My walk to Guy’s Bar was filled with restless thoughts about how the night would unfold. Freshers’ Week marked the beginning of a new chapter, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. Had I moved into my student accommodation that same day, like most others, I might have had people to walk with—some comfort in a sea of unfamiliarity. But I had been too late in booking my move-in slot, and now I was suffering the consequences; I was heading alone to my first-ever university party.
As I walked, I played out different versions of the night in my mind, running through the possibilities again and again. Thanks to hours spent on Freshers’ TikTok, I was well-versed in what to expect: the standard introductions, awkwardly asking where people’s lectures were, signing up for every society that so much as handed me a flyer, and, of course, the inevitable final chapter—Freshers’ Flu.
I stepped into the bar, bracing myself for the usual questions: “What’s your name? What course are you doing? Which accom are you in?” Sure enough, within moments of approaching someone, I was met with that exact script. But what I hadn’t anticipated was how distorted my name would sound coming from a stranger’s mouth. I corrected her once. Twice. Three times. Each attempt was met with another variation, further from the truth. When the back-and-forth began to feel uncomfortably drawn out, I surrendered. For the rest of that conversation, I was ‘Rad-hee-ka.’
As the night went on, I found myself spending more time correcting people than actually getting to know them. Some mispronunciations were amusing at first, but the humor quickly faded. With each interaction, it became painfully clear: not a single person I had spoken to could say my name correctly. And I wasn’t alone. My international friends echoed the same frustrations, each of us caught in the same cycle of repeating, correcting, and eventually giving up.
Many international students face constant mispronunciation of their names, leading to frustration, embarrassment, and, at times, isolation. This repeated misnaming reinforces a sense of otherness, making it even harder to feel at home in a new country. Some students hesitate to correct others, worried about making interactions awkward or—worse—that their name will still be forgotten. Over time, this struggle can erase a part of their identity, forcing them to decide: keep asserting their real name, or choose a more “convenient” alternative?
For me, that moment came during my second-ever university class. After a week of hearing my name twisted into countless incorrect versions, I was tired. I didn’t want to deal with the awkward pause that followed whenever someone realized my name wasn’t as easy as Poppy, Jake, or Sally. Back in school, my friends had endearingly called me ‘Rads,’ but that was a name I wasn’t willing to let strangers monopolise. Instead, I chose something completely different. Something simpler.
I became Rad.
Like so many other international students, I altered my name, and subsequently myself, to make it easier for those around me—to avoid the exhausting process of hearing it mispronounced, explaining it, and watching people struggle with it anyway. Having a name perceived as “foreign” only amplified the feeling of being an outsider, no matter how much we tried to integrate. Modern media, shaped by Orientalist stereotypes, has long painted South Asians as exotic, backward, or overly mystical, forcing us to shed significant parts of our culture just to be seen as ‘normal’ in Western spaces—losing our names on top of that feels like an even bigger erasure, a final “f*ck you” to any sense of belonging we try to hold onto. Some students have even experienced people laughing at or mocking their names, turning something deeply personal into a source of discomfort. From casual introductions to the seemingly harmless act of giving our name at a coffee shop, everything suddenly became “easier” when we stripped away part of our identity. Conversations flowed more smoothly, introductions were met with nods instead of hesitance, and the exhausting cycle of explaining our names disappeared—at the cost of erasing a fundamental part of who we are.
For many, the pressure to adopt an English name extends beyond social convenience. Some believe that having a Western-sounding name in professional settings will help them be taken more seriously or avoid unconscious bias. The more international students who change their names, the more others feel encouraged—or even pressured—to do the same, just to fit in. In some cases, people don’t even choose their English name—someone else assigns it to them, and they simply go along with it.
So far, I’ve noticed several types of name changes. Some people use completely new English names (From Ali to Adam); some prefer shortened, more “digestible” versions of their name (Haojun becomes Jun); and some go with just using their initials instead of their full name. These adaptations may seem like minor changes that come with university, but for many of us our name is a label. It carries culture, history, and identity. And yet, in a new environment where belonging feels fragile, we are forced to choose between holding on to our real name or making life easier for everyone else.
My minor name change came with major consequences. I’ve always had nicknames within different friend groups—affectionate names given by those who knew me well. But Rad was never a nickname. No one gave it to me out of affection. It wasn’t a reflection of closeness or familiarity. It was born out of necessity. Chopping my name into bits felt like mutilating my own identity, a concession to the Western lens that refused to see me as whole.
I had always taken pride in staying true to myself, never compromising my identity for the sake of others. Yet, at university, I found myself in a space where it felt impossible to belong unless I conformed to the convenience of those around me. Introducing myself as Rad wasn’t just a matter of practicality—it was a quiet surrender. And with that surrender came shame, a feeling that lingers every time I introduce myself with a name that isn’t truly mine.
What began as a simple adjustment to avoid awkwardness gradually created a deep disconnect from my cultural roots. At times, I feel as though I’m living a double life—one name at home, where my real identity is affirmed, and another in public spaces, where I am expected to conform to Western norms. This divide brings an overwhelming sense of inauthenticity, a loss of self, and the deep regret of having sacrificed a piece of my heritage just to make life easier for others. My name, once unshaken, started feeling like conquered territory- trimmed, reshaped, and repurposed to suit the tongue of the colonizer. Its original form was left behind in the rubble of assimilation.
The first time someone asked me for my real name and made a genuine effort to pronounce it correctly, I felt more at home than I had in weeks. In that moment, a stranger had done more for me than some of my university friends had in all the months we had known each other. That simple act—asking instead of assuming, making the effort rather than brushing it aside—was a reminder that my name, my identity, deserved respect.
Respecting and normalizing diverse names should not be an exception—it should be the rule. Yet, for South Asians, the casual dismissal of our names is just another symptom of the normalized subtle racism we endure. Displaying shock at how good our English is, expecting us to smell like ‘curry’, and the constant expectation to shrink ourselves to fit Western comfort. Many locals don’t realize that such a small gesture as simply learning how to pronounce our names can make a profound difference in an international student’s sense of inclusion and belonging. Instead of expecting us to mould ourselves even further to fit into Western norms, wouldn’t it be easier if people simply made the effort to learn our names in the first place? After everything that the West has already taken from us, the least it can do is learn our names. If you won’t ask, it’s fine. I’ll tell you anyway. My name is Radhika Singhal.