When I travel abroad, because I'm Columbian, I'm always one that

Hear the voice of Sofia Vergara, who speaks not only of her own journeys, but of the trials of many: “When I travel abroad, because I’m Colombian, I’m always one that they check twice at security, the one they open my bag, the one they pull to the side to check the visa.” These words are not light, nor are they spoken in jest; they are the reflection of a burden borne in silence, the shadow cast upon the traveler who is judged not by her deeds but by her origin. In her confession, we hear the eternal cry of those who walk with dignity, yet must prove themselves again and again before the eyes of strangers.

The meaning of her words is plain: the identity she carries, her being Colombian, places upon her a cloak of suspicion in the eyes of foreign guards. Though she is innocent, though her hands are clean, she is marked by the world’s prejudice, by the reputation of her land, by the assumptions of those who know only rumor and stereotype. And here we see an ancient truth: that often men and women are judged not for what they are, but for what others believe them to be. This trial is as old as time itself.

Consider the story of the Hebrews in Egypt, long ago. Though they were a people of shepherds and workers, they were made slaves because of fear, suspicion, and difference. They were checked twice at every gate, denied trust, burdened with endless proofs of their worth. Yet from among them rose Moses, who led them out, teaching the world that dignity is not granted by those in power, but held within the spirit of the oppressed. So too does Sofia remind us: the eye of judgment may follow you, but it cannot define the worth of your soul.

There is also courage in her words. She does not speak of bitterness, but of endurance. To have one’s bag opened, one’s visa questioned, one’s person set aside—these are humiliations. Yet she continues to travel, continues to rise, continues to shine her presence across the world. In this, we see the heroic spirit: not the absence of struggle, but the strength to walk through struggle without surrendering one’s joy.

Her experience is not hers alone. It belongs to countless travelers, migrants, and wanderers whose names are called more than once at the gate, whose documents are examined more harshly, whose appearance or accent brings suspicion. These, too, are the warriors of our age, who endure silent battles each time they pass borders. Like Odysseus delayed by hostile seas and mistrustful kings, they must prove their right to journey, though their heart holds nothing but longing for safe passage.

What then is the teaching? It is this: do not let the gaze of others imprison you. When you are checked twice, let it remind you that your worth is not measured by their suspicion. When your bag is opened, let it remind you that truth shines brightest when revealed. When your visa is examined, let it remind you that persistence is stronger than rejection. For the soul that endures grows unshaken, and the spirit that keeps walking becomes unbreakable.

And what is asked of us? First, to be mindful of our own judgments. Let us not cast suspicion on another merely because of their nation, their color, their name. Second, to endure when the world places us in the line of scrutiny. We must learn patience without shame, dignity without rage, endurance without despair. And third, let us transform trial into testimony, as Sofia has done: to speak our truth, to remind others that even under suspicion, the human spirit remains radiant and free.

Thus, the lesson is clear: you may be watched, you may be delayed, you may be doubted—but still you rise, still you walk, still you carry the name of your people with honor. For though the world may check you twice, the soul that knows its worth does not need to be checked at all.