and in West Africa, the enigmatically named Upper Volta was renamed the even more enigmatic Burkina Faso in 1984. The issue in this case, however, is that the Bulgarian part of Macedonia is also at high ground, being made up largely of the Pirin mountains.

The Vardar is the major river of the country, flowing through its capital Skopje. Many countries and territories have been named after rivers – Gambia in West Africa is a long thin country following the eponymous river for its lower 350 miles to the sea and never more than 30-miles wide. Belize, Congo, Jordan, Moldova, Niger, Nigeria, Paraguay and Uruguay are all named after rivers. So are many US states and other regions and provinces around the world. India, one of the world’s largest countries, is named after the River Indus, which is now almost wholly within Pakistan. This is one of the problems with naming territories after watercourses – rivers flow downhill going through other places. The Vardar flows into the Aegean through Greek Macedonia, just to the west of Salonica.

Using the capital to denote a country is seen with Guinea-Bissau, where the neighbouring Republic of Guinea is also sometimes unofficially called Guinea-Conakry. Other unofficial uses are Congo-Brazzaville and Congo-Kinshasa, the latter being the Democratic Republic of Congo or DR Congo. And Mexico is named after its capital. Throughout the Macedonian naming dispute, Greece often referred to the Republic of Skopje, which is perhaps one reason (as well as alienating other towns and cities in the country) why this solution would not have worked.

This has left North, a compass point that is hard to dispute (although it isn’t always wholly accurate: the northernmost point of the island of Ireland is not in Northern Ireland). The use of North, South, East and West in country names may seem common but actually isn’t. Both Koreas and previously Germany, Vietnam and Yemen, all have or had different official names. North Cyprus is not an officially recognised country. Western Sahara is a disputed territory and the Pacific island country of Samoa dropped Western (which distinguished it from American Samoa) in 1997. Compass points denote many counties, provinces or federal states within countries, but as far as sovereign nations go, North Macedonia will only be in the company of East Timor, South Africa and South Sudan. Though, lest you forget this saga, to its south are the Greek regions of Central Macedonia, Eastern Macedonia and Western Macedonia.


Canada’s gay neighbourhoods are struggling. Can queer pop-ups plug the gap?

Vancouver. Image: Getty.

Queer life was highly visible in Western Canada last year. In May, Vancouver declared 2018 the “Year of the Queer,” celebrating decades of service that the city’s cultural organisations have provided for lesbian, bisexual, gay, transgender, queer and two-spirit (LGBTQ/2S) people across the region.

Yet 2018 also saw the loss of multiple queer venues and gay bars. While economic forces, such as rapacious gentrification are part of the story and struggle, our research shows that something creative and generative is happening in the city as well.

In the face of changing urban landscapes, economic hardships, and more straights moving into historically gay neighbourhoods, queer pop-ups — ephemeral gathering spaces whose impact lingers among revellers long after the night is over — now play a large role in the fight for LGBTQ/2S equality.

Scattered gay places became neighbourhoods

Queer life germinated in “scattered gay places” across cities in North America from the late 1800s to the Second World War. Inside cabarets, bars, theatres or outside in public parks, washrooms and city streets, queers found spaces which could hold and celebrate transgressive sexual connections while also providing respite from daily experiences of discrimination and social exclusion.

After the Second World War, scattered gay places congealed into permanent gay bars and residential “gaybourhoods” in a period anthropologist Kath Weston calls “the great gay migration.” Queer people flocked to urban centres and sexual subcultures flourished in cities like New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Toronto.

The formation of queer community spaces has always been controversial. Cultural and legal backlashes marred early developments. A host of laws and regulations tried to suppress and contain homosexuality in North America by limiting its presence in the public sphere.

These measures resulted in frequent hostilities, police raids and violence. Queers congregated together not just to find love or community, but to protect themselves, to protect one another and to find refuge. Pride parades, now celebrated worldwide, commemorate these early turf wars.

Pop-ups revitalise queer spaces

Researchers have written a great deal on the cultural and political importance of gay districts in urban centres, and they have grappled with concerns that these areas, along with the establishments they house, are fading.

But innovative urban forms challenge arguments about the death and demise of queer spaces in the city. Our research suggests that queer pop-ups, or temporary cultural gathering spaces, cater to diverse and often marginalised queers.

Some gaybourhoods are dwindling in their residential concentration and gay bars are dropping like flies. But new queer place-making efforts are emerging.

Two of the authors at the queer pop-up in 2018 at East Side Studios in Vancouver. Ryan is on the far left, back row, Adriana is on the far right of the back row. Image: author provided.

Unlike gaybourhoods and gay bars, pop-ups are intentional in how they address persistent, intersectional forms of inequality. Queer pop-ups offer patrons a space to explore non-binary forms of gender and sexual identities, and especially a place to experience collective effervescence among queer people of colour, and femme lesbians.

