Unimagined

A wild(er) day!

A wild(er) day!

I was called by the BBC on my mobile phone at 2:30 pm and agreed to come immediately to Television Centre to do a pre-recorded spot for 6 pm.  (I was so glad I shaved this morning.)  I thought this was for the main news at 6 pm and would be in the studio.  I was happy it was going to be pre-recorded – live television scares me.

 

I sat in the lobby and watched Dev Patel (star of Slumdog Millionaire) walk in with his family.  They have to keep an eye him, I suppose – keep the girls away.  

 

The producer came down and took me, not to the studio as I expected, but to the Blue Peter garden, and a cameraman came out and set-up quickly.  The background was a bush and it started to snow.  The producer stayed off camera, holding the mic, and asked me a few questions, to which my answers had to be self-explanatory (ie the viewer would not hear the questions).  I wondered if this was not for the main News, but for some local thing that no-one watches – hence the use of a bush in the Blue Peter garden as background.  I was disappointed.

 

However, the producer liked my answers and, as the snow fell, he called someone on his mobile phone.  There was talk of Newsnight, but apparently they already had some regular players lined up for that.  However, he took me back inside, asked me to wait in the lobby again, and went away for a while.  Eventually, he came back with another producer and they said they couldn’t promise anything, but would I mind waiting in the Green Room, and they would see what they could do.

 

In the Green Room I met a man from Lloyds who insures satellites and a woman who works as a dating consultant.  Then the host of the Green Room – a delightful young lady determined to make her career in media and cheerfully working her way up with dignity – looked at her screen and said to me: ‘Looks like they’ve got you down for the News at 7:04’. 

 

Live, it was going to be live in the studio!  I watched the News start from the Green Room at 7:00 and they came to get me at 7:01. 

  

It was Tim Wilcox and Sophie Long, sitting in a large room with screens and automated cameras, but no people except myself and the gentleman who brought me in, standing to one side.

   

He sat me down next to beautiful Sophie at the appropriate moment. 

  

They allowed me to speak at length and I was able to make the following points.  This is more or less what I said, in response to Sophie’s questions. 

  

‘Mr Wilders is an EU citizen and he has the right of freedom of movement around the European Union, as well as the right of freedom of speech, which we all have.

  

The Government’s move to ban his entry into this country has reinforced the perception that Muslims use bullying tactics and threats of violence to suppress free speech.  This is completely the wrong message to send. 

 

Muslims already have a terrible PR problem, and this has just made things worse.  

 

The correct Muslim reaction should have been no reaction.  Let him come, show his film and go about this business, without Muslims making a fuss.  This response of banning him has merely reinforced all the negative stereotypes about Muslims being violent and unreasonable.

  

I have seen the film and it is truly awful.  It’s completely unbalanced and it serves no positive purpose.  Its intention is to provoke anger and hatred. 

  

Let me explain to you with a simple analogy what Mr Wilders has done.  I know that Judaism is a religion of peace and spirituality.  That’s a fact.  I know many Jewish people who are peaceful and spiritual.  But if someone made a film showing what the Israeli army just did in Gaza, and played against it a soundtrack of some of the difficult verses from the Old Testament … instructing to ‘enter this township and slay every man, woman and child’ … that would be a hideous distortion of what Judaism is, it would be grossly unfair and utterly immoral, there would be an outcry … no-one would be stupid enough to do this … but that is exactly what Mr Wilders has done … but because it’s about Islam, he knows he can get away with it. 

  

The correct response should be calm communication … respectful dialogue.  I would like to sit down with Mr Wilders and have a respectful conversation with him. 

  

I sent him a Dutch copy of my book a year ago, but he never replied.’

 

Apparently it was repeated at 10 pm

.   My title on screen was ‘Imran Ahmed (sic) – British Muslims for Secular Democracy’.

   

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Darfur – a simple solution involving no guns, warships or economic sanctions

 

The hypocrisy of so-called Islamic countries with respect to Darfur enrages me.  Without a doubt, the government of Sudan is complicit in genocide – a genocide based on the apparent superiority of Arab Muslims over African Muslims.  What is happening in Darfur is an abomination by any set of values – whether Islamic, Christian, Western, secular, humanist.

 

So-called Islamic governments assert that the International Criminal Court has no right to charge Sudanese President Omar Hassan al-Bashir with genocide, strongly implying that this is part of a Western campaign of hatred against Islam. 

 

Yet the same ‘Islamophobic’ Western institutions went to great lengths to hunt down and now prosecute Radovan Karadzic, for the crime of genocide against … Muslims.  Where are the cries from co-called Islamic governments about this Court’s lack of legitimacy to prosecute Karadzic?

 

And who in the Islamic world honours the memory of the two courageous CIA agents who lost their lives trying to hunt down Radovan Karadzic?  Their bodies were never found.  God only knows what was done to them.  I appreciate what they did and may they rest in peace.

 

(Oh wait!  That can’t be right!  The evil West hates Islam and wants to destroy Muslims, doesn’t it?)

