FOUR CROSSINGS OF THE BORDER
Prologue
After I saw an article,
Seven Hours in Tehran, published in American Libraries in early
April each re-reading of it saddened me more than before. The author,
Leonard Kniffel, reports how his invitation to the opening of the New
Building of the National Library of Iran ended in overnight airport
detention and an unexplained deportation. What interested me most was his
human bewilderment arising from a Kafkaesque situation. As an Iranian
experienced living in a country ruled by Khomeini and his followers, I could
easily sense the frustration caused by such an unjustifiable incident. Yet,
as a Canadian citizen working at Yale as a Persian Specialist Librarian with
a TN visa, I could not have imagined that the same thing would happen to me
– but in America.
Part I
Not having found a rewarding
professional job in Canada, I decided to apply in 2004 for an opening
position at Yale University Library. The Sterling’s fame as one of the most
prestigious academic libraries of the world, along with the prospect of
developing a Persian Collection for the library, helped drive me there.
Before receiving the job offer I paid a short visit to the United States,
and as a Canadian citizen born in Iran I encountered a cold welcome that
included questions about my relatives in Iran – alive or dead – my
citizenship, and my travels to Iran, among other things. However, I was not
registered and fingerprinted. I answered all the detailed questions
accurately and honestly and at the end I thought the officials had all the
information about me they required: my background, my profession, my family,
and even my friends. It couldn’t be more complete. After a while I made a
short trip to for the job interview, and again I experienced the same
process.
But getting a visa for work
seemed something different. I tried to inquire about requirements and was
told that only at the port of entry would I learn if I would be admitted.
Since I had resigned my job in Canada, I was nervous when I awaited my turn
to face the official at Pearson airport. Nevertheless, I was sure I
wouldn’t have a serious problem. I sat before the officer and submitted my
documents, including official translations of my educational papers. He
began to question my qualifications for the Yale job Library and I became
anxious about missing the plane. He said that the translation done by the
official Canadian translator didn’t prove that I had a Master’s Degree in
the Library Science. I explained that I was not responsible for the
translation, that the Comparative Education Service of the University of
Toronto had considered my qualifications to be comparable academically to a
Canadian Master’s degree based on this translation, and that my U.S.
employer trusted these credentials. He became angry and asked if I was
trying to question what he was doing. I emphasized that all I meant was
that my credentials were valid for Canadian officials as well as for the
American employer. He left, then returned with another officer who angrily
repeated his words. Finally I was told to submit my credentials in
Persian. I said I didn’t have them with me because I had never thought my
Persian educational papers would have comprehensible for them. However, the
Persian originals were at home and I could get them. I left my luggage at
the airport, took a taxi home, and picked up the documents. Naturally I
missed my flight, and after waiting for hours for another interview and
watching nervous Iranian- born passengers in the waiting area, I appeared
before a friendly looking official who smilingly took a quick look at my
educational papers in Persian and said soothing words.
I might have asked him how
he could trust words in an unknown language with a different script while
his colleague hadn’t trusted written words in his own language. But the idea
of questioning officials’ expertise in evaluating educational documents
didn’t come to mind.
Part II
Thus I entered the United
States as a Canadian citizen with a visa for work in mid August. In the
following months, crossing the border [Peace Bridge] to visit my
family and friends, I answered honestly and accurately the same questions I
was asked the first time as a visitor: When did I leave Iran? When did I
become a Canadian citizen? Had I traveled to Iran since then? Did I have any
plan to go there? Who were my parents? Were they alive or dead? Dead or
alive, were they Iranian? What were their dates of birth?
One night in late April
2005, just half an hour before midnight, sleepy and tired after a short
visit to Toronto, I got off the bus and stood in the line to be checked.
Because of the frequent trips, I knew the faces of some officers and hoped
to be called by someone who looked friendly, just because I liked to feel
that I’d be welcome. I tried to spot a familiar face at one of the booths.
Every time I heard “Next” I wondered who would interview me this time. It
was like a guessing game, or maybe, a game of chance. But I found myself in
front of an unfamiliar face. The young stout official didn’t return my “Hi”
with a smile. His face like a metallic mask, he didn’t bother to look at
me. Instead, he looked at my passport, then at the screen, muttering, “You
were denied at first.” Staring at his cold look, I said, “No. I was asked
to show my original educational papers…” I stopped saying more, for he had
disappeared with my passport. After a while he returned, asked a few
questions, then disappeared again. The third time he appeared, still without
looking at me directly, he told me to go back to the waiting area and take a
seat. Before sitting down, I looked at the wall clock. It was past
midnight and there were no passengers left. I thought, “If I miss the bus,
I won’t be on time to start work.” The bus driver appeared for a moment.
