On the Philosophy of Names

"What is in a name?" Shakespeare says: the name does not make its bearer. If you carry a great or noble name, that does not mean you are great and noble—how many bottles of vinegar bear the label "choice aged wine."

Yet the name—however much we belittle it—is indispensable for distinguishing persons one from another: it is an instrument of designation and a tool of identification. From ancient times the name was used to describe a person or to bring out his origin and his distinguishing mark. Adam was so named because he was molded of dark-brown earth—the word 'adam' means dark, and 'adma' means a dark woman. Likewise Eve was called by this name because she is the mother of every living thing, her name being derived from life. Cain: acquisition, or what is acquired; Esau: the thick of hair—and such indeed was the bearer of the name. The ancients strove to make the name a token of the named. Men's names among the Arabs were massive and grand, suggesting strength and violence, in harmony with their desert way of life, founded on raiding and horsemanship: Qahtan, Adnan, Ghatafan, Amir ibn Sa'sa'a, Hanzala, Qays ibn Darim, Quda'a, Aqil, Hammam. And they added the ta' for aggrandizement or amplification: Dabba, Mudrika, Bajila, Tabikha. The epithet served for description, for exaltation, or for belittlement: Abbad al-Shatta', Antara al-Fawaris, Jadhima al-Waddah, Anf al-Naqa.

They sometimes named males after animals: Usama, "a proper name of the lion"; Haytham, "the eaglet"—just as Sab', Asad, Dhib, Fahd, and Nimr are used today.

Women's names, however, inclined more to delicacy, though they were not without vigor: Atika, Hafsa, Zaynab, Nu'm, Khawla, Asma (1), Lamis, etc...

Before Islam the Arabs used foreign names only rarely; we find, for example, the name "Ilyas" among the names of the tribes. But after Islam they took up in abundance the names of Hebrew origin that occur in the Koran: Yusuf, Ya'qub, Ayyub, Maryam, Ibrahim, Musa, Yahya, Isa, etc...

In the Abbasid age refinement spread in living—in dress and food, in titles and in names—and so slave girls were named after flowers and trees: Julnar, Rayhana, Narjis, Banafsaja, Zahr al-Ban, Khayzuran; after jewels and ornaments: Jumana, Marjana, Zumurrud, Almas, Yaqut, Fayruz; and after the stars: Suha, Suhayla, Badr al-Budur. Compound, ornamented names multiplied, like those we find in the Thousand and One Nights: Shams al-Nahar, Hayat al-Nufus, Sayf al-Muluk, Nur al-Din, Shajarat al-Durr.

Men were surnamed after their cities: al-Basri, al-Ani, al-Baghdadi, al-Isfahani, al-Ma'arri; or after their trades, as is the case today: al-Sayigh, al-Iskaf, al-Muzayyin, al-Nadim, al-Sabbagh, al-Katib, al-Jawhari, al-Aqqad, al-Jazzar, al-Nahhat, etc...

Women, however, were named after their fathers, even when they had husbands, or after the tribes from which they descended: Hind bint Utba, Asma bint Abi Bakr, Fatima al-Khath'amiyya, Layla al-Akhyaliyya, Layla al-Amiriyya, Wallada bint al-Mustakfi. And to some of them epithets clung: Azza al-Mayla', A'isha al-Rukuniyya. The Arab woman, as we see, preserved her personality better than the modern Frankish woman, who takes her husband's name and lets her own name and her family's name fall into oblivion.

Refinement in names remained widespread through the ages of decadence. And as the diminutive spread in the written style, it spread likewise in names; people used it as a token of endearment and familiarity, and in keeping with the taste of the age. The Lebanese of that age were perhaps of all people the most enamored of the diminutive in names and surnames. Hence we find this abundant number of names borne by Lebanese and Syrian families: Shakkour, Makhoul, Sghayyir, Mkhaybir, Abboud, Zuaytir, Ubayd, Suwayd, Shuqayr, Salloum, Rahim, Tannous, Frayj, Naoum, etc... They made diminutives even of names borrowed from the Franks: Maddul, diminutive of Madeleine; Hawun, diminutive of Helena; Marun, diminutive of Maryana or Maryam.

In our present age we have taken to imitating the Franks in names, as we imitate them in other things—a blind imitation that does not distinguish the lean from the fat. The Frankish names are for the most part Greek or Latin in origin, or Frankified Hebrew, or Gothic-Germanic. Their original meanings have been forgotten, so that they have become today so many names without meaning, used only because of their currency since olden times and their lightness and ease. Who remembers, for instance, that Philip, "Philippos," is a Greek name meaning "lover of horses"? And Alice, "truth"? And Alexander, "defender of men"? And George (Georgos), "plowman"? And Carl or Charles, "the strong, the big of body"? And Eugene, "the well-born"?

(1) The origin of this name is "Wasma'," from wasama, that is, comeliness; the waw was changed into a hamza. "Asma" occurs frequently in the old poetry.