 

The reality is that much of the Islamic world is still entrenched in mindless tribalism, which is completely against the principles of Islam, but the hypocrisy of this is beyond their understanding.

 

If I had my way, Western forces would pour into Darfur with overwhelming firepower: helicopter gunships would incinerate those murderous Junjaweed (I’d feel sorry for the horses); armoured vehicles would surround the camps to protect the refugees and secure the supply of aid.  Any Sudanese forces who tried to oppose this would be sent fleeing back to Khartoum.  It seems so simple. 

 

Fortunately, I am not a politician, I have no control over any military forces and this is not my higher-self speaking – it is my gut instinctively responding.  (My higher-self knows that violence, as a response to violence, cannot bring peace.)

  

I truly believe – whatever one might think of him and his past foreign policy errors – that President Bush would like to fix this problem from a purely ethical perspective (nothing to do with oil security).  But he can’t, because of Muslim tribalism and egotism.  The presence of any more American (or any Western) boots on so-called Muslim soil anywhere is just going to generate further waves of violent, unthinking rage across the whole world, as the dark players use every such event for their own political and tribal ends.  We have slipped into a mindless polarization and every action is viewed through such a lenses, which obscures the sacrifice of CIA agents in the pursuit of a mass murderer of Muslims.  This just can’t fit into the picture.

 

So the pitiful refugees of Darfur continue to be starved, beaten, raped and killed at the whim of horse-riding savages and their well-dressed patrons in Khartoum, and we do nothing.  This has been happening for years now.

 

But, there is something which could be done.  It involves no weapons, no warships, no damaging sanctions which strangle a fragile economy and hurt the innocent. 

 

Every year, the government of Saudi Arabia issues pilgrimage visas for Muslims from other countries to visit Mecca.  These are allocated by a quota system for each country. 

 

As long as the government of Sudan is complicit in this un-Islamic genocide and oppression of African Muslims, then no pilgrimage visas should be issued to Sudan.  It’s simple, no-one gets hurt and it’s a matter of principle.  The people of Sudan need to focus their efforts on ensuring that they have a morally upright government – one which honours the Islamic principles of racial equality, human rights and social justice.  That’s far more important than any individual making the Hajj or Umra (lesser pilgrimage). Until that happens, no-one from Sudan should be permitted to make the Pilgrimage – they have far more urgent matters to deal with.

  

Let’s see how long Omar Hassan al-Bashir can stay in power, if his people aren’t allowed to secure their places in Paradise by making the Hajj. 

  

Of course, this would require our friends the Saudis – the Guardians of the Holy Cities – to take a simple, Islamic moral stand, one which involves no deals for fighter planes or AWACs. 

  

I won’t hold my breath.

 

 

  

Expected Saudi response:

  

“You do not understand.  This is our religion.  We cannot bring politics into it.  We have to be neutral.”

 

  

Our rebuttal:

  

“Your Majesty/Highness/Excellency … this is not about politics.  It’s about the murder of innocent Muslims.  The people who are doing this have to be sent a message that this is unacceptable and un-Islamic.  How can you sit back and do nothing?

  

   

   

    

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The stupidity that cost us the 'war' in Iraq

Stupidity has lost the ‘war’ in Iraq. 

                     

This discussion is not about the justification for invading Iraq – that ship has already sailed.  This is about who is killing whom in Iraq and who is to blame. 

 

The ‘war’ in Iraq is not a war (civil or otherwise) – it’s not organised enough.  In a war you have an enemy and you can obliterate that enemy by all means possible.  The US is capable of winning any ‘war’. 

 

Unfortunately, this situation is far more complex and is not really a war as such. 

 

Who is killing whom in Iraq?  The vast majority of deaths are so called ‘Muslims’ killing fellow Muslims – mostly indiscriminately.  (This is a fact conveniently overlooked by those Islamists who portray the Iraq situation as a Western war against Muslims).

 

There’s no such thing as ‘the Iraqi people’ as a single entity.  They exist in many complex factions and groups, with many overlaps. 

-          Shias

-          Sunnis

-          Kurds

-          Pro-Saddam secular Baathists

-          Pro-Iranian theocrats (mostly Shia)

-          Anti-Iranian theocrats (mostly Sunni)

-          Al Qaeda ex-pats on assignment in Iraq

-          Locals operatives running the Al Qaeda franchise

-          Gangs calling themselves Al Qaeda, because it makes them feel important

-          Secular robbers and kidnappers (operating on a commercial basis)

-          Tribe members with ancient family feuds

-          Anti-Saddam secular modernists

-          Angry, dispossessed, hurt individuals full of hate and with nothing left to lose

 

The list goes on and on.  (The vast majority of Iraqis, of course, just want peace and stability). This is why a ‘civil war’ would be easier to deal with; it would imply a degree of organisation – and therefore potential for negotiation and coordination – which does not exist today. 

