The INS Officer

It is an unusually cold Atlanta morning and I enter the Martin Luther King Jr. Federal Building where the INS district office is located.


After being scanned I am sent upstairs to wait in room 287. Sitting next to the handful of Pakistanis, it becomes apparent that there is a sense of nervousness in the air. Around the room there are many foreign students trying to hide their fears but the eyes betray them as they wait for their names to be called.


Though I am reading ‘Arabian nights and days’, every now and then my thoughts wander with questions ‘What if they find out that I…?’, ‘And what about the time I…?’.


Jamil, an undergraduate student is scared sh-tless claiming he’s not had any sleep the entire night. Having switched from two different colleges in a span of two years, he feels he will invite lots of suspicion and he is going to have some explaining to do.


There are two doctors who work in the ‘underserved areas’ of Georgia who, in contrast, are feeling secure as they are sure of getting a green card in due time. One of them is chewing an ilaichi and offers me one. A very calm and down-to-earth person. Very practical as well. He suggests that we find wives for ourselves in the Untied States and handing out his card says that he will help us out.


This reminds me of ‘ma bebe girl’. My turn will not come for some time. I look at the watch and wonder what she’s doing in Karachi. Now’s a great time to call her.


‘Bebe girl, if I get deported, will you still love me?’ I ask instantly as she picks up the phone.
With giggles, she responds, ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Gimme a kiss- over the phone!’ I demand.
In an enchanting whisper she says she can’t, hinting that her parents are close-by.
I insist.
I hear a faint smooch.
Suddenly feeling empowered, I say,
‘Bus, ab mujhay duniya kee koi taqat deport nahin kar saktee!’
We laugh and hang up.


My name is called and I am led into a room by a man who looks like a Pakistani or Indian. He reminds me of an uncle except that this guy has a head full of hair. I try to imagine him without any hair.


The room has a computer connected to an electronic fingerprinting machine and a camera. I slip the bag off my back, take out the documents and ask if I should take off my bandana. He shakes his head. Handing him my documents, my curiosity is aroused by his accent and I ask him his name.


Afzal Aziz, I think I hear him say.
‘Where are you originally from?’ I ask.
‘Saudi Arabia’, he responds while not looking at me.


Saudi Arabia? He has to be an Indian or Pakistan. So why doesn’t he just admit it?


So I ask him,
Afzal Sahb, you must have been able to do umra and haj many times’.
‘Yes, I’ve been there.’ And becomes quiet.
‘How long have you been here?
‘Oh, several years’, as he types some information on the computer.


With my head resting against the back of the chair, staring at the ceiling and my foot tapping the floor, I am getting very bored.


‘The system is very slow right now,’ he explains.
‘That’s pretty obvious.’


My curiosity getting the better of me, I inquire,
‘Afzal sahab, you have a very Pakistani sounding name.’


In a louder and more commanding voice along with a frown he responds,


‘Gamal! My name is Gamal, G-A-M-A-L Aziz.’, he says with a strong Arabic accent.


‘Oh’.


Time goes by. The computer system is still not responding to the INS officer. Every now and then, he asks me an obvious question.


‘Why are you here in America?’
‘How long do you intend to stay?’
‘What is your street address?’
etc. etc.


In between one of the long pauses, I ask him,
‘Have you deported anyone yet?’
‘Many people,’ says he.
‘Do you detain them first?’
‘They are detained and then removed.’
‘Does the INS pay for their ticket back?’
‘They are given a chance to leave on their own accord. Otherwise we make the arrangement.’
‘Well, if I was gonna be deported, I’d want the INS to make the arrangements.’


He looks at me from above the upper rim of his glasses and says,


‘Well we assume that if someone is here they have obtained a means to being self-financed.’

He begins to wait for the computer to start again.

Bored I take out ‘Arabian nights and days’ and begin reading it while continuing to tap my feet on the floor.


‘Which airport did you enter the United States at?’, he asks.
Without taking my eyes off the book, I respond,
‘Newark.’
‘What was your flight number?’
I burst out laughing.
‘Excuse me?’
‘What was your flight number? And please do not read that book and stop tapping your feet. We need to concentrate on this.’

I am insulted!


‘You can’t be serious! I mean about the flight number.’


‘I am serious.’


I check through the large leather wallet Dad gave me to keep my tickets, I-20 and passports in. I had not wanted it but since Dad gave it as he was seeing me off, I put the documents in to show consideration. I had left my boarding pass stubs in one of the pockets. I take all of them out.


