What’s in a Name?
My name is Deenah al-Aqsa.
Nearly two years ago now, I chose something monumental to my career, and to my identity. In June 2019, I decided to write anonymously about being a queer Muslim for the first time, and that meant choosing a new name.
I had to pick that name carefully — this would be the moniker accompanying my every future byline, or at least a good deal of them that I felt more confident to write anonymously. Accordingly, I’ve since used this pen name for various pieces including for Lacuna Magazine, The Femedic and Lumpen Journal.
I always gravitated towards writing as a way to stick to my principles, stay strong in my convictions. Writing was and will always be a way to challenge the status quo, something that I see as a moral imperative for myself, as well as the democratic duty of any news outlet. Thus, Deenah was born.
Deenah is the feminine version of the Arabic word deen, which is hard to translate precisely but basically means religion, or faith, or principle. Or moral? It’s hard to say with exactness, as is often the case when trying to translate Arabic. I would be lying if I said that always being principled was me to a tee, because wavering of faith is practically a queer Muslim’s rite of passage at this point. But Deenah is who I aspire to be like, because as Deenah, I’m my best self.
I was pretty set on Deenah from the jump as my pseud, but I did struggle a bit with a surname. I eventually settled on “al-Aqsa”, after a friend suggested that I use the name of a place that is meaningful to me.
I chose Masjid al-Aqsa because of its holiness as one of the most sacred sites on earth, but also because I wanted every bit of my name to be meaningful and significant. Masjid al-Aqsa, located in Jerusalem, was recently attacked by Israeli forces. Because of the West’s deference to the state of Israel even with its human rights violations, even left-wing outlets referred to the violence euphemistically as “clashes” following “evictions” in the headlines.
This state will always have a place in my heart. The first protest I attended was for freeing Palestine. I still remember being a teenager, taking the day off studying for GCSEs to march in central London with my best friend, pausing to pray on the grass with others. Palestine, for me, is the inspiration to all that I rebel against, so I think it’s pretty fitting for my nom de plume to pay homage to my comrades in this holy land.
And rebel I did. Through my secret identity, I’ve been able to be more courageous as a journalist, in giving a voice to the marginalised. I’ve been able to write about things that are uncomfortable, about faults of my own and others that I felt too ashamed or nervous to say aloud. I’ve called out harmful behaviours and cultures, criticised the systems in which they are able to fester. I’ve written about my own identity as a queer Muslim and delighted when my words were used in a parliamentary debate on the very issue of LGBTQ inclusion in education.
My writing has opened doors for me that I didn’t even realise existed. I was scouted for my current volunteer role at Hidayah, a queer Muslim charity, because of my articles for Lacuna Magazine. I’ve hosted events and appeared on panels and radio shows. I’m involved in two, possibly three major writing projects that I’m super excited about.
Over at Hidayah, my fellow volunteers only know me as Deenah. So that’s what they call me, which brings me so much joy. You may wonder why — what’s in a name, after all, to quote a fellow queer writer?
Suffice it to say that me being called Deenah is like Clark Kent being addressed as Kal-El or Superman. It just feels truest to oneself. Like I’m being seen for who I really am — which, okay, is a bit ironic given I’m not a visible queer Muslim.
But people are seeing what I need them to see, which is that alhamdulillah, I’m here and queer and ready to make waves with the power of the pen, insha allah.
I ask for Allah’s guidance (which is what “hidayah” translates to!) as I continue to navigate through a world of media that wasn’t built for me but that I stay in because of the stories worth fighting for. I ask Allah to guide those who are quick to judge, instilling in them the love and mercy that everyone in the ummah deserves.
And as this twenty-seventh night of Ramadan draws to a close, I pray for those in Palestine, particularly those affected by the violence inflicted on them in al-Aqsa. The people in Palestine are my people, and I stand firmly with them in love and solidarity as their sister in Islam.
