Musings Of A Suspected Terrorist

I admit I have hated America, or parts of it anyway. I hate the Mets, detest Nixon, loathe Chicago, shun briefs, and cannot stand heavy metal rock. But there is another side to this story. I cheer the Yankees, adore Carter, love New York, wear boxers and enjoy pop music.

I went to college in America, formed my opinions here, met my wife here and produced my children here. I have never voted here but have paid my taxes, never broken the law (other than the speed limit and smoking Cubans), and have cheered the country in Golf’s Ryder cup.

Those are my credentials but the slight twist here is that I am a Pakistani national and as of October 01, 2002 I am a suspected terrorist and guilty unless proven otherwise.

Every time I enter the country, every single time, I am taken away from the immigration line to a separate room, made to wait, finger printed, mug-shot, interrogated and then told to “register” again when I’m leaving the country.

I could be the finance minister of my country, a journalist, a banker, a businessman, a doctor or a bum… it simply does not matter. If I’m between the ages of 18 and 45 and from one of the chosen countries (Saudi, Yemen, Pakistan, Iran, etc.), the only choice I have is not to show up in America.

My associations with America were far from my mind as the INS official pressed my right index finger against the scanner. An advertisement stared down on me from the wall (so American) but this was not Coca-Cola or McDonalds, nor Nike or Marlboro. It was a picture of a blue eye with the words “Iris Scan- the future of airport security is here- and you can be a part of it.” A penny for my thoughts? Rather than entertaining the idea of getting my iris scanned, I was wondering how many blue eyed people were ever required to go through this. I looked around at the various shades of brown faces in what was so anesthetically called “Room B” and I didn’t see any blue eyes staring back at me. No Norweigiens, no Swiss, no Russians, No Argentinians even. Wait, who else had blue eyes? Not the Saudis, Yeminis, Iraqis or North Koreans.. oh, the Pathans ofcourse…

But these thoughts were interrupted as it was time to pose for my “mug shot”. Raised by parents who always expected you to grin while being photographed, I was instinctively forcing a fake smile, when it hit me. The lip quiver, the misty eye, the knot in the throat. Not from rage or anger, but from helplessness. Kind of how you feel after being mugged or having your property stolen. Kind of how a black man must feel from being stopped and questioned by the police for no reason, how a civilian targeted by terrorism must feel, how anybody who’s wronged and can’t do anything about it must feel.

What is mug-shot anyway? A passport photograph with a contextual twist. But I was thinking Lee Harvey Oswald, I was thinking Timothy Mcveigh, Ramzi Yousef, even Winona Ryder and Hugh Grant – people who had broken the law in some respect. All I was doing was showing up for work.

As the woman flashed the light bulbs in my eyes, she decided to be empathetic: “you guys understand why we’re doing this, don’t you?” I couldn’t keep it in anymore: “Actually I don’t. Just because there is high crime in the inner cities, I don’t see you putting all the black people in jail. So why should you do this to all of us.” Her clever retort to my bad example: “You know what I say, close the borders and keep ‘em all out.”

How ironic that those born in America so often seemed to have the least appreciation of what made their country one of the greatest to ever be.