‘Lets see now, from Lahore, I took EK 621 to Dubai… spent a day there, rode around on the boats, then took flight KL 427 to Amsterdam and from there took flight KL 0063 to Newark and then – ‘


‘Flight 0063?’
I nod.
‘That’s all I want to know.’


But I quickly add, ‘And then I took Continental flight 8718 to the South.’


Pause.


‘Tell me,’ I ask, ‘what if someone came here years ago and doesn’t remember the flight number? What do you do then?’


‘Oh- then we will have to trace that down.’


He’s typing in the information. But the computer slows down again so he begins to look at my passport again. I guess he doesn’t like to give the impression that the organization he works with is ill-equipped to handle this exercise.


‘It shows here you were in the Sudan.’


Obviously I’m supposed to know that my prior presence there arouses suspicion here and that I need to defend myself. However, since it isn’t a question, I don’t respond.


‘Why were you there?’
‘Dad’s job,’ I reply.


‘How did you find the country?’


‘Sudanese are the nicest people. The only place where Pakistanis are respected. I consider it my second home.’


‘What did you do there?’
‘I went to middle school.’
‘What city was this?’
‘Khartoum.’
‘What was the address of the school?’
‘I don’t recall. But it was next to the city dump.’


This is followed by a long pause. I look at ‘Arabian nights and days’ that is lying on his desk. I really want to read it. I was just reading about Maa’rouf the cobbler who in a state of inebriation had falsely claimed to posses the ring of Solomon. When those at the cafe mockingly asked him to prove it by rising into the air, Maa’rouf performed the deed. However, it was Maa’rouf himself who was extremely frightened at being suspended in the air as he had no idea much less Solomon’s ring to justify such a feat.


‘What’s the deal with Solomon’s ring?’ I ask the INS officer.
He looks at me from above the rim of his glasses.
‘You know, Solomon, or Suleiman?’, I ask inquiringly.
‘You mean King Solomon?’, he responds.
‘Yeah, his ring. What about it?’.
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t remember any of those stories. My sister tells them to her children.’


The computer has slowed down again. So he starts to tell me about his stay in the Sudan.


‘I was there back in 85-86. It had beautiful colonial style homes but what amazed me was the surrounding poverty. I was in the Meridian hotel for a bit and then another one called ‘Friendship Palace’ which was surrounded by dilapidated mud brick homes.’


We exchange some points on the geography of the Sudan. Suddenly he says:

‘I remember looking at the river Nile river- the area where the two Niles meet. So old. I could not help thinking ‘If I could talk to the river, I’m sure it would tell me many stories.’


I think I finally have a conversation going.


Just then another INS officer- she also has a foreign English accent- comes in with a question for INS officer Gamal Aziz.

Just as she leaves, INS officer Gamal asks,

‘Now then, do you have any credit cards with you?’

‘Yes I do.’

‘Let me see them.’

I take one out. Discover.

‘Do you have another?’

‘Yes I do.’

I take out the Master. By now I realize I should not have done this.

‘You need them for verification purposes?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he responds.


Taking all of my documents with the cards in his hands, he lets me know that he’s going to make photocopies of them.


‘Why do you need to make photocopies of my credit cards?’, I ask with a frown.


‘Well, we just want to make sure no unsavoury purchases are made.’


For the first time, I am pissed. In a helpless-accusatory tone, I let him know,


‘Well, I don’t want my credit card numbers falling into any UNSAVOURY INS hands.’


He laughs, assures me that won’t be the case and leaves the room. I feel angry at my own stupidity.


After a few minutes he’s back. He issues me this number that is written down on several places. It’ll be the number assigned to me for my identification. For example when I come back next year.


I ask if there’s anything else to be done.


He finishes writing something and says,


‘That’s it. Study hard. Your country needs more good people like you to go back and help it.’


Fuk you is all I want to say to him. Sits there and helps a bureaucratic labyrinth screw helpless people out of a living. Registration! What a totally mindless exercise! State-sponsored harassment! All these waste of six hours (plus an additional 7 hours on the road)!


I see no purpose in this process except to arm the bureaucratic labyrinth so that it can instill fear. And when it feels like it, hide it’s incompetence by willy-nilly coming down on the vulnerable or crushing the tired, the homeless, the poor and those yearning to breathe free… Tomorrow, will she, the mighty woman with the torch, still lift the lamp for them besides the golden door?