By AZE.US Editorial Team
Architect Elchin Aliyev publishes his writing in both Azerbaijani and Russian. That should be an unremarkable way to reach different readers in a multilingual country.
Yet Aliyev said in a recent Facebook post that journalist Aygun Muradkhanli devoted a broadcast titled “Rüsdillilərin Türkiyə dərdi” — roughly, “Russian Speakers’ Turkey Problem” — to him and portrayed him as hostile to everything Turkish.
Aliyev also alleged that the broadcast included wishes for Russian-speaking people to die.
AZE.US has not independently reviewed the recording, so that allegation should be understood as Aliyev’s account, not an independently established fact.
But even if the dispute over the broadcast is set aside, his underlying question remains: Why should someone who writes in Azerbaijani have to defend himself for also writing in Russian?
Part of the answer lies in the persistent habit of treating language as a political declaration.
For some participants in these debates, a Russian-language text automatically signals sympathy for Russia, while references to the Turkic world become a test of another person’s loyalty. The individual disappears behind a label. His views, conduct and professional record become secondary, as though the language of a post has already said everything that matters.
That is a convenient shortcut, but it is not a sound one.
Azerbaijani is the state language. Its development, teaching and use in public life are essential. At the same time, Azerbaijan’s Constitution guarantees the free use and development of other languages spoken by the population. These principles do not contradict one another.
The comments under Aliyev’s post show how painful this subject remains. Leyla Tan recalled being told at a rally in the late 1980s that she did not belong there because she was Russian-speaking. Rahim Humbatov argued that knowledge of a language, by itself, does not prove patriotism. Other commenters thanked Aliyev for his work to preserve Baku’s architectural character.
These are personal accounts and opinions from an online discussion. But they point to the same question: Why are people still asked to prove their right to love their country through the language they speak?
Aliyev’s response is rooted in his profession. Historic Baku was built by people of different ethnic backgrounds and different architectural schools.
If the city is valued because of that layered inheritance, it makes little sense to demand cultural uniformity from those working to preserve it today.
Aliyev’s criticism of urban development and of particular officials remains his assessment, not proof of wrongdoing by anyone. His right to make that criticism, however, should not depend on whether he expresses it in Azerbaijani or Russian.
There is room for a serious discussion about the place of the Russian language in Azerbaijan. The country can debate the quality of Azerbaijani-language education, opportunities to study and work in the state language, and the availability of books, research and professional materials in Azerbaijani.
But an Azerbaijani citizen who speaks the state language and also uses Russian does not become less Azerbaijani because of it.
Demanding that one language be abandoned does not strengthen another. It merely turns language into a loyalty test.
Perhaps such attacks persist because linguistic labels offer an easy answer to the difficult question of civic belonging. It is simpler to check the language of a social media post than to examine what its author has contributed to the country.
In 2026, Azerbaijan should move beyond that substitution.
Patriotism is demonstrated through actions. Love for Baku does not need to be translated into one language only.
Source: Vesti Baku