Interview with Kurstin Gatt: What's in a Name?

Kurstin Gatt shares some of the findings from his recent Journal of Language and Politics article: What’s in a name? Names as ideological transmitters of the Salafi‑Jihadi worldview. Find out why naming is so important.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

In a world saturated with messaging, names are some of the most overlooked yet powerful carriers of belief. They seduce, they deceive, they inspire.

Why did you decide to write this piece?

We’ve long known that Salafi-Jihadi groups like ISIS and al-Qaeda are masters of media. Their visuals are stylised, their videos dramatic, their rhetoric full of fire and fury.

But why do they invest so much in naming — their leaders, their brigades, their magazines, even their radio stations?

That was the question that first drew me in. Those oddly poetic, pseudo-historical, religious-sounding names have often flown under the radar. Until now.

I wrote this article because once I started spotting the patterns, I couldn’t stop. Why does an all-female morality police unit get named after a seventh-century poet? Why do fighters abandon their birth names for aliases like Abu Talha al-Almani or Umm Jihad? Why do Salafi-Jihadi publications get renamed mid-conflict to align with prophecy?

At first glance, it all seems theatrical — even a little dramatic. But the truth is: these names are doing heavy ideological work.

In a world saturated with messaging, names are some of the most overlooked yet powerful carriers of belief. They seduce, they deceive, they inspire. And in the case of Salafi-Jihadi propaganda, they can sanctify violence in just two words.

So next time you see a name like Umm Jihad or al-Furqan Institute, ask yourself: Is this just a name? Or is it a message wrapped in a myth, cloaked in history, and aimed straight at belief?

What are the key takeaways?

The main takeaway is simple: names are not just names. In Salafi-Jihadi propaganda, they’re compact, emotionally charged tools of ideology. Whether it’s al-Muhajir (evoking the Prophet’s earliest followers), al-Battar (referencing divine punishment), or Rumiyah (a nod to Islamic end-times), every label is crafted to stir emotion, summon collective memory, and cloak modern violence in sacred continuity.

One finding that surprised even me was how names legitimise institutions with no historical precedent. Take ISIS’s all-female morality police, the Khansaʾ Brigade. The name recalls a seventh-century poet who glorified martyrdom. The real al-Khansaʾ never enforced curfews in Raqqa — yet invoke her name, and suddenly a brand-new institution feels like ancient tradition. That’s the power of names: they make fiction feel like heritage.

Adopting a new name isn’t just about hiding your past — it’s about rewriting who you are. In Salafi-Jihadi groups, naming is a ritual of rebirth. The moment someone becomes Abu Talha al-Almani or Umm Jihad, their old life is erased. The new name signals loyalty, purpose, and total submission. It’s not just an alias; it’s an identity makeover with ideological strings attached.

Groups also rebrand themselves to keep the myth alive. When ISIS lost the symbolic town of Dabiq in northern Syria, it didn’t just lose territory; it lost an eschatological anchor. Their solution? Pivot fast — renaming the Dabiq magazine Rumiyah, invoking the next prophetic battlefield. The storyline stayed intact because the name carried the myth forward.

Naming is also an emotional economy. These words aren’t designed to inform — they’re designed to resonate: with pride, rage, grief, nostalgia, or blind faith — the very emotions that fuel extremism. That’s how terrorist groups bypass logic and speak straight to identity. Titles like Ansar al-Islam (supporters of Islam) or One Umma (One Islamic community) aren’t meant to explain; they’re meant to move. And when people are moved, they’re more likely to act.

In short, Salafi-Jihadi names don’t just reflect ideology — they transmit it. They create a language of belonging, legitimacy, and divine mission. What makes them so effective is that they feel Islamic, even when they’re not. By smuggling political ideology under a veneer of religious authenticity, these names put critics in a bind: challenge the label and you risk seeming to challenge Islam itself.

That’s why they’re so effective — and so dangerous. And because they often operate under the radar, they shape hearts and minds without ever needing a headline.

Where do you plan to go next in your research?

For me, the next step is to shift from exposure to disruption. We now understand how names function ideologically; the challenge is figuring out how to weaken their grip. One avenue I’m exploring is counter-messaging — not just responding with facts, but constructing alternative symbolic systems that are just as resonant, but grounded in inclusive, pluralistic values.

Another direction is comparative. If Salafi-Jihadi movements use names this way, how do other radical groups — far-right, ethno-nationalist, cultic, or secular extremist — deploy naming as a political tool? Is this a universal tactic in extremist branding, or something more specific to the Arabic-Islamic context?

Finally, I’m interested in how names mutate over time. What happens when a name no longer fits the geopolitical moment? How do groups pivot linguistically without appearing inconsistent? This tension between tradition and innovation is a discursive battleground of its own.

Ultimately, this research isn’t just about what names mean — but what they do. Names don’t just reflect ideology; they produce it.

Names don’t just describe reality; they shape it.

And in an age where words can travel faster than weapons, understanding the mechanics of naming isn’t a luxury. It’s a necessity.

If this post piqued your curiosity, the full article dives deep — exposing how much power is packed into a few carefully chosen words.