 

Whatever the motives and agenda which brought the US and its allies into Iraq, the following is true going forward.  The ‘West’ would like to exit from a peaceful, prosperous, stable Iraq, with a functioning infrastructure and commitment to human rights, an Iraq that is not a problem or a threat to anyone in the region (eg Saudi Arabia, Israel), an Iraq from which the oil flows freely and to the benefit of the Iraqi people (as well as the West).  That is what the vast majority of Iraqis would like to have as well, instead of this unbearable pain and suffering and grieving. 

 

But the various factions (religious and criminal) know that if the West has its way, they will not be able to force their own agendas, so they have one strategy in common.  If they can make the occupation of Iraq too painful for the Coalition to endure, then the foreign troops may be forced to leave and the Iraqi groups will be free to kill each other and terrorise the Iraqi people as they please.  Hence the endless bombings and kidnappings. 

   

In order to propagate this senseless violence, and keep the heat up, Al Qaeda and the religious factions have a very simple and effective strategy.  They put out the message that the ‘West’ is in Iraq because it hates Islam and wants to kill and oppress Muslims.  They create a twisted ideology that presents a moral case for killing foreign troops and workers – and suicide attacks are crafted into holy acts of martyrdom.  To someone who is hindered by ignorance and illiteracy, and twisted by loss, poverty, grief and rage, it can be made into quite an attractive proposition. 

          

It did not help that one of the US’s post-Saddam reconstruction strategies was to fire everyone who had any kind of ‘government’ job: central government, local administration, education, civil service, utilities, oil production, police, state-owned manufacturing etc.  (In Iraq, all major industry was state-owned).  The resulting 500,000 unemployed workers (and several million dependents), with no way to provide for their families in an increasingly violent and chaotic society, provide an ample source of suicide bombers. 

                  

It does not help that some US troops have a very twitchy trigger-finger, as they exist in a continuous state of fear that the next Iraqi coming towards them might be a suicide bomber. 

                        

But in order for the suicide bombing ideology to work it is necessary to completely dehumanise the Westerners, to present them as a unified, homogenous entity with a common intent: the destruction of Islam and the humiliation of Iraqis.   

                     

If you are a Westerner, if you live in the West, you know what a crass simplification and gross distortion this is.  But if you don’t ‘know’ the West, you are susceptible to such brainwashing by people with their own sinister agendas, and all you have to go on is the evidence you are shown. 

                        

Those Muslims in Britain who buy into the idea that the situation in Iraq is part of a sinister, coordinated war ‘against Islam’ need to wake up.  They have no excuse and should know that the West is generally economically motivated, rather than theologically motivated. Iraq was a secular country under Saddam, brewing beer in state-owned breweries and making war on its Islamic neighbours.  British and American soldiers were sent to Bosnia to protect Muslims – how does that fit into their theory? 

                      

The Iraqi people themselves are critical to the outcome of the peace and reconstruction process.  Without their help, the Coalition can never succeed.  If they are alienated and uncooperative, full of pain and self-destructive rage, then the Coalition is doomed to fail. So, although it’s a clichéd phrase, it really is true: this ‘war’ is for the ‘hearts and minds’ of the Iraqi people. 

                           

But this fragile process of stabilising Iraq by winning the hearts and minds of the Iraqi people has been sabotaged by a few acts of unspeakable stupidity.       

                                       

Most prominent amongst these was the abuse in Abu Ghraib, which was a triple act of stupidity:

1.      that the abuse took place,

2.      that the abuse was photographed,

3.      that the photos were released for the whole world to see.         

                  

                                      

                  

                      

                         

                         

                     

                         

                           

                                 

                                              

                                    

I lived in America for five years, I go there often, I have many American friends.  Those I spoke to were shocked by the pictures from Abu Ghraib.  Whilst not denying their authenticity, my friend Sean was adamant: “We don’t do torture.” 

                      

Meaning, those individuals who are responsible for these acts were betraying American values and betraying their fellow service personnel.  For every American solider killed in Iraq since the Abu Ghraib scandal, a portion of the blame lies with Specialist Charles Graner and Private Lynndie England and the others responsible.  They have made this situation near-impossible to fix, made the cost in Coaliton lives unbearably high and further prolonged the suffering of the Iraqi people.         

                  

British forces had managed to avoid some of the mistakes being made (under intense pressure) by some American forces, and had managed not to be too trigger-happy when faced with possible danger, although misunderstandings can still happen.             

               

Sue Townsend describes the dilemma of British troops beautifully and comically in ‘Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction’.  Glenn, Adrian’s son, is a soldier serving in Iraq, and describes a frightening incident in a letter back to Adrian.  Glenn was on patrol in Basra and gave an Iraqi child a boiled sweet. It got stuck in the boy’s windpipe, and he started choking to death. Glenn grabbed him by the ankles, hung him upside down and shook him vigorously to try to dislodge the sweet. Passers-by observed this and – not knowing anything about the sweet – a hostile crowd formed.

"I can't speak Iraqi and nobody seemed to understand what 'boiled sweet' meant, so I weren't too popular," wrote Glenn. So much for winning Iraqi 'hearts and minds'.            

                        

Misunderstandings and isolated incidents aside, there was a perception that British forces were ‘human’, compassionate, less trigger-happy and really did care about the Iraqi people.  But that inconvenient (to Al Qaeda) truth was soon vapourised by the British ‘abuse’ photos published in the Daily Mirror. 

