A Century of Change: Azerbaijani’s 4 Script Swaps

Imagine walking into a dusty family library in Baku. On the top shelf, there are centuries-old manuscripts written in delicate, flowing Arabic calligraphy. On the middle shelf, fading pamphlets from the 1930s feature harsh, angular Latin type. Just below that, the bulk of the collection is printed in heavy, blocky Cyrillic letters consistent with Soviet textbooks. Finally, on the desk sits a modern newspaper, printed in a Latin script that looks almost—but not quite—like Turkish.

For an Azerbaijani family, this isn’t a museum exhibit; it is a timeline of four generations. Within the span of a single century, the Azerbaijani language underwent three official alphabet changes, forcing the population to become literate all over again, repeatedly. This phenomenon is unique in its frequency and intensity.

For linguists and language learners, the history of Azerbaijan’s script is more than a quirk of grammar; it is a profound case study on how alphabets are rarely just tools for encoding sound. They are weapons of politics, symbols of identity, and declarations of geopolitical allegiance.

The First Era: The Perso-Arabic Roots (Until 1929)

For over a millennium, Azerbaijani (a Turkic language closely related to Turkish and Turkmen) was written using the Perso-Arabic script. This connected the region to the broader Islamic world, facilitating the exchange of literature, science, and theology with Persia and the Arab nations.

However, from a purely linguistic perspective, the “fit” was uncomfortable. The Arabic script is an abjad—a writing system where listeners must infer many vowels based on context. This works beautifully for Semitic languages like Arabic, which are built on triconsonantal roots. It works much less effectively for Turkic languages, which are agglutinative and rely heavily on vowel harmony.

Azerbaijani has nine distinct vowel sounds. The Perso-Arabic script struggled to represent them all, leading to significant ambiguity in reading. By the late 19th century, Azerbaijani intelligentsia, led by figures like the playwright Mirza Fatali Akhundov, began advocating for reform. They argued that the script was a barrier to mass literacy and modernization. Yet, religious conservatism kept these reforms at bay until the world order collapsed.

The Second Era: The First Latinization (1929–1939)

Following the Russian Revolution and the Soviet takeover of the Caucasus, the linguistic landscape shifted violently. In the 1920s, the early Soviet policy was one of korenizatsiya (indigenization), which encouraged local nationalities to develop their own identities distinct from the old Russian Empire—and distinct from religious tradition.

The Soviets viewed the Arabic script as a tether to Islam and “backwardness.” To sever this tie, they promoted Latinization. Interestingly, Azerbaijan was a pioneer here, adopting the Latin script even before Mustafa Kemal Atatürk implemented his famous language reforms in Turkey.

This new alphabet was known as the Yanalif (New Alphabet). It was celebrated as a victory for secularism and literacy. For a decade, statues of Lenin were inscribed with Latin letters, and literacy rates skyrocketed. But as the political winds in Moscow shifted, the Latin script—once the darling of the revolution—became a liability.

The Third Era: The Cyrillic Turn (1939–1991)

By the late 1930s, Joseph Stalin had consolidated power, and the Soviet policy shifted from supporting local nationalism to enforcing Russification. As Turkey moved closer to the West and solidified its own Latin alphabet, Stalin grew paranoid about “Pan-Turkism.” He feared that a shared Latin script would unite the Turkic peoples of the Soviet Union (Azerbaijanis, Tatars, Uzbeks, etc.) with Turkey, creating a threat to Soviet unity.

The solution was swift and non-negotiable: changing the script again. In 1939, Azerbaijan was forced to adopt the Cyrillic alphabet. This achieved two Stalinist goals:

• It created a visual barrier between Azerbaijan and Turkey.
• It made learning Russian (the lingua franca of the USSR) easier for Azerbaijanis, as they would already be familiar with the letters.

For the next 50 years, all history, poetry, and news were filtered through Cyrillic. While this period saw near-total literacy achievemnts, it also created a “cut-off” effect. A child born in 1945 could not read the letters of their grandfather written in 1925, nor the manuscripts of their ancestors from 1900.

The Fourth Era: Independence and the Return to Latin (1991–Present)

When the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991, alphabet reform became one of the first acts of the newly independent Azerbaijan. Casting off Cyrillic was a symbolic shedding of Russian dominance. The question was not if they would change, but to what?

There was a debate. Some advocated returning to the 1920s Latin script. Others suggested adopting the exact alphabet used by modern Turkey to facilitate unity. Eventually, they settled on a modified Latin script that is very similar to Turkish but includes specific letters to accommodate unique Azerbaijani sounds.

The Case of the Upside-Down ‘e’ (ə)

Linguists and travelers often notice one specific quirk in modern written Azerbaijani: the letter ə (Schwa). This letter represents the “a” sound found in the English word “cat” (the near-open front unrounded vowel).

While Turkey represents a similar sound simply with ‘e’ or ‘a’, Azerbaijan fought to keep the distinct character. During the early days of computer coding and internet adoption, this letter caused endless technical headaches (often appearing as encoding errors or question marks). Despite pressure to standardize with the standard ASCII keyboard, the Azerbaijanis held firm. The ə remains a badge of linguistic pride—a signal that while they are Turkic, they are distinctly Azerbaijani.

The Linguistic Consequences of “Script Swaps”

Changing an alphabet is not like changing a font; it is a traumatic cultural event. This century of flux created what sociolinguists call intergenerational illiteracy.

• The Archive Problem: Historians and students today must learn three different scripts to access the primary sources of their own country’s last 100 years.
• The Publishing Gap: When the switch to Latin happened in the 90s, libraries filled with Cyrillic books effectively became obsolete overnight. Schools faced a massive shortage of materials until new Latin-script textbooks could be printed.
• The Digital Divide: The older generation, educated continuously in Cyrillic, found themselves suddenly illiterate in the public sphere, unable to read street signs or grocery labels, while the youth adapted quickly to the Latin script used on the internet.

Conclusion: The Resilience of Language

Today, Azerbaijan seems to have settled into its modern Latin identity. Walking through Baku, you will still see the layers of history: Cyrillic inscriptions on Soviet-era metro stations and Arabic calligraphy on ancient mosques, all surrounded by neon signs in modern Latin.

For language learners, Azerbaijani offers a fascinating lesson. It teaches us that language is fluid. While the specific symbols used to represent the sounds of “The Land of Fire” have changed four times, the language itself survived the pressures of empires, dictators, and globalization. It serves as a reminder that an alphabet is merely a vessel; the culture it carries is the water, capable of taking any shape necessary to survive.