“Speak in English,” the officer yelled at me. I was shaking as my grip tightened around the phone. “Baba...I’m being held by customs at the airport,” I uttered.
My dad responded in a frenzy, “What for? When are they going to let you go?”
“I don’t know, I have to go now, but I will call you when I get out,” I replied. I was scared…he could hear it in my voice, “Ok be strong habibi,” my father said.
A few hours ago I was passed out on a Boeing 747, my head pressed against the cabin window, exhausted from a day of traveling by bus from Jerusalem back to Tel Aviv to board a plane at Ben Gurion Airport. I was coming back from a week of learning about Israeli culture and doing some community-service work. When I landed, I was feeling eager to get home to my bed and rushed off to be cleared through customs. I remember how comforted I felt to be back on familiar territory but that quickly changed when I gave the customs agent my passport and his face suddenly changed dramatically. He told me I had to step aside and answer a few questions.
I had no idea what that meant but I followed another man off into a room a few feet away from the clearance booth. Before I stepped into the room, the man told me to leave my bag outside and I did so without asking why. I sat on a chair with worn out seams and watched as my passport was placed into a large manila envelope and put at the bottom of a stack of similar envelopes.
In a single moment, I felt naked, stripped of my identity as an American.
In front of me, three customs and border protection (CBP) officers sat behind a counter stacked with paper work. I looked at the clock on the wall a bit worried as I remembered my father was waiting for me. He told me he would be a half hour early to come pick me up from JFK airport.
An hour passed before one of the CBP officers asked me to come to the counter and answer a few questions: What’s your name? Where are you from? Are you Saudi Arabian? (I was born there but both my parents are Egyptian and US-naturalized citizens.) How long have you been in America?
I answered the officer’s questions and even offered two additional forms of ID I was carrying but he refused. Not once throughout this process was I told that as a U.S. citizen, I had the right to have an attorney present for any questioning which I later found out after this experience. A few minutes passed after that encounter, when I had asked to speak to my father which I described earlier and was told I couldn’t use my cellphone. After my phone call, I was still shaking and started counting lights, chairs, anything in the room to get my mind off the situation. Unfortunately, my attempt at distraction was short-lived when two African men were escorted into a room by some officers. Over the next hour, they were aggressively yelled and questioned about falsified documents they possessed. According to the officer, the falsified documents claimed the men were salesman headed to the New York International Auto show for business but were suspected of trying to enter the US illegally. Things escalated as the men refused to change their story and the officers ushered the men into an interrogation room where they were handcuffed and further pressured to tell the truth. The men refused to budge and the officers mocked them by telling them they were getting on a flight going back to their home country for refusing to cooperate.
At that point I came to the startling realization that I was being detained in a room where they questioned individuals who were suspected of trying to enter the US illegally. Why was I here? I repeatedly asked myself. I was a US citizen, a Jersey boy since the age of two.
I’m home...why won’t they accept me?
After a little over three hours, I was finally allowed to leave and as I walked over to collect my passport, I was numb. I couldn’t process all that had happened in that time. Emotionally and physically drained, I used the last bit of energy I had to inquire as to why I was put in this situation and the CBP officer told me, “Honestly…it’s your name.” This incident took place two years ago and every time I’ve come back to the U.S. from traveling abroad, I’ve been subjected to similar treatment despite having undergone an extensive background check and possessing a Global Entry card.
For three hours, my identity as an American was questioned because of my name.
Last night, Donald Trump discussed borders, terrorism, and the need for a more secure America in his speech at the Republican National Convention in Cleveland. He touted his endorsement from the National Border Patrol Council saying, “I have been honored to receive the endorsement of America’s Border Patrol Agents, and will work directly with them to protect the integrity of our lawful, lawful, lawful immigration system. Lawful.” I find it extremely ironic that he repeated the words lawful when describing these agents. I don’t believe detaining an American citizen because of his name or ethnicity qualifies as a lawful act. I don’t think forcing an American citizen to speak in English to his father who primarily speaks Arabic is lawful.
In Donald Trump’s America, what does “lawful” mean? It seems like the term would actually mean infringing on the rights of anyone considered a minority. Donald, don’t tell us you’ll fix the TSA at airports when you honestly have no clue what it’s like for myself and other minorities to get through an airport. I shouldn’t have to imagine the scared faces of young men and women as they are hauled off to a room where they’re forced to cooperate in their illegal detention and left to question their identity as Americans. If you really want to make America great again, stop preaching un-American values and make an attempt to understand the history and the message of the groups that endorse you. Advocating for a safer America does not mean allowing the discrimination of citizens based on ignorant stereotypes. I’m a Muslim American and I just want to be able to walk through an airport without feeling like I’m not American enough to call this country my home.
