Are you…
Society
Ok, I didn’t really intend to write any about this. If you’re interested in finding out what has happened to Salam Pax, you can just go read the articles. However, something from his attempt to get into the country really resonated:
When my turn comes to step up to the podium for the archangels to question my reasons for entering this land of dreams, this heaven on earth, I get asked a question that will trouble me for a long time after the interview is over: “Sir, are you religious?”
Now, I am the type of Muslim who would tell you that even if there was an Allah hovering up there, he should be punished by collective disobedience because he has been doing a miserable job.
So the answer to Mr Immigration Officer would be a hearty: “Oh, no. I dropped that potato a long time ago.” But instead I keep looking at the little cross hanging from his neck and feel like telling him that this is none of his business. But I don’t. We all know why he is asking me this question and what my answer should be: “No, sir, I am not religious and I do not know how to prove that to you.” I feel ashamed that I have just said these words.
Why did this resonate?
Let me tell you a story about me. Some of you have heard it, but heck, I’m a Scorpio, so talking about me is second nature…
One late evening a decade or so ago, I was waiting on a bridge in my small Wisconsin college town hoping to run into a girl I had a crush on. It was crisp but not cold, and watching the duck paddle around in the reflection of the stars and moon had put me in a really mellow mood.
Now, if you don’t know what a wannabe redneck is, picture a guy that is a little too soft to be a hard worker. A little too mean to be salt of the earth. A person who affects all the worst stereotypical attitudes attributed to rednecks. You can often spot them by the cowboy hat that is just too clean, the little steel tips on the cowboy boots that are still nice and shiny, and the mother of pearl snaps on the pressed looking polyester plaid button up T-shirts.
Anyway, they weren’t uncommon in my town, and a while after midnight, three of them came staggering onto the bridge. One was pissing as he was walking. I really don’t know what my visual reaction was, but I certainly I wasn’t thrilled to have them intrude on my reverie.
Mr. Pissing-while-walking took issue with whatever look I glanced him, so he shouted the questions “you like that? are you a fucking faggot?”
Well ok then.
The world narrowed a bit. One part of me crawled back to the scrawny kid I was in high school. That kid remembered the word “faggot” accentuating numerous impacts of fists or class rings on my skull or body. Another part considered the ex-girlfriend who spent way too many years in the closet due to fear of persecution in that same small town. Another part considered some of the delightful and delicate friends of mine who did happen to prefer their own gender.
I imagined any of those people, placed on that bridge, confronted by these three assholes, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be put in a situation where you had the choice between denying yourself and risking your own safety. Oddly, I was still very calm and feeling very peaceful.
me: “No, I don’t like that, and its none of your business”
him: “I only got one prejudice in this world, and that’s against homo-sexuals.”
me: …
him: “Are you a faggot?”
me: “It isn’t any of your business.”
The conversation progressed along those lines, mainly with guy who had been pissing trying to hype the other two to the point where they’d be willing to hurt me. I leaning back against a light post in the middle of the bridge, still feeling pretty mellow. They had somewhat formed a half-circle around me, but for some reason, I really didn’t think it was going to come to anything. The leader asked his buddies if they had a knife or a gun to “kill this fucking faggot”, but either they didn’t or they didn’t offer it up.
I probably should have seen it coming, but I wasn’t expecting anything when he suggested they club me and throw me off the bridge. A few seconds later, I’d been grabbed, hit in the back of the head, lifted into the air, and heaved over the railing.
That bridge isn’t real high, but it isn’t real low either, and the water is too shallow to want to fall into. To make a long story short, my survival instincts kicked in, and I managed to pull myself back onto the bridge (I think I used the guy’s ear as an anchor point), and work my way off the bridge without getting too badly hurt.
For whatever reason, the mellow mood I was in prevented me from throwing a punch or pulling my knife. They bruised my back and legs pretty bad with those pointy boots, and they managed to flatten my cigarette tin and zippo with one nasty kick that got through to my chest. However, a couple years of martial arts (and my sobriety) allowed me to keep my feet and keep anything from getting through to my face or groin. All in all, I ended up sore, but OK.
It was pretty easy not to bow to intimidation because, other than the brief moment when I was over the railing, I wasn’t really afraid. I was armed, I was sober, and I was moderately trained. I considered fighting back, but when it came down to it, I didn’t want to hurt anyone. For that matter, I didn’t even get mad until the next day. Boy did I get mad for a while – it is good I didn’t find them during the week that followed.
What kind of a screwed up situation is that? Someone should not have to feel afraid to admit who they are. What kind of a messed up world is it where just telling someone that something really isn’t any of their business should be followed by reprisals?
And so, back to Mr. Salam Pax. He probably wasn’t in any real danger of going to Guantanamo Bay, but deportation was a very real possibility. And for whatever reason, he did not feel like he could answer “it isn’t any of your business” when they asked him about his religion.
It was relatively easy for him to give his answer – it was the truth. However, what about decent Muslims who are religious? Not fanatical, not fundamentalist, just honest, devout followers of Islam? What must it be like for them in that chair?
I think it must be far easier to face three drunk wannabe rednecks on a bridge than a bunch of immigration officers with the power over your future.
Incidently, had my ex-girlfriend been on that bridge, I think those three guys might have been in a lot of trouble.
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