Names matter. They carry echoes, shadows, and histories, even when the person wearing the name doesn’t know it. Sometimes a name is a promise. Sometimes it’s a burden. And sometimes it’s a signal across centuries, like a call and response that was never supposed to happen but does anyway.

Sayyida al Hurra’s name meant “the free woman.” She was born Lalla Aicha bint Ali ibn Rashid al-Alami in 1485, in Morocco. By the time she took the throne of Tétouan after her husband’s death, the name Sayyida al Hurra had become both a title and a declaration. She was the free woman. The noble lady. The one who owed allegiance to no man.

She ruled not as a placeholder or regent, but in her own right. She governed the city, commanded fleets, and wielded political alliances like weapons. She struck a partnership with the famed Ottoman corsair Barbarossa, and together they turned the Mediterranean into a stage for their power. Her ships raided Portuguese and Spanish vessels, reclaiming wealth stolen from North Africa, and striking fear into colonial powers that had assumed the sea belonged to them. In a world where women were expected to remain invisible — domestic, cloistered, silent — she carved her name across the waves. Not as a wife. Not as a consort. As herself.

Freedom was never handed to Sayyida al Hurra. She seized it, ship by ship, raid by raid, decree by decree.

Centuries later, in a television studio in 1960s Los Angeles, another woman bore a name that also meant freedom. Nyota Uhura, the communications officer on the starship Enterprise. Her surname came from the Swahili word uhuru — “freedom.” Her first name, Nyota, meant “star.” Freedom, among the stars.

When Nichelle Nichols first appeared on screen in that red uniform, calm and authoritative at the communications console, she was a revelation. A Black woman not in the background, not a maid or a comic foil, but a respected officer on the bridge of a starship, working alongside men of every race and nationality. At a time when segregation was still raw and civil rights marches filled the streets, her presence on Star Trek was more than casting. It was a statement.

Martin Luther King Jr. famously urged Nichols not to leave the show when she considered quitting, reminding her that she was shaping the image of what the future could look like. And she stayed — not just as a performer, but as a symbol. Uhura was proof that the future was wide enough for women, for Black women, for voices that had been excluded for too long.

Sayyida al Hurra ruled the seas. Nyota Uhura navigated the stars. Both were free women who claimed spaces where the world didn’t expect to see them.

And maybe that’s why their names feel like a call and response across centuries. One woman staring down colonial empires with cannons, the other calling through the darkness, and connecting people with her voice. One a queen commanding fleets, the other an officer commanding language itself, translating chaos into order, holding her crew together with words.

Both of them remind us that freedom isn’t something handed down politely. It isn’t permission, or a token seat at the table. It’s something fought for, taken, and lived in..

The parallels between sea and sky are older than either woman. Mariners have always looked to the stars for guidance. Conquerors, dreamers, and wanderers have always compared the unknown ocean to the uncharted cosmos. The sea is a mirror for the sky, and the sky is a mirror for the sea. Sayyida al Hurra’s fleets cut across one, while Uhura’s voice bridged the other. Both women commanded liminal spaces — places that belong to no one and everyone, places that promise freedom and danger in equal measure.

And both carried names that told the world exactly who they were: free women.

In our own moment, their stories intertwine as more than trivia. They are reminders of possibility. When I hear Sayyida al Hurra’s name, I hear the echo of resistance — a woman who refused to be silenced, who claimed her right to rule, who struck fear into empires. When I hear Nyota Uhura’s, I hear the promise of representation — a woman who stood on the bridge of the future, showing us all that freedom could mean equality, visibility, dignity – belonging.

Sea and stars. Corsair queen and starship queen. And perhaps it isn’t only coincidence, but a hidden continuity — as if Uhura were, in some imagined genealogy, the descendant of Sayyida al Hurra herself, a free woman of the seas reborn among the stars, carrying
forward the legacy of command, defiance, and freedom in a new frontier.