And who thinks of the meanings of the following Hebrew names: Abraham, "father of many"; Rachel, "ewe"; Michael, "who is like God"?; Gabriel, "man of God"; Martha, "lady"; Mary, "bitter"; Joseph, "he adds"; Jacob, "he who supplants another"; Ishmael, "God has heard"; Isaac, "laughter," etc...

Borrowing names is not, in itself, an objectionable thing; all peoples have followed this course. What is objectionable is keeping the name as it is, in its Frankish form, and joining it to the Arabic name borne by the family of the named. This coupling produces a repugnant discord, like the discord of colors and the discord of sounds. For the words of the Semitic languages and their sounds do not harmonize with the sounds of the Western languages, because of a fundamental difference between the two groups in measures, in the points of articulation of the letters, and in the manner of prolonging and stressing the voice.

The ancient Arabs grasped this truth by instinct, and so they Arabized the Frankish and Hebrew names they borrowed, so that they should harmonize with Arabic utterance: they said Gharnata instead of Granada, Andalus instead of Vandalusia, Ibrahim instead of Abraham, Rifqa instead of Rebecca, Yahya in place of Yohanna. Our grandparents likewise Arabized strange names they borrowed, saying Markita and Katina and Tawdura instead of Margarita and Catherine and Theodora.

And the Franks did the same: they Frankified the Hebrew and Greek names and did not leave them in their original form. They said Joseph instead of Yusuf, Jacques in place of Ya'qub, Edith in place of Judith, Jean instead of Hanna, Marie in place of Maryam.

Observe, in the following names, the sharp discord between the Frankish name and the Arabic family name: Henri Maatouk, Jeannette Hanna, Yvonne Jechan, Simone Hobeika, Marie-Ange al-Qayyim, Antoine Hassoun, Gaby Ajram, Maggie Naoum.

Look at the difference between the ring of the first word and the ring of the second, and note how the two words differ in

measure, form, and the articulation of the letters. Do you not see that joining two names so different, in this fashion, is like joining the sherwal to a brimmed hat, or the turban to a frock coat?.. This is the very same discord we find between a Frankish tune, like the fox-trot or the tango, and Arabic words set to its measure.

It would have been better for the bearers of Frankish names to Frankify their family name, so as to produce some harmony between the two names—for example, to make Pierre Estephan into Pierre Stephan or "Etienne"; Joseph Tannous, Joseph Antoine; Yvette Simaan, Yvette Simon; and so on.

But here we run into another difficulty: the difficulty of spelling these names in Arabic, since many of the Frankish letters—vowels and consonants alike—have no equivalent in Arabic. Note, for example, the difficulty of spelling Pierre in Arabic, for want of the two letters P and E. Whoever comes upon this name written in Arabic letters is at a loss how to read it—above all if he knows no French—and reads it Bayyar or Biyayr.

Ignorance and love of imitation have carried some people so far that they Frankify the Arabic-formed name given them since childhood. He whose name is Hanna, for instance, makes it Jean; and he whose name is Mikhail or Yusuf or Jirji becomes Michel or Joseph or Georges—imagining that imitating the Franks in a name raises him to their station, or that the Arabic name lowers his standing. Such a person is like the ignorant illiterate who supposes that wearing spectacles and carrying a briefcase makes a professor of him. Ibn Khaldun said:

Royal titles out of their proper place—
like the cat that, puffing itself up, mimics the figure of the lion.

As for the use of the kunya—Abu So-and-so and Umm So-and-so—it is a custom that spread among the Arabs, who used it in place of a person's name as a mark of respect and honor, because the kunya indicates that its bearer is the head of a family and the father of sons: that is, a man of standing, strong in his family and his children. The kunya is a plain relic of the era of the clan and the tribe, when a man's personality dissolved into his family and merged into his people—honored in their honor and abased in their abasement. But in this age, when the tribal spirit is passing away and the individualist, independent spirit prevails—the spirit that looks at the individual apart from his people and his family—the use of the kunya has begun to disappear, and it has been cast off entirely in emancipated circles.

At the present time the light, delicate Arabic names of few letters and few syllables are current: Muna, Nuha, Raja, Sana, Ayda, Kamil, Samir, Hani, Munir, Rida, etc...

The meaning of the name is of no importance; what matters is that it be easy to pronounce, light on the ear, in harmony with the measures and the forms of the language. And just as the rough name of strange construction is found ugly, so too is the dainty name that betrays pretension, affectation, and excess: Awatif, Lawahiz, Siham, Hiyam, Jamal, and the like—sentimental names that offend the taste of an age which sees beauty in simplicity and moderation.

As for the author of this study, she apologizes for her own name, which combines the diminutive of the ages of decadence with the Frankification of the present age. She pleads that she is not responsible for it, and wishes she could change it, though it is too late. She consoles herself with the knowledge that many people are not pleased with their names. All that such people can do is to choose for their children the simple, easy names that harmonize with the family name and respect sound taste—or to offer others their advice and their experience in the matter.

And you, my lady reader—are you pleased with your name?..