“Please wait for me,” I asked. “I can’t,” he said. Angry, I recalled that
on previous trips the bus hadn’t left passengers behind. “It’s not fair,” I
said. “It’s not fair to bother others for you,” he retorted and ran off.
I was called to another
room. This time it was a young officer with a sweet smile who told me to sit
on a bench and wait. I complained about missing the bus and he tried to
ensure me that everything would go well and I’d be able to catch the next
bus. I asked why they hadn’t started. He replied that I had to wait for the
investigator and went away. When he came back, my passport in his hand, he
asked, “Have you ever been to Zimbabwe?” He was still smiling sweetly. I
laughed. “Zimbabwe? No,” I said. He went away and came back again. “Are
you sure you didn’t go to Zimbabwe?” I was sure if the first customs
officer had asked me such an absurd question, I wouldn’t have been able to
control myself. But there was something in this one’s face and smile that
didn’t let me be angry. “Since my arrival in Canada, I was either in Canada
or in the States,” I said calmly. After he left, I suddenly felt helpless.
Was it a trick? Some entrapment? Or one of those fatal errors that happened
to the least lucky people? Did my name look or sound like an African name?
Zimbabwe: all I knew about it was a name on the map of Africa. For a moment
I felt ashamed I didn’t know more. In order to control my fury I tried not
to think about Zimbabwe by watching two American teenage girls who had
driven to Canada by mistake and had been returned by Canadian customs
officials. The girls were excited, not frightened, and one of them,
ignoring the sign about not using a cell phone, was reporting their
adventure. They went off with a guard. I didn’t know how to keep myself
busy until a guide took me to an immigration office waiting room in an
adjacent building.
I began to pace this square
new waiting room with a glass door to an office. My chronic back pains
started to act up badly. Once or twice somebody advised me to sit down,
relax, and wait my turn. I explained that I preferred not to. Finally I
was called in by an officer who looked serious but not, like the first,
robot-like. He asked some questions and said that I should be registered
and fingerprinted. I said that I’d crossed the border many times during the
last eight months. He said that I had the right to ask for the supervisor.
I said I wanted to do that. The supervisor was a young woman, whom I
remembered as being polite and gentle. I remarked that I remembered her;
she said she didn’t remember me at all. I explained my situation and said
that I didn’t see why I needed to be registered since I had lived and worked
in the States for more than eight months and there had been no change in my
situation, unless the regulations had changed. I said that if I was among
those who had to be registered, why hadn’t I been on my first entry into the
United States as a visitor or as someone with a TN visa? They could have
refused or withdrawn a work permit. She said registration could happen any
time and they were not supposed to tell me the reason why. I repeated my
argument and she kept declining to explain why they had changed their
treatment of me. Finally she told me that my only option was to accept the
procedure, or decide to go back to Canada. I asked how I could go back to
Canada when I had a U. S. job and had transferred all my personal
belongings. How could I leave my car and other belongings and return
jobless to Canada? She left me alone to make a decision. I turned to the
serious looking officer and stretched out my hands. He said a few words
about the procedure and asked me to swear an oath. I did and he
fingerprinted me. I automatically answered some questions. He told me to go
back to the waiting room and wait for the next step. I felt nauseous, I had
headache, back pain and, worse than all these, I saw that I had missed not
only the second but also the third bus. From time to time I was called in
to answer questions and called out to wait more. The questions were so
varied and different that I had to keep switching my mind to another to find
the right answers. Now I knew that I had been recorded and videotaped.
I desperately needed to see a smile on the serious-looking officer’s
face.
Eventually the officer told
me that the information had almost all been processed and that the next step
would begin shortly. I said I wanted to go to the rest room. The officer
told the supervisor about my request. While escorting me to the rest room,
he asked me if I had any weapons. I held out my handbag to him because I
was sick of silly questions. How could he be so machine-like and not see me
as a middle-aged, fragile, defenseless woman! How could he be so ignorant
about my 30-year background as a librarian after having examined my papers
for hours! Declining to look into my handbag, he repeated the question. I
don’t know why I sarcastically said, “Yes, I do.” He asked, “Do you have a
knife?” I said, “Yes, I do. Why don’t you check my bag?” He nodded and
refused to take it. I went to the bathroom, not caring about how stupid I
had been. When I returned, the supervisor came up and asked me if I needed
coffee or tea or anything else. I just shook my head, heading for the
waiting room, my eternal destination.