                                        

      

         

                        

                                  

                                                              

                                           

                           

       

         

          

         

                      

                                                             

Al Qaeda must have been laughing their socks off.  The photos were a wonderful gift to them.  They would have taken copies of those newspapers to every remote village, cave, valley and oasis and what do you think they said?          

      

“See our brothers, how the Crusader infidels urinate on our beloved Muslim brothers in Iraq.  Everything we told you is true.  They hate Muslims and want to kill and humiliate them.  Even their own newspapers show this!  They are evil agents of Satan and it is our duty to fight against them, sacrificing our lives in defence of our people.”            

                           

Faced with the damning evidence of a British newspaper, the poor, semi-literate, uninformed and not media-savvy individuals being presented with these pictures will not have been able to conduct any informed and objective analysis of the photos – uniform not quite right, gun too shiny, equipment not regulation – and will have bought the whole story.  ‘The ‘West’ really does hate Muslims.  It really is our duty to lay down our lives in defence of our people.’            

                  

Once the photos were proven to be fake, do you think that Al Qaeda went back to every remote village, cave, valley and oasis and told everyone that there had been a mistake.  Of course not.  To this day there are people in the Islamic world (and probably a few ignorant, paranoid Muslims in Britain) who believe that those photos were real, that the West really is an evil force out to destroy Muslims and to this day British and American soldiers are being killed due, at least in part, to those photos.               

                        

Piers Morgan’s decision to publish those photos – whether real or fake, it doesn’t matter – was an act of greed, stupidity and treason.  A private meeting with the Prime Minister would have been the honourable option, an expression of concern, a commitment to an investigation promised.  No dirty laundry should be aired to a global public, at a time of war, placing our service personnel in impossible and deadly situations.   

                   

This was an act of utter stupidity.  Even if the photos had been real, there was no justification (except 30 pieces of silver) for publishing them for the world to see, making the position of our troops in Iraq completely untenable. 

                     

Whilst Piers Morgan has walked away to pursue some kind of ‘celebrity’ Hollywood career ('America's Got Talent'), British and American soldiers are dying every week due, in part, to the publication of those photos.  And the suffering of the Iraqi people will continue indefinitely.       

                                       

“Against stupidity, the Gods themselves contend in vain.”  Friedrich von Schiller

 

The Veil is Vile

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/education/6466221.stm

            

The veil is vile.  Oh, it’s an anagram!

                

I was in a radio debate recently about whether schools should be required by law to allow children to wear the veil.  The debate was supposed to be about school uniform, and whether this should be the same for everyone, but the crux of the matter was the veil.

                     

My opponent was a young man whose bushy beard had ‘Wahhabi’ written all over it.

                   

My argument was as follows.  I can tolerate the headscarf.  I don’t believe it’s an Islamic requirement, but I will accept that some women want to wear it as a sign of their own self-respect and self-esteem, to set themselves apart from those women who let it all hang out for everyone to see.  They have the right to do this, of their own free will, if they so choose.

                           

Like the Sikh turban and Jewish yarmulke, the headscarf can be a permitted addition to a school uniform, in the appropriate colour and regulated style. After all, Catholic women in Italy, Spain and France wear a headscarf in church – there’s nothing weird about it.  Some Islamic women just choose to wear one all the time.

                     

But on the veil, my opinion is entirely different.  The veil is vile.  It is totally un-Islamic, a Byzantine innovation, and it is a form of self-oppression.  Even if women apparently want to wear it, it is an unacceptable form of medievalism and it causes separation, segregation and fear in a society which is already under much strain from the tensions with its Islamic components. 

                           

British society has been incredibly restrained and tolerant despite the 7/7 outrage, and these veil advocates are going too far.  It’s as if these idiots didn’t even notice (or care?) that 7/7 happened and don’t have the sensitivity and intelligence to realise that now is not the time for Muslims to be making more waves. 

                                         

Children don’t have a natural desire to wear the veil.  These children are being brainwashed and used as pawns by their parents and by some sinister organisations, lurking in the background, who have no investment in the future well-being, stability and peace of this country (they want the opposite, in fact).  Putting children in the veil is condemning them to a life of no significance, no success, no prosperity and no joy.  But that is how these people think, in their twisted puritan logic.  This life should be pious and miserable (don’t expect any happiness or free will) so that the next life can be all the better.  What’s the logical next step in this train of thought? ….

                                     

My argument in the debate was that the veil is cultural, not Islamic, and we don’t have to tolerate it, accommodate it or allow it. 

                                       

My bearded opponent jumped on that immediately.  He kept harking on that ‘Islamic scholars’ have declared that the veil is Islamic, although he couldn’t provide the Qur’anic reference when I asked for it. (There isn’t one, trust me – this has been looked at for years.  The Qur’an asks both men and women not to overtly flaunt their bodies purely for the attention of others; what great advice that is in today’s world, where so many people suffer from deep insecurity about their appearance.  We have to find our own comfortable middle ground).

