العربية“Name similarity”—two words that terrify any Syrian in particular or any Arab in general when standing at a Syrian border control counter, whether by land, air, or sea. So many people have stood in that line, only to hear, “Please come with us,” and then… no one ever knew where they ended up.
Every summer, I used to travel to Damascus, excited to reunite with my circus of lunatics—my aunts, uncles, grandparents, and extended family. But the moment I arrived and stood in the passport control queue, the anxiety would kick in. I’d start talking to myself: What if they tell me there’s a name similarity? How would my family even find me? What charges would they stick on me?
As my turn got closer, I’d try to calm myself down—Relax, no need to panic, don’t let the fear show.
Then I’d reach the counter, interactions tone totally depended on the officer’s mood that day. After a few routine questions, they’d hand back my passport with a simple “Go ahead.” At that point, I’d want to walk away as fast as possible—but without looking like I was sprinting, the same way a Circassian dancer elegantly does on the stage.
And every single time, as I stood by the luggage belt waiting for my bags, I’d have the same internal monologue: Why am I even stressed? My first name alone is shared by five people in the world, three of whom are 80-year-old elderly . My full name? Almost impossible to have a duplicate.
But still… inherited fear is stronger than logic in these moments.
Phew, I made it.