I have a soft spot for Australia’s administration forms. Despite the actual annoyance of filling them out, the questions and answer fields occasionally show a tacit understanding of our diverse community. Some questions, like gender and ethnicity, can have numerous options for those who don’t fit neatly in a box. There’s even the possibility of opting out and ticking ‘I rather not say’. But on one question, Australia’s documentation and culture remains unyielding - and that’s the question of names.
It is a forgone conclusion that everyone has a first name, followed by a surname or family name. But this does not apply to me or some people from South India, Malaysia, Indonesia, Iceland among others, who have . That means our ‘last’ names are our father’s names and their ‘last’ name, in turn, is their father’s names. Only my first name is mine. Therefore, I cannot relate to being called Ms Hariharan, even by well-meaning bank tellers or staff at VicRoads who are just being respectful. Over time, I have become accustomed to it, but I still try to steer people to call me Annie.
Only my first name is mine. Therefore, I cannot relate to being called Ms. Hariharan, even by well-meaning bank tellers or staff at VicRoads who are just being respectful.
I often explain this further using Marvel superhero Thor, son of Odin a.k.a . If we wanted to cheer for our Avenger when he is fighting Thanos, we would yell Thor! Not Odin or Mr. Odinson. This is also a good segue to highlight that historically, many surnames were once patronymic, which is why surnames such as Jackson and Johnson literally mean son of Jack and son of John respectively.
Recently, I was intrigued to read a tweet from Australian-South Sudanese human rights activist, Nyadol Nyuon, who said, "Most South Sudanese don' have family names. So, calling me Nyuon, is using my father's name. Only the first name is my name. What follows is a list of my father's lineage. This starts with my father, and then his father's (my grandad['s]) name, and so on." Until then, I never realised South Sudanese names are also patronyms and it made me curious about other cultures that share this naming convention.
How many sports personalities must live with sports commentators yelling, “and that’s a goal from Nyuon!” even if that’s not their own name? How many doctors are referred to by their father’s name rather than their own? Our names are critical to our sense of self and identity, and I wanted to learn how migrants in Australia adapt to this expectation for a surname.
Engku Puteri Irna Mysara binti Ungku Mohsin is a Malaysian who lives in Australia and is known as Irna. Breaking down her name, Engku Puteri is a title from her royal linage. Her given names are Irna Mysara only. Binti means ‘daughter of’ and Ungku Mohsin is her father’s name. Her fellow Malaysians would likely be able to intuitively dissect her name, but it’s a lot more challenging for an Australian audience.
“Surnames don’t exist in the Malay community because we take our father’s first name but it’s a big deal in Australia. For some reason, most of my legal documents only had the first part of my name, Engku Puteri Irna Mysara, so I’ve adopted Mysara as my surname in Australia. It still takes some getting used to, like when the receptionists at the doctor call out for Engku Mysara. They have to repeat it a few times before I realise they are referring to me.”
In comparison, Irna’s brother adopted Mohsin as his surname and passed it on to his children. Irna knows of many Malay community members who have done the same thing: retained a part of their name and modified it to become a surname.
Vishy Narayanan had a few options for a surname when he first moved to Australia. Born Pudugramam Narayanan Vishwanath in Kerala, fellow Indians will find it easy to discern his names: Pudugramam refers to the town he is from, Narayanan is his father’s name and Vishwanath is his own name. Using South Indian naming convention, he would write his name as P.N. Vishwanath.
When I first moved to Australia, people would call me any of my three names even though I wanted them to call me Vishy.
“When I first moved to Australia, people would call me any of my three names even though I wanted them to call me Vishy. Instead, I was called Pudu a lot. In one contract job, they misspelt my name and it became Pupugramam. So I was called Pupu, which was amusing.”
He later decided to make Narayanan his surname and that is the name he has passed on to his children, thus creating a new tradition for his family. He’s still often called Mr. Narayanan in Australia, but it no longer bothers him. “After all, I made the choice to make Narayanan my surname,” he says.
Before speaking to others, I’d assumed that many migrants would find it taxing and unnecessary to adopt a new surname. But for some, the change is actually appealing. For Shamsia Haqjo, her ‘last’ name should have been her father’s first name as it is customary in Afghanistan. However, when her family moved to Australia, they adopted Haqjo as their surname and she loves it. “It is a unique surname and it means someone who practices justice or rights.” Just like the Malay community, many in the Afghan community adopted a new surname in Australia, either by taking the name of a notable person from previous generations or simply fashioning a meaningful one themselves.
I recognise that across time and geography, migrants have changed their name to fit in. It’s so commonplace, a small tax for a new life. I feel a solidarity towards people who have done it but also understand if they do not want to share details. It’s a constant balance between explaining one’s identity and just remaining unbothered.
My personal hope is that in time, it will also be more commonplace to take the name of a female ancestor as a surname. Here’s to surnames like Annieson, Ruthchild and Lizdottir in the years to come.