                                  

The Wahhabi and I were both operating from the same false assumption, which was that if something is cultural, then it’s optional, but if it’s Islamic (or religious), then it can’t be argued with.  So he was trying to argue that the veil is Islamic and I was arguing that it’s a regressive cultural practice.

                                          

But in retrospect, I should have argued the following.  In a civilised society, without a state-imposed theology, we do not have to treat all cultural or religious requirements equally and give them unquestioning acceptance.  We have to evaluate each on its own merits, irrespective of any alleged religious authority, and if it does not fit with our general acceptance of what is fair, just and in accordance with human rights and equal rights, then we do not have to allow it.  The religious zealots can argue all they like, but religion alone is not a reason to allow something.  Those ignorant barbaric people – some Muslim, some Christian, some Animist – who practise female genital mutilation and assert ‘This is our religion – you cannot argue!’ are wrong.  We can argue and we can prohibit.

                                     

I should also have said to the Wahhabi (in the presence of our female radio host) that since God created Woman, did He not intend that she should feel the sun on her face and body, and the wind in her hair, and even the gentle caress of the rain?  Did He not intend that she should be allowed to play tennis, jog and swim?  Did He not intend that she should have a life worth living?

                                        

But it was a live radio debate and it’s easy to think of things I should have said afterwards.

                                  

Bombers

The day of July 7, there’s some news story in the morning about an explosion in the Underground train network.  I’ve worried for a long time that suicide bombing in London is inevitable and I am afraid.  Then the apparent explosion is attributed to a ‘power surge’ and I am relieved.  But then there are three ‘power surges’, which is impossibly optimistic and I am afraid again; the inevitable reality emerges slowly but surely.  It has finally happened.  The story unfolds and its 9/11 all over again, but this time it’s here, at home in London, humble London, cheerful, polite, friendly, swinging London that has always managed, complaining and yet really uncomplaining about the weather and the traffic and the bloody trains.  Always soldiering on and always there for me, London.  Now the trains are bloody in the worst possible way; just as they were in the IRA years of the seventies and eighties.

Please God, it will be some Arabs or North Africans who slipped in pretending to be asylum seekers, never intended to build a life for themselves, bloody foreigners.  But it gets worse.  Three of the suicide bombers are British-born young men of Pakistani origin, from somewhere up North, where there are lots of Pakistanis. 

The contempt and anger which I feel are tinged with a helpless understanding.  They were sold the lie of separation from the moment of their birth, from family who meant well and knew no better.  Too many Muslims, especially ‘up North’, recoil in horror at the drunken, lecherous, shameless, drug-crazed, vomiting-on-the-pavement, wanton depravity that seems to have become the norm for young people in British society and, unable to find a comfortable middle ground, they veer forcefully to the other extreme – absolute, joyless, religious drudgery and partition. 

They have discovered the easy familiarity and comfort of creating their own separated community-states (little-Pakistans, little-Bangladeshs) and hold these isolated bubbles of existence, frozen in time, not appreciating any of the potential of the indigenous society, labouring forever under the excuses of racism and decadence, and harking back with false sentimentality to an idealized vision of the morally upright, decent, just and pious society back home; a vision that is a myth, a lie. 

From within such a bubble, boys like these can see throughout their entire lives the sensual delights of the outer world – women, music, dancing, freedom, careers, convertibles – and yet are forbidden these for an enforced life of miserable puritanism, bad theology and assumed second-class citizenship.  Going to Qur’anic school for several hours a week drains from them any ability to achieve academic excellence in regular school, condemns them to tired mediocrity.  They are instilled with an inferiority complex, a belief that they have no right to seek their own happiness and that Western society (because it struggles to accommodate everyone tolerantly and even-handedly) is somehow decadent and wicked.  They have no freedom of choice and no expectation of ever having happiness in this life. 

On top of all this is the intense sexual frustration that can be neither discussed nor fulfilled, but not to worry, a ‘nice girl’ from the village back home will be imported, so that the boy is not corrupted by a vivacious, feisty, challenging and independent white woman.  I can imagine what was said to them.  (“She won’t be the best, you are hard sell, you are not doctor, what can we say you are? … you don’t even have proper job … but she’ll be good girl … she won’t be educated … no need of education … she will cook and clean, won’t cause you any problem, won’t ask for anything … the educated ones are trouble … but you are hard sell … what to say for job? … at least you have British passport … don’t be too fussy.”) 

Faced with this misery, they were willing to believe the old lie – ­whether Protestant, Catholic, Sunni, Shia, it’s all the same – that the purpose of your one chance at life is to secure your place in Heaven and to avoid Hell.  Once you believe this, you look for short cuts and guaranteed routes.  The truly Islamic way is to spend your life doing good deeds, with humility and self-discipline.  But this seems quite arduous and takes too long, especially if life seems dull and unfulfilling, and is under the shadow of that miserable arranged marriage.  So if someone authoritative – a silk-tongued confident leader with a powerful persona, hiding his own fear and cynical political agenda – presents a shortcut, based on the intense glorious passion of hatred and destruction, rather than of love, it seems irresistible.  No more dull, grey semi-existence, instead a thrilling top secret mission against the ‘evil empire’ and eternal glory thereafter.  Allahu Akbar!  God is Great! 