It was past 4 a.m. when I
was called in for the last time to have my handbag and wallet examined. The
officer took out all my papers: my notes of phone numbers, addresses, bank
passwords, my friends’ business cards, my credit cards, health cards,
driver’s licenses, manuscripts of short stories in Farsi (Persian). He
frequently took away documents to make copies. He asked detailed questions
about each of them. The questions were so detailed and at the same time so
unpredictable and irrelevant that I felt miserable. That I was giving
personal information about those related to me made me feel wretched. None
of those whose business cards, phone numbers, addresses, or names were in my
notebook or wallet had been born or lived in the Axis of Evil, but were
Canadian or American friends or acquaintances. Perhaps distrusting his
eyes, the officer meticulously asked about the ethnic background of a
thoroughly Western name. Then his gloved hands reached a yellow file
containing manuscripts of short stories in Farsi. I had forgotten them.
My heart started beating so hard that I felt I was about to faint. By
no means was I prepared to give explanations about them. A couple of months
earlier I had read that a plane had made an unscheduled landing because a
steward had spotted a note in Farsi and concluded that it must relate to
terrorism. “What are these?” asked the officer, flipping the papers
attached by paperclips. “They are writings,” I whispered hopelessly. How
could I prove they were short stories written many years ago by someone who
had no chance to publish them where their potential readers were? “What
writings?” he asked again. “My writings,” I said softly, trying desperately
to recover my confidence. He held up one of them and asked,” Anything
against the U. S.?” As he avoided looking at me I stared at him and said,
“Of course not.” While this question and answer were being repeated for
each story in turn, I couldn’t help wondering which profession could be more
dangerous to the safety of the most powerful country of the world – a
librarian or a writer? Up to that moment I didn’t suspect even for a moment
that I was in danger of being accused to any crime, or wrongdoing. However,
when it came to writings, I had become unsure; because writing essentially
is an act of freedom, and I was in a situation that was absolutely hostile
to freedom. Eventually the gloved hands left the yellow file and its
contents and grabbed a plastic bag full of almonds and raisins. He said
something. Not understanding what he said, I muttered, “Some snacks, help
yourself please.” Glancing at me, he said, “I always carry some.” Feeling
a lump in my throat, I looked at the clock. It was past 5 a.m. “What shall
I do now?” I asked. “It’s over. We call a taxi to take you to the
terminal. You pay for it,” he said.
Part III
A few weeks later I was on
the train to Toronto to spend my short vacation there. On my previous
border encounter I had been warned that I must now register my departure on
leaving the United States. If I took the bus, the most inexpensive way to
travel to Canada, this was impractical, to say the least, because it didn’t
stop at U.S. Customs when it crossed. To take the train meant spending five
hours in a New York train station for the connection. However, I was
thankful that the train wouldn’t leave me behind as the bus had done. When
the train approached the border, a conductor distributed the Canadian
customs declaration forms. I asked him whether we would stop at the U. S.
customs or if the U. S. officials would come on board. He said they might
or might not. I panicked. As the train passed through the green landscape
I gazed out the window, guessing what sort of ordeal I would undergo this
time. I’d been assured that the next times would not be as long and hard,
but what if the train passed the border without letting me get registered?
I rushed forward in search of the conductor. I explained my situation. He
said he didn’t know anything about such matters. I insisted on my
obligation and went back to my seat. The train hurtled on and there was no
sign of U.S. officials. I jumped up again to find the conductor. I
implored him to do me a favor and let me get off the train if they didn’t
board it. He assured me that he’d consider my situation. I went
back to my place and anxiously waited for them. Finally two young guys in
navy blue suits approached. One of them was the officer with the sweet
smile. I almost jumped with joy; it was as if I’d seen a very dear friend.
