Indya Moore, Dazed MENA issue 028 Images
This article is taken from issue 02 of Dazed MENA:
At only 30, Indya Moore is a layered archive, a sequence of capacity and multiplicity in a world that refuses to fully receive her or her message. The trans actress, advocate, and model is not here for your binaries, your systems, your violence or your silence. She never has been. She never will be.
Born in the Bronx to Dominican and Puerto Rican parents, she understands the stakes of visibility. At 14, she entered the foster care system after her parents rebuked her gender identity, although their relationship is in a different place now (deep into our chat, she shares the vulnerability of their circumstances and her desire to care for them). A year later, she dropped out of high school due to bullying, found her way into modelling, and the House of Xtravaganza, the legendary ballroom collective immortalised in the 1990 documentary Paris Is Burning.
It is around this time that she discovered the teachings of a then-influential writer, Naomi Wolf, who was behind the third-wave feminist manifesto The Beauty Myth, a text heralded for its argument that unattainable beauty standards are a form of control, designed to keep women obedient and distracted from power. Indya understands this deeply. “People tell me that I’m beautiful all the time. Cis women tell me they feel like I’m more beautiful than them,” she shares, “I actually cut my hair. And what I haven’t told people is that I’ve shaved it off multiple times so others wouldn’t feel intimidated by me.”
Then came Pose, the Golden Globe-winning ode to queer and trans life set against the height of the late 1980s Aids epidemic, in 2018. Her career-defining portrayal of Angel Evangelista, a trans sex worker who found fame, launched her onto the world stage. Indya was everywhere. Brand ambassadorships inevitably followed: Louis Vuitton in 2019, Saint Laurent in 2021, and YSL Beauty’s Push the Boundaries campaign in 2022. She also appeared in Pride campaigns for the likes of Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein before partnering on a capsule collection with Tommy Hilfiger. Courted by late-stage capitalism, Indya’s presence now signalled diversity, her trans identity commodified for corporate allyship. Using her newfound visibility to highlight the violence against trans women, she declared at the 2019 Daily Front Row Awards: “I accept this award in honour of the truth that the best award – the award we all deserve – is to be able to get home safe.”
Hers is the kind of candour that can change the world – depending on who you ask. “I think some folks don’t want to work with me because I’m risky or something, you know?” she says as a matter of fact. “All I do is say ‘Stop killing people’ and talk about love. I want to do work that engages us. And I don’t know what that looks like right now.”
Indya’s most recent excursion entailed starring in Willy Chavarria’s Paris Fashion Week debut in January. Staged at the American Cathedral in Paris, his Tarantula show was a statement on Black, brown, trans, and queer communities. The scene couldn’t have been more fitting. Appearing in dark funeral attire, Indya emerged as one of the models in a stellar line-up of celebrity names including J Balvin, Paloma Elsesser and Becky G. Sporting a short bouffant reminiscent of some neorealist heroine of celluloid past (think Sophia Loren, Anna Magnani), Indya drifted the hallways, marking somewhat of a return to an industry that celebrated her for her politics – provided she wasn’t too loud.
Here, she was in the right space and among friends. “I love his work, and I support his presence within our community,” she enthuses, raving about Chavarria. “Also, like, just the way he’s actually using fashion as a platform for delivering messages is something that no brand really has. I will always support Willy for that.”
All I do is say ‘Stop killing people’ and talk about love. I want to do work that engages us – Indya Moore
Indya’s most significant role, however, exists offscreen and far from the runway. Take one look at her Instagram account – it reads like a syllabus on decolonial theory and anti-capitalist thought. Indya does not just speak up – she calls out. She names names. On 20 October 2023, she was among the hundreds staging a sit-in at Grand Central Terminal in New York City. Organised by Jewish Voice for Peace, the protest demanded a ceasefire in Gaza and an end to US complicity in Israel’s violence. And according to Them, Indya was among those detained.
She later acknowledged the arrest via Instagram, posting: “Queer and trans Palestinians exist and deserve liberation from genocide and ethnic cleansing as well. I know what my contract on earth is. Do you know yours?” The following year, she was one of 200 protestors who gathered in Park City during the Sundance Film Festival, demanding a ceasefire. “Stop telling us to hate each other. Stop telling us they hate each other,” she said into the microphone as the protest halted traffic. “They also know that the Palestinian children that have been murdered are not responsible for freeing the hostages right now. That’s just the truth, right? The children are innocent.”
Joining the likes of writer Mohammed El-Kurd and musician Hamed Sinno in early 2024, Indya was also one of 500+ global artists and culture workers calling for a boycott on German cultural institutions for their complicity in Israeli attacks. Mere weeks later, she braved the New York chill, protesting outside the Human Rights Campaign gala to denounce the LGBTQ+ nonprofit’s relationship with weapons manufacturer Northrop Grumman. But Indya’s advocacy for Palestine predates the events that unfolded in 2023. “I know why people kind of stop looking at me, stop hiring me. It’s because I speak up for Palestine. It’s 100 per cent because of what I‘ve spoken up for in the past, you know?”