They were willing to die because, in their own perception of reality, they had nothing to live for. 

But what if the purpose of life is not to gain Heaven and to avoid Hell?  What if the purpose of life is to make the most of life as an opportunity, a joy, a privilege to exist and live and love and make a difference … a good difference, not a bitter, twisted metal and charred flesh difference.  What if every problem cannot be blown away, but has to be healed and if you don’t take the responsibility of dealing with it, you try to explode your way out of it, you are destined to come back and face it again … and again … until you get it right.

That would require a change of approach, wouldn’t it?

I Don't Feel Like James Bond Anymore

My seventy-second trip to the United States, in November 2002, begins just like every other one in recent times.  I arise at 5 AM, shave, shower and dress.  The car comes for me at 6 AM.  I am at Gatwick by 6:45 AM and Mr Singh, the Sikh security officer, asks me the usual questions about my computer and other items, before putting another of his initialled airport security stickers on the back of my passport and letting me approach the check-in desk.  I am checked-in by 7 AM, and have secured my usual seat.

Today, I'm sitting next to a bearded man who looks like a Taliban (although he is white).  He turns out to be an American, from Georgia, who is with the Department of Defence, and is just returning home from his seventh trip to Pakistan.  He cannot stop describing how wonderful the people are in the North, so hospitable, so generous, no matter how poor they are.  He loves to have keema paratha for breakfast, and he bemoans the British whom he works with there, who complain endlessly if they can't have a traditional fat-soaked English breakfast, with the stewed tomatoes mutilated just right.  He says he works in Information Technology.  (But there’s an implication that this is just a cover). 

There was only one sinister incident that took place during his time in Pakistan.  He was walking through a traditional marketplace, when a man who was facing him began reaching inside his tunic.  My American friend, thinking that the stranger was about to pull out a knife or a gun, acted as anyone would in the circumstances.  He lunged at the man, knocked him over backwards and sat on him.   The 'weapon' turned out to be a tobacco pipe.  He apologised, helped the stranger up and the two of them went about their business.   

The plane lands in Atlanta and taxies to the gate.  Immediately when the seat belt light goes out, I slide smoothly from my seat, deftly extract my slim leather attaché case from the overhead compartment and am waiting at the exit door by the forward galley in seconds; the first one off the plane as usual with the arrogance of familiar routine.  As we wait for the door to open, the American Taliban-like IT specialist is chatting with the flight attendant.  He mentions that he'll be home in about two hours, “insh'Allah”.  “What does that mean?” she asks him. 

Their voices fade behind me as I stride swiftly across the docking bridge and into the terminal. 

Atlanta Airport is a huge facility, with voluminous corridors and a massive immigration hall.  Timing is everything here; if two or three other flights arrived just before yours, it can be chaotic, with huge lines, even for the Americans. 

I'm the first person from my aircraft to reach the hall, and it looks like they are just finishing the remains of another flight.  The six booths at the far side are for Visitors; the two furthest ones have the shortest queues.   I do reverse profiling of INS officers.  They can vary a lot in terms of friendliness and suspicion, but the worst that any of them has ever done is to ask to see my return ticket, to ensure that I'm not going to overstay, so it's no big deal really.

These two have the same profile; they are both white, middle-aged men.  The one at the furthest booth has the shortest line of all, so I go there, with about six people in front of me.  From the outset, it is apparent that these two men are Mr Friendly and Mr Grumpy.  Mr Friendly is welcoming visitors to his country with a vociferous good humour that can be heard all around that end of the hall.  Mr Grumpy is persistent in his questioning and exudes a cold, cynical suspicion.  I am in Mr Grumpy's queue and my immediate instinct is to switch lines, but I think, 'Why, what difference will it make?  So he'll ask me about my job title in General Electric and want to see my return ticket; big deal.  Switching lines is not necessary for someone who has nothing to hide.'   

Mr Grumpy finishes hassling the scruffy young Frenchman in front of me and then it's my turn.  I approach confidently, say 'Hello' cheerfully, and put down in front of him my completed forms and my worn burgundy passport with 68 US entry stamps in it, (as well as countless others).  His first question takes me completely by surprise: “Have you been to the United States before?” 

I resist the very American behaviour of prefacing my response with, “Duh…” which is used to indicate that this is a stupid question with an obvious answer.  Instead I reply calmly, “Yes, many times.” 

From there it goes downhill fast.  Noticing that I was born in Karachi, and the presence of a Pakistan multiple-entry visa, he becomes fixated on the possibility that I might be a dual national.  He does not seem to notice the significance of the fact that I also have an Indian visa.   How many people have both of those? 

My seventy-second entry into the United States does not go well.  The final question is the clincher.  He is reading from a piece of paper taped-up inside his booth and he asks me if I am over 45.  I reply that I am not.  Wham!  I've been profiled.  I fit the three criteria of a potential terrorist: born in a listed country, male, aged between 18 and 45 years. 

