During the brief window in early January wherein the British skies enabled a slight easing of the transportation backlog, I departed Heathrow, though not without some delay. Subsequent to the botched and, it would seem, rather pathetic attempt to bring down Northwest Airlines Flight 253 on Boxing Day, the theatre of security was pushing for an Emmy. Having relinquished my belt, my watch, the contents of my pockets, my shoes, my laptop, my jacket and the final shred of my waning patience, I still required a patting down (but not, notably, of the nether region). And yet, as I approached the gate, stood, as always, on the other side of the terminal, I was subject to another security check on account, I was told, of it being a flight to the United States. The security team seemed rather disinterested by the time I arrived, labouring with my documents even though they've seen 299 other passengers with the same thing. Not only that but I was also told to, once again, remove my shoes and my laptop. One of those silent, bored, morose, cleanly-shaven security men slid his grimy hand along this very keyboard as if it was a drinks cabinet, searching for the elusive dint through which havoc may break. I felt like making a joke but refused.
At last, I was on my way.
Passing through, as I usually do, Houston airport customs and excise, I was approached by a sniffer dog along with her trainer, a squat fat woman whose standard issue, two-piece brown smock made her the potential subject of a Harry Enfield sketch featuring The Twats. This is pretty common. The dog never pays much attention to me though and would do even less were it not for the fatty tugging it around. Later, as we all absurdly collect our baggage only to deposit it again fifteen feet away (though through a glass partition), I queued to hand over my completed customs declaration. Unusually, a security bloke was passing down the line asking random (or was it?) people to hand over their sheet to be pre-checked. He approached me and asked me where I was heading and what my purpose in the US was, but not before asking me how long I'd been in the country, which seemed to render the later question meaningless. Our friend, Michael Totten wrote about this very topic over Christmas. On the subject of profiling:
“Does anyone in Lebanon know you’re here?” they usually ask me. They’ve also asked if I’ve ever met with anyone in Hezbollah. I am not going to lie during an airport security interview, especially not when the answer can be easily found using Google. They know I’ve met with Hezbollah. That’s why my luggage gets hand-searched one sock at a time while elderly tourists from Florida skate through. I can’t say I enjoy this procedure, but I don’t take it personally, and it makes a lot more sense than letting me skate through while grandma’s luggage is hand-searched instead.There is, however, no system. There should be. Ted Kennedy found himself on the no fly list in 2004 and, as you probably heard, Joan Rivers was held back recently because her passport looked fishy. Overkill? Underkill. As Totten writes, concerning alleged terrorist, Nigerian Umar Farouk "Pants Bomber" Abdulmutallab:
[He] did not have a passport, did not have any luggage, and bought a one-way ticket with cash. His name is in a database of possible terrorists.The suggestion then is that criteria are avoided. May I postulate that this arises through fear of racial profiling? And yet, my experience in Houston was different.
I was flying on January 3rd, less than ten days after the failed terrorist attack over the Atlantic. In front of me in the line was a black man, shorter than myself but well built. He was young and looked pretty slick: kempt hair and a diamond stud in each ear, jeans and a dark blazer, dark suitcase, and a dark carry-on. After my new-found friend from customs handed back my materials he approached the man in front.
Where are you from?
Nigeria.
Not the best start, I thought.
What is your final destination?
The United States.
Where in the United States?
Here. Houston.
What's the purpose of you stay here?
Just visiting some friends.
Our security man scrawled something in black marker on the guy's customs slip and handed it back. I couldn't read what it said but it's purpose was pretty clear and immediate. As we reached the front of the line the Nigerian chap only had to flash his card towards the steward before he was forcefully directed towards a room with only one entrance and no windows. As I walked passed I glanced in. I saw rows of chairs filled with veiled women and black men, some Mexicans. I've been in one of these rooms before in Phoenix. Even as a young, sprightly, dashing and handsome white British male I was encased in that God-awful room for over four hours while, in front of me, victim after victim were sent on planes home. It's not an engagement I wish to repeat, I can tell you. Profiling? It's a tricky one. I'll leave the final word to Michael Yon, author of Moment of Truth in Iraq.
Got arrested at the Seattle airport for refusing to say how much money I make. (The uniformed ones say I was not “arrested”, but they definitely handcuffed me.) Their videos and audios should show that I was polite, but simply refused questions that had nothing to do with national security. Port authority police eventually came — they were professionals — and rescued me from the border bullies. . . . When they handcuffed me, I said that no country has ever treated me so badly. Not China. Not Vietnam. Not Afghanistan. Definitely not Singapore or India or Nepal or Germany, not Brunei, not Indonesia, or Malaysia, or Kuwait or Qatar or United Arab Emirates. No county has treated me with the disrespect that can be expected from our border bullies.
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