Our middle name isn’t a name.
It’s a chain.
A line of men, our father, his father, and the one before him,
stitched into our identity like a family tree with no branches for women.
In much of the Arab world, we don’t inherit our mothers’ names.
Not their first. Not their last. Not even a letter of them.
We carry our father’s name as our middle, and his father’s as our last.
A lineage of men.
Unbroken. Unquestioned. Unfair.
Growing up, we never thought to ask why.
It was just how things were.
When someone read our name out loud, we nodded.
Even when it felt foreign to us,
not just in pronunciation, but in ownership.
Because no one ever said our mothers’ names in public.
Not at school. Not at church. Not at family gatherings.
It was private. Sometimes even shameful,
as if protecting her meant erasing her.
And yet, when our names were spoken,
we felt the absence of her.
The silence where she should’ve been.
Some assume this naming system is religious.
But it’s not.
It’s not just Islamic. Not just Christian.
It’s cultural.
A regional tradition upheld across faiths,
woven deep into our systems, stories, and expectations.
A patriarchy disguised as respect.
A system that traces a woman’s identity through the men in her life,
first her father, then her husband, maybe her son.
A system that says:
You belong to him. Then to him. And never fully to yourself.
Yes, the West has its own problems.
Women still taking their husband’s names by default.
Pressure to erase your identity for love.
But at least the conversation exists.
At least some people question it.
In many Arab households, this naming system is sacred.
To challenge it is to challenge tradition,
which often feels like challenging loyalty.
Family. Faith. God.
But what if asking these questions isn’t betrayal,
but healing?
What if honoring our mothers doesn’t dishonor our fathers?
What if lineage doesn’t have to be one-sided to be strong?
What if we want to carry our mothers’ names too,
not in secret, but in full voice?
They raised us.
They stayed up through our fevers.
They taught us how to be soft and brave in the same breath.
They held our fears when we didn’t have words.
And yet, when our names are written on paper,
they disappear.
Maybe we’re not just asking to say their names out loud.
Maybe we’re asking to write them into the record,
onto birth certificates, identity cards, passports.
Not as an exception, but as a right.
Maybe we’re ready to question not just tradition,
but the systems that keep it unquestioned.
Because this isn’t just about memory,
it’s about visibility.
Dignity.
Change.