Mr Grumpy gathers my documents into a neat pile, places them inside a bright red folder and hands this bundle to me.   For the first time ever, I am being sent for secondary questioning.  The bright red folder that I am holding ensures that I cannot slip out of the Immigration hall into Baggage Claim.  Instead, a guard points me towards the secondary inspection room.

This is a sombre place.  A few huddled masses sit on plastic chairs, waiting to be called for questioning by INS officers, who are behind a counter.   Assimilating the process for the first time, I place my red folder into a rack on the counter, where it is in a proxy queue on my behalf, with other folders representing their human subjects. 

I'm feeling hot, nervous, outraged, afraid; there’s a sense of bureaucratic miscarriage.  I don’t belong here.  I am British.  I’m a senior person in a respected American company.  This is my seventy-second arrival into the United States.  I travel the globe with impunity.  Why am I sitting with suspicious foreigners in an interrogation room?  Duh, it’s because I am a suspicious foreigner.

The INS officer at the counter is questioning a South American girl about the fact that she now seems to be living in the US.  How is she supporting herself, when she is not authorised to work?  I answer the same question in my mind, visualising the Corporate American Express card in my slim leather wallet.  (I don't think that she has one). 

An attractive female INS officer emerges from a back room and deliberately seeks and removes my folder from the rack (ahead of the queue).   What is going on?  They've been alerted to this mistake, obviously. 

She stares at a computer screen and then speaks to the officer next to her.  “It says 'Appears to be innocent'.  What does that mean?”  He is not sure. 

I am grateful to Mr Grumpy for at least entering that into his computer, before giving me a red folder. 

She looks up and identifies me sitting in the front row and calls for me by name.  What happens next is completely bizarre.

She and another INS officer (cheerful, friendly and chubby) take me outside the questioning room and lead me towards a special booth at the very far side of the hall.  But, as we proceed, they are both discussing why I have been selected for Special Alien Registration.  They are not really sure, but figure that it must be because I might be a Pakistani-British dual national.  Ms Attractive is cynical about whether it is really necessary for me to undergo Special Registration.  “But he comes here all the time,” she argues.  (I like her). 

Mr Cheerful is sympathetic, but cautious.  They decide to leave me waiting at the Special Registration booth and go to ask their supervisor.

This is a strange experience.  I am left standing by myself at a remote booth with some special equipment.   Everyone from my flight has gone through Immigration already.   An entire flight of French people is processed while I wait.  I watch them disappearing into the Baggage area.

The great hall is eerily silent when Ms Attractive and Mr Cheerful return.  They are apologetic, sympathetic and wonderfully friendly, but regret that I must be subjected to Special Registration. Ms Attractive is supposed to do it, but has never done this before, so Mr Cheerful offers to help her, and then ends up doing it himself when she is called away. 

He does not appear to have done it himself for real either.  We both struggle through the questions emitted by the PC and he keys my answers in.  The response time is terrible.  He helps me to calculate the approximate years of my parents’ births (I know the days and months) and laughs when I confirm that I have a US bank account, but quip that I don't have much in it.  When was I last at University, where, and what was the course? 1987, Stirling in Scotland, Chemistry PhD.  (I don’t say that it was unfinished; well, he doesn’t ask).

Another passing INS officer (Mr Helpful) shows him how to use the digital camera and add my mug-shot to the computer record, along with my scanned fingerprints. 

Finally, the computer gives me my very own Alien Special Registration Number, which Mr Cheerful writes into my passport, alongside my 90-day visa waiver entry stamp.  He also gives me a helpful information pack about Special Registration and all that it entails.  The key point is that if I should stay more than 30 days, then I must report into an INS office between the 30th and 40th day, to tell them what I've been doing and with documentary proof such as my hotel bills or, if I’ve been staying with a friend, one of his utility bills.  Also, when I'm leaving the US, I must check in with INS on the way out, so that they can confirm my departure. 

   

Nearly two hours later than expected, I enter the Baggage Hall.  My suitcase is waiting by itself, all the others long gone.  I've done this arrival routine so many times before, but now everything feels different.  I don’t feel like a sophisticated globe-trotting James Bond anymore; I am a Special Registration Alien, a potential terrorist suspect.  I feel different; will people know it and treat me differently?

At the rental car counter, the woman recognises me and tries hard to be friendly, but I’m feeling very down.  I decline the talking Navigation System, because I know my way around Atlanta now and the $8 per day soon adds up. 

I should have taken the Navigation System.  The softly spoken, but firm and insistent, American female computer voice might have prevented me taking the wrong freeway out of the airport, so engrossed am I in replaying the events at the airport and trying to analyze what this all means. 

I arrive at the office really late. I might as well have gone straight to the hotel.  I enter the office using one of my Corporate ID cards. I have several of these, for different GE offices around the world.  I’m reasonably senior; a lot of people report to me and ask me what to do and to authorise things.  My Atlanta colleagues are friendly and welcoming as always, but now I don’t feel comfortable.  I feel as if I have something to hide, because I’m a Special Registration Alien.  My long love affair with America has hit a rocky patch. 

