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At JFK Airport, Denying Basic Rights Is Just Another Day at the
Office
I was recently stopped by Homeland Security as I was returning
from a trip to Syria. What I saw in the hours that followed
shocked and disturbed me.
By Emily Feder
21/08/08 "AlterNet"
-- - I arrived at JFK Airport two weeks ago after a short
vacation to Syria and presented my American passport for
re-entry to the United States. After 28 hours of traveling, I
had settled into a hazy awareness that this was the last, most
familiar leg of a long journey. I exchanged friendly words with
the Homeland Security official who was recording my name in his
computer. He scrolled through my passport, and when his thumb
rested on my Syrian visa, he paused. Jerking toward the door of
his glass-enclosed booth, he slid my passport into a dingy green
plastic folder and walked down the hallway, motioning for me to
follow with a flick of his wrist. Where was he taking me, I
asked him. "You'll find out," he said.
We got to an enclosed holding area in the arrivals section of
the airport. He shoved the folder into my hand and gestured
toward four sets of Homeland Security guards sitting at large
desks. Attached to each desk were metal poles capped with red,
white and blue siren lights. I approached two guards carrying
weapons and wearing uniforms similar to New York City police
officers, but they shook their heads, laughed and said, "Over
there," pointing in the direction of four overflowing holding
pens. I approached different desks until I found an official who
nodded and shoved my green folder in a crowded metal file
holder. When I asked him why I was there, he glared at me, took
a sip from his water bottle, bit into a sandwich, and began to
dig between his molars with his forefinger. I found a seat next
to a man who looked about my age -- in his late 20s -- and
waited.
Omar (not his real name) finished his fifth year in biomedical
engineering at City College in June. He had just arrived from
Beirut, where he visited his family and was waiting to go home
to the apartment he shared with his brother in Harlem. Despite
his near-perfect English and designer jeans, Omar looked scared.
He rubbed his hands and rocked softly in his seat. He had been
waiting for hours already, and, as he pointed out, a number of
people -- some sick, elderly, pregnant or holding sobbing babies
-- had too. There were approximately 70 people detained in our
cordoned-off section: All were Arab (with the exception of me
and the friend I traveled with), and almost all had arrived from
Dubai, Amman or Damascus. Many were U.S. citizens.
We were in the front row, sitting a few feet from two guards'
desks. They sneered at each bewildered arrival, told jokes in
whispers, swiveled in their office chairs and greeted passing
guards who stopped to talk -- guards who had a habit of looping
their fingers into their holsters. One asked his friend how many
nationalities were represented in the room. "About 20. Some of
everything today."
No one who had been detained knew precisely why they were there.
A few people were led into private rooms; others were questioned
out in the open at desks a few feet from the crowd and then
allowed to pass through customs. Some were sent to another
section of the holding area with large computer screens and
cameras, and then brought back. The uninformed consensus among
the detainees was that some people would be fingerprinted, have
their irises scanned and be sent back to the countries from
which they had disembarked, regardless of citizenship status;
others would be fingerprinted and allowed to stay; and the
unlucky ones would be detained indefinitely and moved to a more
permanent facility.
There was one British tourist in the group. Paul (also not his
real name) was traveling with three friends who had passed
through customs soon after their plane landed and were waiting
for him on the other side of the metal barrier; he suspected he
had been detained because of his dark skin. When he asked if he
could go to the bathroom, one of the guards said, "I wouldn't."
"What if someone has to?" I asked. "They will just have to hold
it," the guard responded with a smile. Paul began to cry. I
watched as he, over the course of four hours, went from feeling
exuberant about his trip to New York to despising the entire
country. "I speak the Queen's English," he said to me. "I'm
third-generation British. I came to America because I've always
wanted to come here, and now they've got me so scared that all I
want to do is go home. We're paying for your stupid war anyway."