She engaged on a livestream with Mohammed El-Kurd at the height of the Sheikh Jarrah unity movement back in 2021. “I just want to be able to cut through the bullshit and make sure people know that they have support, that they’re seen,” she’d said. That was the week IOF forces stormed the Al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. Four years later, the sacred site would set the stage for a move that divided the internet. On 22 March, Indya took to Instagram with a declaration of spiritual awakening, stating, “I am four months since taking the shahada and I went to Palestine during Ramadan. Al-Aqsa Mosque was the first mosque I prayed at. All praise and thanks to God.” Indya Moore came out as Muslim.
I know why people kind of stop looking at me, stop hiring me. It’s because I speak up for Palestine – Indya Moore
“I’m starting my day with you,” she says, connecting with me over Zoom from New York City. “And I’m grateful for that. It feels adventurous. I didn’t look you up, so you’re a stranger to me right now,” she confesses. Halfway around the world, it’s dusk in Dubai, and I’m taken right back to the day that Indya announced her reversion to Islam. To see someone who was globally visible, confidently queer, visibly trans, and boldly outspoken make a declaration of faith – the same faith that I was born into – was a commanding moment. For most societal standards, not just Western, Indya’s acceptance of Islam anchored a cultural shift for those who have long existed between the ballroom and the veil. “I noticed that before everything, God introduces Himself as ‘the most gracious, the most merciful’. The most gracious, the most merciful. The most gracious, the most merciful. The most gracious, the most merciful,” she repeats, almost to herself. It’s clear that she has been studying the Quran.
I ask her about that post and the response that ensued. “To receive so much love and acceptance from people who are Muslim wiped away all of these myths, these ideas about Islam being a transphobic and prejudiced religion. And I was shocked to see that the people saying Islam wouldn’t accept me, or that Muslims wouldn’t accept me, weren’t actually Muslim.”
Throughout our conversation, there are moments when I find myself transfixed – I understand Indya’s pull immediately. We speak for over three hours. Her language is illuminating, her rhythm unguarded, swaying between a desire to keep things private and sharing more than she might choose, an example of her boundless generosity.
In a 2019 interview with Vogue India, she revealed: “I find myself in a position where I have to always be vulnerable and share parts of myself. That makes people have too much access to me in a way that doesn’t feel safe.” Her words strike a chord. The tension of being vulnerable and, at times, too open is a trauma response – we seek validation in spaces and connection with people as a means for the rejection and the humiliation we endure. Indya’s intellect lies within her vulnerability; she communicates without censorship. In the time I spend with her, it becomes evident that the symbolism projected onto her by the world is a discredit against her will. Symbols are fixed, commodified, marketable, easily digestible. Indya is nothing of the sort.
“I have a sense of order that I didn’t have before,” she shares. “And that makes me feel like everything’s OK, even though it’s not under my control.” Relinquishing control is not how anyone would define Indya. However, now, we are in the presence of a new Indya, a continued Indya – still unwavering, unflinching, but even more realised. “What brings me peace is knowing that it’s in the hands of a wiser, more powerful consciousness. I’ve been trying to live truthfully and lead with grace, love, and mercifulness as much as possible.”
For Indya, that desire to be fully visible and authentic without the built-in mechanics of performance has become an armour to survive. When we talk, it’s long. Intimate. Spiralling. Revealing, for the both of us. “I’ve had to learn how to stand up for myself, how to express myself in ways that help people understand my position and past experiences. I’ve had to learn the skills and attributes that help others feel safe and comfortable around us. So, yeah, I’ve learnt how to be more compassionate. I’ve learnt how to be softer because the harshness of my grief is not going to be received in the same way as that of a cis woman.”
I’ve had to learn how to stand up for myself, how to express myself in ways that help people understand my position and past experiences… I’ve learnt how to be softer because the harshness of my grief is not going to be received in the same way as that of a cis woman – Indya Moore
With transgender rights being rolled back globally at an alarming pace, trans women of colour are undoubtedly hit the hardest. In 2025, the UK Supreme Court ruling redefined the legal definition of ‘woman’ to exclude trans women, stripping them of key protections, especially in sports and other gender-segregated spaces. This was a deliberate move to limit rights. Speaking up for Palestine is just as dangerous. In the US, ICE agents arrested Palestinian activist and Columbia graduate Mahmoud Khalil – a permanent US resident – at his apartment in New York on March 8, claiming that his student visa had been revoked. When informed that he held a green card, agents insisted that his residence status had been rescinded. Khalil was taken to a detention centre in Louisiana with neither explanation nor prior notice given to his attorney or family. As trans communities and advocates for Palestine are systematically being silenced, Indya continues to speak.