He carried my hand luggage and I followed, uncaring about the passengers who
stared at me. The other officer looked sympathetic, too. I told them that
I’d had a panic attack from fear of not meeting them. They assured me that
could not have happened. Outside the train it was cold and windy. I turned
my face to the wind and said, “You can’t imagine how glad I was to see
you!” Smiling and asking me about my children, they guided me to an empty
office. The procedure began and in between being fingerprinted I asked them
if I was the only person in the train to have to go through this. “You’re
the only one who’s asked for it,” said the officer with the sweet smile,
“some people don’t know they have to do that.” Having done the
fingerprinting, they started to question me about my trip, the reason why I
was traveling to Toronto this time, where I was going to stay, what I was
going to do, whom I was going to meet. Examining my belongings, including
my papers, was the next step. The process was as complete as before, but
without pressure on me, for this time I had the feeling that I was reporting
about my plans and my private life to enthusiastic friends. Even when the
officer with sweet smile asked about a black smudge of letters on the margin
of my daughter’s photo in my wallet, I wasn’t irritated. I took the photo
off the plastic and showed it to him: some words on a business card had
rubbed off on the photo. While I was being escorted back to the train, I
noticed that a woman wearing a sari was being taken to the office to go
through the procedure. She looked older than me, and obviously not as
content as I was.
Part IV
I was back at the border
crossing, as usual half an hour to midnight. Once again was tired and
sleepy. In order to have enough time for registration, I rushed off the
bus, the third person in the line. The first one was a middle-aged man with
light brown skin. He was the only one being called inside. I looked back.
The long line behind me and only one booth open was not a good sign.
Nevertheless, I thought that the longer the line behind me, the more time I
had. Certainly I was not supposed to be left behind by the bus. But the
somber face of the man ahead of me as he stood before the unseen officer was
not very promising. He looked experienced enough in facing problematic
situations. I was curious to find out if he belonged to the club to which
I’d joined. Somebody from another counter yelled, “Next.” A couple with
sleepy kids went ahead. I tried to guess about the face I was about to
see. It didn’t seem I was lucky enough to see that smiling face that
night. I was wondering whether I could remember the mask-like face of the
officer who had suspected me previously and tangled me so much without
bothering himself looking at me for a second to see how I could be a
threat. Was he simply ignorant or just one of the dedicated followers of
Les Misérables’ Inspector Javert? Undoubtedly nothing but a name in my
Canadian passport, the place where I was born, the place honored to
be part of the Axis of Evil had awoke his suspicion. Didn’t he know that
many Iranian Americans traveled frequently to Iran without having any
problems? Or maybe my flaw was that I was a Canadian citizen, not an
American one? Maybe I was ignorant in not knowing that Canada was
the Axis of Evil, not Iran. I couldn’t reach a conclusion. I gave up
thinking and stared ahead. The lucky couple was all set, whereas the somber
faced man still stood motionless. I was called and handed over my passport
to a young bulky officer who looked impatient enough not to answer my “Hi”.
He motioned to me to the digital finger print device. I put my fingers on
it. He moaned with dissatisfaction and told me to rub my fingers on my
forehead. I did it and tried again. He moaned with more dissatisfaction.
A colleague came to him. He grumbled that it didn’t match. Their
consultation was not fruitful. He rushed away with my passport. “Oh, no!”
I muttered. It seemed to me I was plunging into a new nightmare. Several
guys in dark navy blue suits were hanging around. Desperately looking
around to find a saviour, I spotted the sweetly smiling officer passing
behind the glass doors. Trying to catch his eye, I waved. He saw me and
smiled. He came in and without asking me anything said hastily to his
colleagues that I was worried about missing the bus. He went away and my
only hope vanished. I leaned on the edge of the counter to avoid falling
down. The somber-faced man had gone and only few people remained in the
line. The bulky officer came back and motioned to me to go the first
waiting area. I knew my place. Without any complaint I headed to my bench,
sat on it, and stared at my betraying fingers.
I don’t know how long I was
there and what I was thinking about or if I was thinking at all. When I
found myself in the second waiting room behind the glass door to the
investigation room, I felt as if I had awakened from a dreamless sleep. I
was not left alone for long. Three people emerged from a door, looking as
if they were chained to each other. One, with a thick moustache and big
brown eyes, looked as if he’d come from the Axis of Evil zone. The other,
in a worn black suit, was slim, blonde, and baby-faced. He carried a
notebook and a pen in his hand. I could imagine him as a shy and modest
clerk, a novice in his profession. The third one, the ox-eyed guy, made any
guess improbable. There was something bothersome in his look. I forgot
missing the bus and as usual started to weave a story around what was going
on around me. After all, I was a writer who enjoyed improvising stories for
my own pleasure. The baby-faced guy could be a freshman of a seminary. But
why was he here? After exchanging a few words with his companions, he went
to a room with a closed door. I started to walk around. The man who was
invisibly labeled “Axis of Evil” went out to smoke, and the mystery man took
a seat watching me. I put my heavy hand luggage in the middle of the room
and kept walking and counting my steps while entertaining myself with my
fantasies. From time to time the ox-eyed man and I caught each other eyes.