To be powerless and mocked at the same time makes one feel
ashamed, which leads quickly to rage. Within a few hours of my
arrival, I saw at least 10 people denied the right to use the
bathroom or buy food and water. I watched my traveling companion
duck under a barrier, run to the bathroom and slip back into the
holding section -- which, of course, someone of another
ethnicity in a state of panic would be very reluctant to do. The
United States is good at naming enemies, but apparently we are
even better at making them, especially of individuals. I don't
know if it's worse for national security -- and more
embarrassing for Americans -- that this is the first experience
tourists have of our country, or that some U.S. citizens get
treated this way upon entering their own country.
The guard who had been picking his molars for hours quietly
mispronounced the names of people whose turn it was to be
questioned, muttering each surname three times and then moving
on. When he called Omar from City College to his desk, I moved
closer to hear the interview. "Where did you go?" the officer
asked. "What is your address in the United States? Is your
brother here illegally? Do you support Hezbollah? What do you
think of Hezbollah in general? How do you pay for your life
here? How many people live with you? Are you sure it's just you
and your brother? Who are your friends?" Omar answered
respectfully and emphatically; he was then asked to wait by the
side of the desk, from which he was ushered toward one of the
rooms.
After four hours, I finally demanded to speak to the guards'
supervisor, and he was called down. I asked if the detainees
could file a formal complaint. He said there were complaint
forms (which, in English and Spanish, direct one to the
Department of Homeland Security's Web site, where one must enter
extensive personal information in order to file a "Trip
Summary") but initially refused to hand them out or to give me
his telephone number. "The Department of Homeland Security is
understaffed, underfunded, and I have men here who are doing
14-hour days." He tried to intimidate me when I wrote down his
name -- "So, you're writing down our names. Well, we have more
on you" -- and asked me questions about my address and my
profession in front of the rest of the people detained. I
pointed out a few of the families who had missed their flights
and had been waiting seven hours. His voice barely controlled,
his lip curled into a smirk, he explained slowly,
condescendingly, that they need only go to the ticket counter at
Jet Blue and reschedule so they could fly out in an hour. One
mother responded with what he must have already known: Jet Blue
goes to most destinations only once or twice a day and her whole
family would have to sleep in the airport.
A large crowd began to gather. Everyone wanted to voice
complaints. I explained to the supervisor that his guards had
been making people afraid. He flipped through the green files,
tossing the American passports to the front of the pile. "You
should have gone first, before these people. American citizens
first -- that's how it should be." In the face of dozens of
requests and questions, he turned and left.
The guards processed me then, ignoring the order of arrivals, if
there ever had been one. They refused to distribute more
complaint forms or call the supervisor back down at the request
of Arab families. One officer threatened, "I'm talking politely
to you now. If you don't sit down, I won't be talking politely
to you anymore." One announced that because "the American girl"
had gotten angry, the families would have to wait a few more
hours. "The supervisor is not coming back."
I reassured my Homeland Security interrogator that I did not
make any connections with Hezbollah or with anyone I knew to be
associated with such an organization. I am not a member of any
terrorist group. In fact, my visit to Syria had been so
apolitical and touristy that I felt an embarrassing affinity
with the pastel-shirted families waiting by the Air France
baggage carousels in the distance, whom I knew I would
eventually join.
As I walked out of the enclosure, some people thanked me,
squeezing my arm and putting their hands on my shoulders. It was
shocking that briefly standing up to someone overseeing an abuse
of civil rights -- in JFK airport, in the United States, where
we supposedly have laws and a democratic judicial system --
could be perceived as heroic. I had nothing to lose, but the
other people being detained had everything to lose.
In the past five years I have worked for human rights and
refugee advocacy organizations in Serbia, Russia and Croatia,
including the International Rescue Committee and USAID. I have
traveled to many different places, some supposedly repressive,
and have never seen people treated with the kind of animosity
that Homeland Security showed that night. In Syria, border
control officers were stern but polite. At other borders there
have been bureaucracies to contend with -- excruciating for both
Americans and other foreign nationals. I've met Russian
officials with dead, suspicious looks in their eyes and arms
tired from stamping so many visas, but in America, the Homeland
Security officials I encountered were very much alive -- like
vultures waiting to eat.
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