Airport Blues

This fictional account of being detained at an airport is inspired by an incident where 12 Muslims were arrested from an airplane and detained at Schipol Airport because they were "behaving suspiciously".


"Next," he said in an even tone. There was a quite menace in his voice as he stared hard at me. He was a big man, well over six feet and strongly built; the broad shoulders and barell chest made him look like a puffed up pigeon strutting about with a certain disdain. A sidearm, snug in its holster, adorned his considerable waist. The multi coloured medals on his chest indicated that this was no ordinary security official. The airport was swarming with security personnel armed to the teeth.

Ever since an alleged plot to blow up 10 airliners was uncovered, security had been further tightened at airports across the world. No chances could be taken in these uncertain times. Anyone with brown skin, or a beard, or with a different accent or suspicious looking was not to be trusted. After all you are either with "them" or with "us", no questions asked, and certainly no answers given.

I was next and as I approcahed him I noticed that there were electronic gadgets on the table beside him. I stepped through a metal detector which beeped with what sounded like sadistic pleasure. I was unsure about what it meant, was I carrying something offensive or was I all clear? I looked at the man. He fixed me with a steely glare. I raised my eyebrows as if to indicate 'what now'? he gestured for me to step forward towards him, which I did.

"Raise your arms." I held my hands out horizontally at shoulder level as he patted me down. His hands did a slow waltz up and down the front and back of my body. He felt a bulge when he groped my ass. I took out my wallet and handed it over. He opened it and examined the contents. Out came currency notes, visiting cards, a telephone diary, some coins, bank statements, credit cards, a packet of condoms and more. I tried not to show my embarrasment. I wondered if people in the queues beside mine were undergoing similar indignations. His fingers felt my front pocket. "What is this," he growled. "Cellphone," I answered timidly as I gave it up for scrutiny. It went through the X-ray machine behind him. I wondered if the machine could damage my phone. But, the ordeal was far from over.

I had a knapsack which I intended to take into the plane with me. This would never pass through airport security unopened. Sure enough, he asked me to open my bag. It did not matter that it had already been through the all-seeing X-ray machine. I wondered if others in the queue had to undergo similar treatment. He asked me if I was carrying toothpaste, shaving cream, hair gel or any other form of liquid in my bag as he roughly pried open the front zip. My toilet case contained all the offending items. "Yes," I said resignedly. He looked at me with a mixture of triumph and lingering suspicion, as if his fears had been confirmed. The bag was emptied and the contents were on the table: toilet case, assorted pieces of clothing, flight ticket, passport and identification documents, the latest thriller by Frederick Forsyth, which I intended to read on the flight, an i-pod and CD player and some CD's. The toilet case was opened and the contents spilled out. He shook his head as he separated the offending items. "You will have to put these in your check in luggage." I had already checked in my luggage, so that was not possible. I said so. "Well in that case...," he took the shampoo, toothpaste tube, shaving gel, moisturizing lotion and deodarant and put them aside. I couldn't take these onto the plane. I felt a hot tide of anger rising inside me. My cheeks flushed red. "Listen, you just checked these items yourself. They are harmless. You cannot do this." He continued examining the bag as if he had not heard me. Each of the other items was carefully scrutinized. The clothes were opened out and dusted, the pages of the book were flipped in rapid succession, the CD covers were opened and the CDs checked and the i-pod and CD player put through the machine. Finally, he turned his attention to my passport. He stared hard at my mug shot and then stared at me. It had been a while since the photo was taken. He returned his attention to the mug shot. He then looked at the ticket. It was to Bombay. "Wait here," he barked, as he confered with his pals.

I looked around and noticed that other travellers in my queue were being waved on after a cursory examination. Seemed like I was the only one being singled out for extra checks. But then I was the only brown skinned man in this crowd of whites. Why me? Did I look like I was about to blow myself up? I was clean shaven, hell I was not even a muslim, but then I didn't expect this man to tell the difference on the basis of my name. All that mattered was that my skin colour was dark, too dark for comfort.

He turned around and asked me to follow him. What now? He led the way to a room close by. There were three men sitting around a brown table. The man at the head of the table was smoking a camel and the others were holding styrofoam cups of steaming coffee. My man asked me to take a seat. He seated himself next to me. The interrogation began.

"What was your business here?"

"How long did you stay here?"

"Why are you carrying liquid items in your baggage?"

"Are you aware these are banned?"

I looked at the man seated opposite me. It was apparent from the deference that the others showed him that he was the chief officer here. He slowly blew out a thick puff of smoke. "I came here to visit my ailing aunt." I could see that they were not convinced. They stared at me, then stared at each other, as if unsure of what to say next. All my papers were in order and they had nothing incriminating on me. So I pressed on, "My luggage was checked by this gentleman here," I gestured towards my man, "And everything is in order. Why am I being detained?"

The chief shifted uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat, "We have had bomb threats at this airport before and just wanted to make sure..." I was livid. "Oh, so you detain me because I not a white. Or is it because I look like an Arab," I yelled. I had had enough of this bullshit. I was not going to stand for it anymore. It was bad enough that I was subjected to what I suspect was racial profiling. The thought of missing my flight upset me even more.

"No that is not the case," said the chief brusquely. "We pick out random people from the queue and subject them to checks." Random people, yeah right.

They let me go after a few more desultory questions. As I walked out of the room and rejoined the queue I realized that I was luckier than the 12 Muslims who had been detained at Amsterdam because they were behaving suspiciously.

An announcement rings out on the PA system in a sonourous voice: "Flight No. Dlt 213 is ready to fly to Bombay, passengers are requested to check-in."