But I had lost interest in him and was impressed by the sadness I could see
in the reserved look of a fellow sufferer who was eagerly puffing a
cigarette. If he hadn’t looked so grumpy, I would come to him to share a
cigarette and sympathy. Somebody told me to sit down. I didn’t bother
myself to explain about my chronic back pain. The baby-faced guy came back
and the ox-eyed guy said, “He’s down there smoking.” The smoker noticed
them and came up. They went to a corner and exchanged some words. After a
while, my fellow thanked them, approached the pay phone, and called for a
taxi. Bored, I kept counting my steps. Again a guard told me to sit down.
I said I wanted to go to washroom. He went in the office. The baby-faced
man and his friend went in and out of the waiting room. Nobody heeded my
request for the washroom. I sensed somebody had passed me and said softly,
” Hello.” I turned my head and saw the serious looking officer of my first
ordeal. He rushed away. “Ah!” was the sound that came from my throat. I
felt dizzy; nevertheless I couldn’t help walking around.
Finally someone came up and
handed me over to a woman officer. She asked me to take off my raincoat,
and whatever I had in my pockets. I left them with her. When I came out of
the washroom, she guided me to a small room and told me to wait there. I
realized that this room was a special waiting room. I sat on a chair in a
corner and felt pity for myself. Now I was not a writer anymore, but a
miserable protagonist, trapped in solitary confinement. I could not swallow
the lump in my throat. Why should I control my tears? I stood up, ashamed
of acting like a victim. I took a look around and noticed the sign about
videotape, which drew my attention to the taping device near the ceiling.
What would be the reaction of my library colleagues if they discovered I was
being detained in such a room? Would they suspect me? Could they look at
me as a friend? Would my American friends trust me any more? Could I see
once again that magnificent library where I used to experience a spiritual
solitude? Was it time to surrender? Yes, it was, for when I saw the ox-eyed
man with his colleague in front of me, I was unsurprised. He held out his
card towards me, “ we’re from F. B. I.…” I sat on my chair tranquilly, not
listening while he introduced his colleague and himself. He started to
question me. The questions were more or less the same as before. I said
gently that I had already answered all them. He said they worked for a
different agency. His explanation was reasonable enough, and I felt I was
skilled enough to answer the endless series of questions forever. Not all
the questions were the same as before. The shy man who mostly made notes
asked me about my properties in the United States, my landlord, and my
neighbors. Yet nothing could surprise me any more.
I was left alone again after
they had done their job. Moments of suspension were painfully dragging.
Suddenly I realized that I had been forgotten. There was no sound and sign
of anybody. I jumped up and went to the corridor to find someone. A woman
officer, whom I wasn’t sure had been the one who had guided me to this room,
said that they knew I was there and that I had to wait. I remembered my
previous ordeal and told her I wanted to see the supervisor. She told me to
go back to the room and wait for the supervisor. I did. After a while a
young officer came to the room and introduced himself as the supervisor.
Regaining my confidence, I started to protest. I related my previous ordeal
and why I thought there could be no reason I was being questioned again:
although I tried to understand and respect their duties and comply with the
regulations, I could not accept being treated like this and being
investigated by the F. B. I. I asked him what crime or wrongdoing I had
committed. I talked about my work, my job, and my duties. And I kept
expressing myself until I felt there was nothing more to say. I thought he
was lending a sympathetic ear. He explained that the F. B. I. guys were
there for something unrelated to me, but at any time and any place and for
whatever reason they had the right to question anybody. He tried to soothe
me and showed much sympathy. He assured me I would go soon by a bus that
was there and asked me to follow him.
I did. In less than half an
hour I was in a bus heading for my American destination, New Haven, where I
had a place, a library that was not only my workplace, but also my haven, my
heaven.
Fereshteh Molavi
New Haven, May 2005
