Chinese names in English often carry historical baggage due to dialectal variations and romanization systems, which can trip up even the most careful translators. However, beyond the technicalities, a more pressing question arises: How should Chinese names be pronounced when placed in an English context?
Let us start with the order of names. In English, the given name comes before the surname. For years, many Chinese speakers have flipped their names to fit this Western convention when writing in English. For instance, Zhang San (張三) becomes San Zhang, which might leave English speakers thinking “San” is the surname and “Zhang” is the given name. That inversion feels awkward to the speaker and the listener.
Interestingly, English media often respect the Chinese tradition of placing the surname first. Whether referring to leaders or ordinary citizens, they consistently maintain the “surname-first” order. So why do we, as Chinese speakers, bend over backward to conform to a foreign convention when the world is already accommodating ours? It is time to embrace our naming tradition with confidence.
Then comes the tricky part: pronunciation. Many Chinese names are butchered in English, often sounding like a bad karaoke rendition. While it is understandable that non-native speakers struggle with tones and phonetics, we native speakers should strive to pronounce our names authentically, even in an English context.
The gold standard is to pronounce names in clear, standard Mandarin. For example, Zhang San should sound like “張三.” If tones are too challenging for English speakers, dropping them while retaining the basic pronunciation (for example, “張散” for Zhang San) is acceptable. However, completely anglicizing Chinese names — such as pronouncing Zhang San as “Jang San(d)” — feels like a cultural betrayal. After all, our names are part of our identity.
Of course, if someone has an English name, all bets are off. They are free to follow English naming conventions without judgement.
The same principles apply to Chinese place names, but with an added layer of historical complexity. Take for example “Soochow University,” the English name for Dongwu University (東吳大學), founded in Suzhou in 1900. “Soochow” is an old romanization of “Suzhou” (蘇州). When I pronounced it as “蘇州” in an English recording, a professor said it should be pronounced “Zhao” (超) to preserve its historical roots.
Similarly, “Taipei” (台北) is derived from the Wade-Giles romanization system, which originally included an apostrophe to indicate aspiration (T’aipei). Over time, the apostrophe was dropped, but should we still pronounce it as “台北” or anglicize it to “Tie-pay”?
The professor likened my approach to tearing down ancient buildings and replacing them with modern structures, saying it erases historical charm. However, “Soochow” and “Taipei” are merely romanized representations of Mandarin pronunciations. Pronouncing them as “蘇州” and “台北” aligns with their linguistic origins, not their spelling.
Some Chinese place names in English carry deep historical roots. “Cathay,” an archaic term for China, derives from the Khitan people. “China” traces back to Sanskrit. “Peking” (北京) reflects an older Mandarin pronunciation, while “Hong Kong” (香港) is firmly rooted in Cantonese. Those names have become entrenched in English and should be pronounced as they are.
For modern place names, I recommend sticking to standard Mandarin pronunciations: “Taipei” should ideally sound like “台北,” although dropping the tones to make it “胎貝” is a reasonable compromise. Fully anglicizing it to “Tie-pay” should be the last resort.
Ultimately, how we pronounce Chinese names and places in English reflects our cultural confidence. While it is understandable that non-native speakers might struggle, we should hold ourselves to a higher standard. After all, our names and places are more than just words — they are a part of who we are.
So, the next time you hear someone mispronounce “Zhang San” or “Taipei,” gently correct them. Remember, cultural pride starts with how we say our own names.
Hugo Tseng holds a doctorate in linguistics, and is a lexicographer and former chair of the Soochow University English Department.
China’s supreme objective in a war across the Taiwan Strait is to incorporate Taiwan as a province of the People’s Republic. It follows, therefore, that international recognition of Taiwan’s de jure independence is a consummation that China’s leaders devoutly wish to avoid. By the same token, an American strategy to deny China that objective would complicate Beijing’s calculus and deter large-scale hostilities. For decades, China has cautioned “independence means war.” The opposite is also true: “war means independence.” A comprehensive strategy of denial would guarantee an outcome of de jure independence for Taiwan in the event of Chinese invasion or
Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) Chairwoman Cheng Li-wun (鄭麗文) earlier this month said it is necessary for her to meet with Chinese President Xi Jinping (習近平) and it would be a “huge boost” to the party’s local election results in November, but many KMT members have expressed different opinions, indicating a struggle between different groups in the party. Since Cheng was elected as party chairwoman in October last year, she has repeatedly expressed support for increased exchanges with China, saying that it would bring peace and prosperity to Taiwan, and that a meeting with Xi in Beijing takes priority over meeting
Taiwan no longer wants to merely manufacture the chips that power artificial intelligence (AI). It aims to build the software, platforms and services that run on them. Ten major AI infrastructure projects, a national cloud computing center in Tainan, the sovereign language model Trustworthy AI Dialogue Engine, five targeted industry verticals — from precision medicine to smart agriculture — and the goal of ranking among the world’s top five in computing power by 2040: The roadmap from “Silicon Island” to “Smart Island” is drawn. The question is whether the western plains, where population, industry and farmland are concentrated, have the water and
The political order of former president Lee Teng-hui (李登輝) first took shape in 1988. Then-vice president Lee succeeded former president Chiang Ching-kuo (蔣經國) after he passed, and served out the remainder of his term in office. In 1990, Lee was elected president by the National Assembly, and in 1996, he won Taiwan’s first direct presidential election. Those two, six and four-year terms were an era-defining 12-year presidential tenure. Throughout those years, Lee served as helmsman for Taiwan’s transition from martial law and authoritarianism to democracy. This period came to be known as the “quiet revolution,” leaving a legacy containing light