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Printer Friendly Version

An Ode To A Muslim Traveller

By Dr. Nath Aldalala’a

05 October, 2011
Countercurrents.org

The plane makes its final descent from the boundless, timeless skies to the regimented zones of the airport runway. Jahan looks out at the intimidating terminal building that will in a few minutes become his existential judgement. The plane comes to a standstill; the whining engines fade against the orchestra of electronic clicks, bleeps and chimes of mobile phones coming back to life, accompanied by the huffs and puffs of human life resuming its control and individuality. The slow spilling of fatigued people from the whale’s belly was for many a release into freedom and comfort. A return to home, or the excitement of new horizons— possibly. But for some it was the birth of tragedy, the denial of hope and humanity. Jahan knew that times are harder than realities.

The watery sun streamed lazily into the arrivals hall, an amphitheatre furnished with carpets marked by millions of traces along the inflexible, defined route. On either side was virgin land, forbidden space, decorated by small Christmas trees and golden bells. Jahan’s analysis of the carpet was interrupted as he was ushered into a ‘snaking line’- a zig-zag queue that, ironically, creates its own intricate dance: after staring at the anonymous backs of people, a few steps further creates a conflict in which blank faces desperately avoid eye contact. But rather than a dance of social discourse, it is a rite of passage fraught with difficulty. It signals the start of a journey. Or perhaps the end.

For the first time in his life, Jahan is confronted with the actuality of his existence. Something he had until this moment taken for granted. Standing in the queue brought on a strange and terrible awareness, of being on a sojourn in a journey from the past to the future. The materiality of this division of time is staked out by the immigration officer, who would certainly interrogate him. The slow-moving queue resembled a strange beast, irritated but resigned to its captivity. Conflicted voices reverberate in his head: well, what will they ask me- I am sure I have done nothing wrong in my life, well, personally that is, but it is the thing to do with us all. My name is Jahan, I am from Terrorstan. But I have never committed any kind of crime; all my friends are good people. We have no mosque in our village, no cars and no radios, or any other devices that may be seen to disseminate hatred to your country. Yes, they will certainly ask what the reason is for my visit to Land-of-the-Free. I come to study, to become a doctor. Surely, that is reasonable? Well I do not recall an incident, one single incident when I met with a terrorist, or any such person. Oh, no, damn it- it is my father-in-law. Ah! no, he is not my father in law- he refused the hand of his daughter in marriage to me in the first place. That is a relief- because he is a bit religious, and that may seem.... So, in case of complications, I will tell the immigration officer that my- supposed to be – father-in-law rejected my proposal to his daughter on the grounds that I do not have a beard like him. Surely, that is good? Damn it, but I still look like Jahan. Books? Do I have any suspicious books? No, certainly, I have medical books, yes, they are medical books written by people from their country. Fortunately none of these books were written by a person from Terrorstan. That is some comfort, but I still look like Jahan.

Jahan does not move, but is propelled by the body of humanity snaking its way along the guarded route, his body responds to gestures of time and his senses are strained by the looming image of the gated line of immigration officers.

Yes, I think I have everything ready, passport in my right hand, visa stamped honourably on my passport, a return ticket, and documents from the university: everything is ready. They told me that you have to have a valid ‘reason’ and authorised documents to get to the Land-of-the-Free. Yes, I have been vetted and, my application sanctioned. I have been granted a possible existence. But, the constant question irked his mind, and diminished his humanity: was he, himself, the human, in him, if at all, valid at all?

The line sneaked back and forth, and sometimes Jahan wished it would swallow him up into oblivion. He had no desire to confront his own past, or that of his ancestors. He felt fragile, weak, and unsure, as his thoughts carried him backwards through his life to his childhood. The questions were storming his mind, transporting him from the space of his body to a void which could only be filled with present misery.

How fortunate are these young people in front of me- they do not even think to wear ties or smart outfits. They idle along in flip-flops, and I see a man hanging his shoes to his rucksack. They all have different passports, they all have different outfits, different faces, they all look different from me. In fact, I look different to me too.

As Jahan approaches the row of immigration officers- their booths resemble bunkers erected above the ground, each one linked in strength and unison by a low ribbon of glass, easy enough to leap over. But who would dare? These gates assume an impersonal power, shaking his belief in his own validity – was he to be designated a ‘qualified’ visitor, or a terrorist.

After so many questions, doubts, reflections, digressions, Jahan very close to the point of gravity thinks: “... but I am Jahan.”

Next- step forward please!
Me?
Yes ‘Sir’- You

Dr. Nath Aldalala'a- School of English Literature, Language and Linguistics
Newcastle University, Newcastle upon Tyne/ UK

 

 



 


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