Some pop-ups create environments that are explicitly trans-inclusive, consent-focused, and sex-positive. Pop-ups are not panaceas for queer life. Pop-ups can also be places where issues around socioeconomic status, gender identity and expression, and racial inequality are called out.

Yet these spaces directly and indirectly encourage dialogue on inequalities within the queer community, conversations that help produce safer spaces for marginalised queers to find each other and forge enduring queer consciousnesses.

Turf wars

Queer pop-ups show similar trajectories of infighting and compromise that the LGBT social movement encountered from the late 1970s through the early 2000s when trying to forge a collective consciousness, gain social visibility and win legal rights.

These turf wars, expressed as contests over space and inclusion, are generally sparked over three perennial concerns: privilege, race and gender. One interviewee, a 20-year-old self-identified queer, trans person of colour (QTPoC), who spoke about Vancouver’s gay district told us:

“I tend to avoid the gay bars on Davie [because] a lot of the gay bars there have now been taken over by cis-gender, heterosexual people. I’ve [also] heard from a lot of QTPoC friends that they are often uncomfortable going to gay bars on Davie, because it’s usually very dominated by cis-gender, white gay men.”

A 28-year-old white, cisgender, queer male found pop-ups more politically and culturally radical than gay bars. He put it this way:

“It’s very rare that we’ll ever have a conversation about politics [in gay bars]. It’s just about partying and things that we kind of see as very stereotypical portrayals of gay culture: like going out, dancing, drinking, fucking.”

Historically, gaybourhoods have served an important role in the fight for LGBT rights, but they have also developed to cater to a specific cis-gender, white, middle-class, male sensibility. One 30-year-old, white, trans DJ put it bluntly, “the mainstream scene is just not welcoming to trans people, in my experience,” adding that verbal transphobic harassment is common in the streets of Vancouver’s gaybourhood.

At Vancouver Pride this year we were reminded of this schism at a local pop-up event. “Gay men won’t come here, it’s too trashy,” shouted a white Australian lesbian playfully to friends over loud music. We were at Eastside Studios, a large warehouse turned into the newest collaborative queer venue in Vancouver.

The comment was striking because it highlights the visible bifurcation occurring in queer life and queer consumption in Vancouver. Many gay men tend to patronise businesses and events in the West End, Vancouver’s official gaybourhood; whereas, other members of the LGBTQ community are scattered across the city at events and venues that are far less permanent. Eastside Studios attempts to break through the homonormative bent some gay bars perpetuate. It is a space that generously houses some of the struggling pop up events who lost space to gentrification in Vancouver’s out of control rental market.

Historically, pop-ups arose as the first signs of urban sexual transgression. They continue to emerge as spatial innovations which nurture transgressive queer diversities that do not have space or representation in the gaybourhood. Weekly social media blasts via Facebook or Instagram and word-of-mouth dissemination play an important role in linking queers around the city to these events. Pop-ups take different tones and establish different vibes among patrons. Collectively, pop-ups highlight the many important projects local queers are undertaking to increase the plurality of what queer life looks like and how it is expressed.

Struggles for equality

Marriage is the leading story in many headlines these days, but queer struggles for equality were never only about relationship recognition or acceptance into the mainstream.

Queer struggles are also fights to resist oppressive normativity, to end racial inequality and white supremacy, to end sexualised violence, to reconcile generational traumas associated with colonialism.

Continuing these fights is perhaps what makes queer pop-ups unique. Organisers of these events are intentional and responsive to such concerns. They seek to create new worlds that soften the impact of inequalities, both in gaybourhoods and in other parts of Canadian cities as well.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives; they emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. Here an image from a Man Up pop-up event in Vancouver. Image: Shot by Steph/Facebook/The Conversation.

Many of these spaces are an opportunity for patrons to travel in a re-imagined world, even if only for the night. While not all pop-ups that appear survive, the ones that do matter, fundamentally, because they create spaces that resist heteronormative culture and homonormativity, address intersecting inequalities, assert and anchor queer cultural and political identities, and promote well-being for a wider portion of the community in ways that gaybourhoods used to and have always had the potential to.

Pop-ups nourish queer lives in ways that gaybourhoods and gay bars historically had. They emerge as temporary meeting grounds where diverse, oftentimes marginalised, queers flock for community and collective, momentary release. They allow patrons to dance and comfortably explore the implications of their gender and sexual identities around like-minded individuals. At times they are more than friendly social gatherings, becoming sites where the moral arch of the community is shaped through demonstrations on urgent issues impacting queer lives and the surrounding community.

Queer pop-ups are vibrant locations that work to push forward the unfinished projects of social justice first envisioned during gay liberation.

The Conversation

Ryan Stillwagon, Ph.D. Student, Sociology, University of British Columbia; Adriana Brodyn, Ph.D. Candidate, University of British Columbia; Amin Ghaziani, Associate Professor of Sociology and Canada Research Chair in Sexuality and Urban Studies, University of British Columbia, and D. Kyle Sutherland, PhD Student, Department of Sociology, University of British Columbia.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.