Aelōn̄ Kein Ad: It's who we are
- Admin
- 10 minutes ago
- 5 min read
Majuro—The name of a country is never just a collection of words; it is a vessel of memory, belonging and even power. Our country’s name, the Marshall Islands, honors an English sea captain who spent only a few days here in 1788. Yet our people have lived on these atolls for several thousand years, nurturing a sophisticated and cherished oceanic culture.
Our true name—Aelōn̄ Kein Ad, meaning “Our Islands” or “Our Atolls”—has always carried, in my mind, a quiet yet profound beauty. It is both poetic and precise, and it affirms ownership and unity.
In this time of cultural renewal, reclaiming that name would, I believe, restore an identity that has always been ours.
But here lies the paradox, even for me as the one writing these words: for more than two centuries, the world has known these islands as the Marshall Islands, and our people proudly call themselves Marshallese, or ri-majol. That pride runs deep—and rightly so. I feel the need to say that I respect any view people may hold regarding this issue. Still, I believe the conversation itself is worth having, because within it lies the essence of who we are and how we choose to name ourselves.
The history behind our current name is, in many ways, the story of an accident. In June 1788, the British captain John Marshall sailed his ship, the Scarborough, north from Port Jackson, Australia, on his way to China. Along that journey, he and another captain, Thomas Gilbert, sighted several atolls in what Europeans later called the "Central Pacific." As mentioned, they stayed only a few days—long enough to chart Mili, Arno, and a few other places—before moving on.
Then in 1824, a German-Russian cartographer named Adam Johann von Krusenstern labeled our islands “the Marshall Islands” in Marshall’s honor.
And just like that, our entire nation came to bear the name of a foreigner, who neither discovered nor settled it. In truth, our country is named after an accidental tourist.
This act of naming was not unique; it followed the broader colonial pattern of European mapmaking across the Pacific. Explorers and their patrons were immortalized in the places they happened upon—the Cook Islands, the Caroline Islands, the Gilbert Islands—as though the lands and people they encountered had no names of their own.
What for Europeans was a gesture of scientific cataloging was, for us, an act of erasure. The name Marshall Islands reflects that legacy: a colonial lens through which others defined a living culture that had already long defined itself.
In contrast, Aelōn̄ Kein Ad speaks with our own voice. It is how we have always spoken of our place—our Jolet jen Anij (Gift from God)—whether on the Ratak (sunrise) chain or the Rālik (sunset) chain. The phrase carries the sound of who we are.
Unlike the imported name that honors a passing visitor, Aelōn̄ Kein Ad is born from lived experience. It comes from those who have navigated our lagoons by starlight, planted pandanus and breadfruit in coral soil, and measured their lives against the tides and the trade winds. It reflects a worldview in which land and sea are inseparable, where our people belong to the islands just as the islands belong to them.
Renaming a country to better reflect the truth of its land and people is not unusual. In 2022, the Republic of Turkey became the Republic of Türkiye; in 2018, the Kingdom of Swaziland reclaimed its identity as eSwatini; and in 2016, the Czech Republic began using Czechia.
Each of these decisions was guided by the same impulse—to define themselves in their own language, on their own terms. These changes have not erased their pasts—they have deepened them. They have reinforced pride and restored voice.
For us, adopting Aelōn̄ Kein Ad would do the same, reconnecting our global identity to the ancestral language that first named these shores.
Renaming our nation Aelōn̄ Kein Ad would also reaffirm the importance of Kajin Majōl, our Marshallese language, as the foundation of our national identity. Language is more than communication—it is the way our people see the world. This name, written in our own tongue, would preserve generations of observation and adaptation.
Though we became an independent republic in 1979, our inherited name still reflects a European story—not ours. A nation that has endured both colonial rule and nuclear testing deserves a name that speaks of survival and solidarity. Aelōn̄ Kein Ad embodies that endurance. It replaces ownership by another with the shared “our” of a people bound together by history and hope.
Symbolically, this change would harmonize with our national anthem, Aelōn̄ Eo Aō (“My Islands”), which already carries this spirit. We sing in our language; we govern in our language; our hearts are shaped by it.
It seems only fitting that our nation’s name should carry it too. And as the world confronts rising seas and climate threats, the phrase Aelōn̄ Kein Ad would remind everyone—ourselves included—of our duty to protect the islands that have protected us.
Such a change would hold great educational and cultural value. Every classroom, every map, every textbook could begin with a lesson in language and heritage. Our children would not only learn where they live, but why their islands bear the name they do. The story behind Aelōn̄ Kein Ad would teach them that identity begins with words of our own making.
For the world beyond our shores, the new name would speak volumes. Diplomats, journalists, and travelers would ask its meaning and, in doing so, learn a few words of Marshallese. It would become both name and ambassador—an invitation to understand the depth of who we are.
Of course, any change of this kind would require legal and diplomatic steps, but these are practical matters, not obstacles. Our government already operates bilingually; passports, seals, and official documents could transition gradually.
One reasonable approach might be to introduce a dual title—Aelōn̄ Kein Ad (Republic of the Marshall Islands)—allowing both names to coexist during a period of adjustment. Over time, as other nations have done, the United Nations and international organizations could adopt the new name at our request.
I believe the time has come to let our islands speak for themselves. To choose Aelōn̄ Kein Ad is not simply to rename our country; it is to reclaim our identity and our voice, as our national anthem proclaims in its final words: “Anij an ro jemem wonakke im kejrammon Aelōn̄ Kein Ad”—God of our forefathers, protect and bless our islands forever.
In the end, the question of what to call our country is really about how we see ourselves. Are we content to carry a name bestowed by someone who knew us only as dots on a map, or do we embrace the name given by our ancestors—the name that rises from our own language, our stories, our songs, and even our national anthem?
Our islands deserve to be called by the name that has always been ours—Aelōn̄ Kein Ad—a name that carries the sound of who we are and who we will always be.
Jack Niedenthal is the former secretary of Health Services for the Marshall Islands, where he has lived and worked for 43 years. He is the author of “For the Good of Mankind, An Oral History of the People of Bikini,” and president of Microwave Films, which has produced six award-winning feature films in the Marshallese language. Send feedback to jackniedenthal@gmail.com
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