I leave the office and head for the Sheraton.  Henry and Tatiana are at the front desk and greet me warmly as always.  This place is my home in Atlanta.  They have held my usual suite and they arrange for my luggage to be taken-up.  But, I am different now.  Would they treat me differently if they knew my sinister new status? 

   

I can’t convey how hurt I feel, how emotionally this has affected me; America doesn’t trust me anymore.  Somehow, I can’t blame America, not mainstream, regular middle-of-the road optimistic America.  She was hit very hard and completely by surprise that sinister day, when her easy-going trust was betrayed by men twisted and brainwashed into hatred by events and policies and actions of which the collective mass of America, for the most part, does not have any idea or understanding.  This is a situation so complex that few have any grasp of it, and yet many suffered for the actions and arrogance of a few. 

I don’t blame America, but I still feel hurt, and I still replay the whole process in my mind.   

   

This trip is a couple of weeks long, so I get to spend the weekend in the US.  Ironically, I have arranged to visit a cousin, who lives near Washington, works for the Department of Homeland Security and reports directly to the White House.  I haven’t seen him since he came to London about fourteen years ago.  Like me, he was born in Karachi, but he is an American citizen, whereas I am British.  Despite all of my accumulated time in the US, I have never visited him or Washington before (apart from a job interview conducted in a Washington Dulles Airport terminal once).  He shows me around with relaxed ease and I am impressed as he tells me about his job within the Administration (the non-Classified stuff, of course). 

This is the remarkable, reassuring part about this whole sad, complex affair.  I learn from him that this Special Registration is not personal; it is America struggling to cope with an ugly reality thrust upon her.  Everyone he works with knows that he is a Muslim of Pakistani origin, but his loyalty and integrity are not questioned. He relates how a few days earlier, he was fasting (this being Ramadan) and was in the White House in a very senior level security meeting as sunset approached.  An Admiral looked at his watch and asked him, “Don’t you need to go and break your fast right now?”   He acknowledged this and excused himself from the meeting for a few minutes and no-one thought anything of it. 

I find this amazing and comforting.  Nothing is as black-and-white as those who would like to deal only with simple, unquestioning hatred would like it to be (on all sides).  I don’t have an easy answer on the situation with Iraq, because I realise the incredible complexity of this whole tangled web, and that most of my sorry species prefer not to deal with complexity. 

He takes me to see the White House.  This weekend, it is not possible to take me inside, as there are massive preparations underway for a Bill signing event on Monday.  I stand outside and am struck at how much smaller it is than I imagined, and how close we are able to stand.  I take pictures and the Secret Service sniper on the roof, dressed all in black, waves nonchalantly. 

A couple of important looking men come outside, through the Security gate, and recognise my cousin.  They stop and chat and he introduces me. They are extremely cordial and I don’t mention that I’m a Special Registration Alien.  It doesn’t seem to matter now.

   

My flight back to Atlanta is on Sunday night.  Sitting at the gate at Washington-Dulles airport, I notice an extremely smartly dressed thirty-something white man from one of the higher socio-economic groups, waiting for the same flight.  He has a smart briefcase and leather suit carrier, and looks well-educated.  I know that these are subjective judgments, based on personal prejudice, but I’m pretty sure that my superficial evaluation is accurate.  He probably has a Harvard MBA, too.  Looking at the people waiting to board this small jet, the person most likely to be a terrorist, based on simplistic demographics, would be me.  When the flight is called, the Harvard MBA gets up to board first, as he is in First Class, but he is pulled aside for a very thorough personal search, which takes nearly ten minutes.  I take my Economy seat without any problem.  I am grateful that I’m not being profiled everywhere I go, that even in the aftermath of dehumanising terror, America at a federal level is struggling to be fair and unbiased. 

A few days later my US trip comes to end and I am back at Atlanta airport, having checked-in and been through Security.  As a Special Registration Alien, I have to register with the INS before boarding my flight, so that they have an airtight record of my departure.  I wait at the Information Desk in the Terminal and they phone the INS to send someone.  Forty minutes later he walks up from the Arrivals Hall.  They’ve just had some flights come in and they were all busy.  I am the sole Special Registration Alien waiting to be recorded.  The INS officer is Indian, definitely not born in the US; he still has that slight hint of an offshore accent.  He is friendly and fills out the form, commenting, “This is such a pain for you guys.” 

   

I return to London overnight and I’m the first one off the plane, moving swiftly through a seemingly deserted Gatwick in the early hours of Saturday morning.  I am not an Alien here; I feel nothing less than elation.  I’m the sole person approaching the Immigration officers, holding my burgundy extra-thick passport.  There are two of them, both women, one on the left and one on the right.  Inexplicably, I veer to a different side at the last moment and the scorned woman says, “There goes a man with no taste,” as the other woman gives my passport photo a cursory glance.  They are joking with me.  How glad I am to see them, they have no idea.  And they make me feel like James Bond again.