“Well, if everything that we’re seeing in the world is really manipulative and messed up, then what actually is the truth here?” she explains. Admittedly, Indya’s conversion to Islam might seem at odds. Trans. Queer. Muslim. But her foray into seeking a higher power was in perfect alignment with her desire to both seek and speak the truth. Where tension lay in other areas, what she read in the Quran was very much in harmony with her politics. “I was about a third of the way through Surah Al-Baqarah, The Cow, when everything started to shift for me. Because of everything going on in the world, especially in Palestine, a lot of people, including myself and my friends, grew curious about Islam. I’m pretty sure some even converted after reading that surah. I didn’t even finish it. I didn’t need to because I already believed. It was right then that I took my Shahada.”
Raised as a Jehovah’s Witness, a young Indya was led to believe that she may never unlock access to the Divine. “I carried the trauma of thinking my worship might not be enough because I’m trans,” she recalls. “And it pushed me to seek other possibilities. But, today, I want to shout from the mountaintops: it’s not true. Trans and queer people absolutely have access to God.”
I find myself holding back tears. Her words hit close to home. The denial to believe, of rights, and of access that queer and trans people experience is ubiquitous, but to hear it articulated so rawly is rare. Her words are devastating, reflective of a sobering reality. In recent news, the murder of Muhsin Hendricks, an openly gay imam in South Africa, is exemplary of these dire consequences faced by those who bravely assert their identity and faith.
Indya operates at a vibration that refuses to be still. She is not only addressing her right to be seen, but also helping the rest of us see the fundamental similarities between all beings more clearly. Her adoption of the Islamic faith is recent, but her quest for connection isn’t all that new. “I had always felt intimidated by the worship of Muslims. It made me think, ‘Wow, there’s a group of people bowing down anytime, anywhere to their Creator’. The devotion, that level of commitment? It even made me a little jealous,” she admits.
Indya’s first encounter with Islam goes back to 2014, when she was 19 and found herself at a multifaith event at NYU. “There was a man with a microphone, and he was praying in Arabic,” she recalls. “I didn’t understand what he was saying, but we were all there, together. And I had an emotional reaction – I cried. I didn’t know the words, but I witnessed his connection to God, his relationship to us, to the people with him, listening. I felt like I was part of something was happening beyond my control, something I didn’t understand, but it was beautiful. My heart ripped wide open.” That’s when she first picked up the Quran, but credits her fiancé Elias Acevedo, too. “He’s wonderful. He is trans and Dominican Puerto Rican. Our similar ancestral memory and culture, we also share a really deep love for the Creator.”
Elias, she tells me, had shared the teachings of 12th-century Sufi mystic Ibn Arabi before Indya took the Shahada. “It was incredible. It reflected so much of what I already believed. I couldn’t understand how this person existed back then – I had the same, like, download or understanding.” Known for his concept of Wahdat al-Wujud (Oneness of Being), the notion that all existence hinges on a singular reality with God as its essence, Ibn Arabi and his teachings guided her to seek Islam further, especially considering her ambivalence around the performance of prayer. “The book said that God will accept the worship of someone who is performing the actions, but isn’t really intentional. And He will accept the worship of somebody who is intentional, but doesn’t do the work. I realised, then, that I’ve always been Muslim. It’s as if Ibn Arabi had ‘read’ me,” she jokes.
Indya’s voice carries the weight of something sacred – measured, resonant, almost liturgical in tone. I am moved to witness Indya speaking from the marrow of her multiple experiences, her recent visit to Palestine included. It was there that faith revealed itself not as doctrine, but as a wild untameable force. “Everyone was telling me to visit Al-Aqsa Mosque before I left, so I went… very ignorant,” she admits. “I saw women praying in a line, and I felt really uncomfortable praying next to anyone because they were praying in a pattern that I didn’t know or understand. I didn’t want to be the silly goose out of shape and out of order, so I went to my own little space. I didn’t have a prayer mat. It was just me and my abaya. And all these feelings came up as I was mid-prayer. ‘God, I feel awkward. Please forgive me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying to follow the movements, but I’m so distracted by feeling wrong. I’m so sorry.’ It was all so emotional.”
That was the moment when two women showed up and stood beside her, one on each side. “I felt their shoulders press against mine. They were letting me know they were there,” she explains. “I cried even more. One of them pulled out a prayer mat and put it in front of me. Then, she handed me a tissue and put her arm around me. I thought, ‘Creator, you fast. You really fast.’ It was so beautiful. I figured that if the world knew how God showed up for me as a trans woman, there would be no transphobia. It would end if they knew, if they saw it, if they felt that call-and-response.”
Few navigate this world with as much guts and guile as Indya does. No matter what, her message remains the same. “It’s literally not safe to be trans, Muslim, or an advocate for Palestine – all at the same time, too. And to be so highly visible? There are few people who can support me. Some trans people wouldn’t stand up for me because I’m Muslim. And there are Muslims who wouldn’t stand up for me because I’m queer or trans. People get upset when they see us believe. We’re treated as if we are not supposed to have faith. But even though I’m in a space that has become more isolating, I feel closer to God than ever. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”