Newspaper Page Text
In short, there was nothing I could do. Any hopes of revers
ing the Immigration Officer's decision died right there. The
only bright spot (and this was still a rather murky one) was
that I was told that this denial could not be used against me
in the event I decided to plan another trip into the UK.
Upon hanging up the phone, I slunk back to my dorm room
and plopped myself down on the cot. It was over. We were get
ting sent back, and there was nothing anyone could do about
it.
■ cursed the noisy Arabic chatter that filled the room and
proceeded to lay prone for the next eight hours, skipping
the lunchtime cafeteria visit altogether.
When dinnertimo came around at 6 p.m., I decided to make
a go of it, heading over to Block 31 with my fellow detainees.
Despite it being Tuesday night and me not having eaten any
thing substantial since the in-flight meal on Sunday night, I
still felt not particularly hungry, but was curious to see what
amenities would be provided.
The cafeteria contained what must have been all 400
detainees in the center, although I swear more people were
continuously pouring in and then out of the room. I took my
tray and plastic silverware, pointed like everyone else in line to
my choice of entree (one marked with a cartoon cow, another
a cartoon bunch of vegetables) and settled down for a spicy
Indian-style dish of ground burger meat and green peas with
mushy mixed vegetables, mashed potatoes with brown gravy
and a formless blob of chocolate cake for dessert.
I could only manage half of my food portion (mostly the
potatoes), deposited my tray in the appropriate spot, and
headed back to dorm Block 20, section 3.
When I returned, some of my Muslim dorm-mates were
conducting their evening prayers, which I watched passively,
but with interest. This interest was noted by one of the par
ticipants, who cdled to me in broken English, "What country
you are from?" "America. U.S.A.," I answered. This unexpected
reply seemed to get quite a charge out of my new neighbor. He
smiled and called over again, "You like Bush? President Bush?
He is good man, yes?"
"No, not a good man," I answered. My Muslim friend smiled
again and continued "No, not good. He is BAD man, terrible
man. You good man. Come here, I will make you a Muslim."
Such was my introduction to the Arabic contingent that
dominated the room. The gentleman who called me over was
Khalid, a 25-year-old native of Afghanistan who had been
working illegally in England for about five years.
His English was the best of the eight or nine others I sat
with and he would often translate on the other speaker's
behalf. We talked about the U.S. invasion of Afghanistan,
about 9-11 and the possibility of the tragedy being an inside
job that had sparked a war against Islam.
Khalid seemed pleased that many (most) Americans hated
Bush and that a new president was only two months from tak
ing office ("Yes, the black man. He is Muslim, yes?").
I was told that I would be transported back to Manchester
airport at least six hours before my flight was to depart. My
last hours at Oakington were spent conversing with Khalid,
Roman, Ahmir and a few other Arabic men.
It was interesting to hear about how Afghan residents like
Khalid and Roman were directly affected by the United States'
actions against their country, how nearly 10 times as many
Afghan civilians had been killed, versus those that died in the
fall of the twin towers.
Ahmir was an Iranian, exactly the same age as myself and
joked that we should switch passports. "You are musician, yes?
You go to Iran and I will go to U.S.A.! America and Iran very
friendly!"
I played along, "Oh, yeah. So, I should go to Iran and play
music, huh?" I said, miming the motions of an electric guitar.
"Yes, yes." Ahmir also strummed away at an invisible guitar,
then abruptly stopped and smiled. "You will get killed!"
When the security guards came to get me, I opened up
my lone bag of luggage and extracted three Cars Can Be Blue
t-shirts and presented them to Khalid, Roman and Ahmir,
thanking them for their kindness. Ahmir was to be deported
back to Iran the next day, making him the first and only
Iranian with a CCBB shirt. Hopefully, it won't get him killed.
n was coming up on midnight as I was once again patted
down and put back on the van. I once again signed for
my valuables, reluctantly returned my photo ID card,
and after a final bit of paperwork, was headed back towards
Manchester airport, back to the holding room at Terminal 2.
The ride back was uneventful, although eerily silent. I paid
more attention to the roadways on this trip, as it would be
the only British sites I'd be seeing before I got back on the
airplane.
As we trundled into Manchester I tried my best to look
around at the shops and streetlife we passed, wondering where
our Manchester shows had been booked, which streets we
would have walked down. We stopped at a Manchester police
station, or prison, judging by the gates we passed through. It
was hard to believe this was merely a precinct house.
The van door opened and there was Becky standing in front
of me. She sat down beside me on the van's bench seat and she
absolutely reeked of body odor. Her stench was ungodly and
when I made a face indicating as such, she shouted "I've been
in solitary confinement!"
Her experience made me feel like I'd just returned from
Club Med (or rather, Club Ahmed). She told me that her room
contained nothing but a slot for food to be shoved through, a
toilet and a sleeping mat that may as well have been the floor.
No shower, no toiletry kit, no cafeteria, no visitors and no
shoelaces. They made her take the shoelaces out of her sneak
ers, and after all that wasn't even allowed to wear her shoes
inside the cell.
We arrived back at Terminal 2 and were greeted with more
good news, that our transference from the van to the airport
would require Becky and I to be wearing handcuffs, so we got
shackled and led into the airport area just as the sun was com
ing up.
The cuffs only lasted for our short walk back to Terminal 2's
detainee lounge, after which we were given another pat-down
and once again let back behind the plexiglass to our break-
room holding quarters, although the television was now merci
fully switched off.
B ecky and I had both grown somewhat accustomed to our
incarceration by this point and thought nothing of cheek
ily demanding ham and egg-salad sandwiches, along with
orange squash and cocoa from the drink dispenser.
I guess we figured that $750 apiece ought to at least buy
us some hors d'ouevres. And so we waited, scheming our way
towards re-entry. We figured if we could nab two more round-
trip tickets and then fly into a London airport, we might stand
a chance of only missing two shows on the tour, provided we
could fly back in on the 28th or sooner.
Thanksgiving would likely make air travel a bit tricky, but
if the denial couldn't be held against us, we weren't gonna be
beaten that easily.
We napped on the hard, lumpy benches and were awoken
for boarding a little after 9 a.m. Unsurprisingly, another pat-
down frisking commenced, another X-ray scan of our pathetic
luggage. The British staff at American Airlines seemed to be
regarding us a bit warily, although it was nice to hear one of
our security handlers stand up for us and correct the airline
staff, saying that "we weren't being deported," because that
would have required actually being allowed IN the country
first.
O ur flight departed at 10:30 a.m., and we were glumly
heading back to America. Becky and I didn't have much to
say to each other, besides comparing my considerably bet
ter treatment (all things considered) to hers.
Upon arriving in Chicago, it quickly became obvious that we
were, in fact, going to be haunted by this incident. Upon see
ing the mark of denial upon our passports, now it seemed we
would be subjected to body searches and baggage checks along
every step of the way back INTO America.
Due to this heightened scrutiny, we were the very last pas
sengers to board our flight to Atlanta (considering that getting
to our appropriate terminal required a tram ride, I feared that
if we hadn't jogged through the airport terminal we may have
missed our flight). Now, every appointed security checkpoint
person in America was giving us a hard time, which required us
having to distill our story into the briefest possible recounting.
And that was that. Our plane arrived back in Atlanta and
the whole experience was already beginning to wash away from
us, a weird distant nightmare that was already fading. Calling
a trusted friend for a ride, my feelings were mostly shame
and embarrassment. I was supposed to return a conqueror, an
international hero, but instead I just felt tike a schmuck who
should have had his ducks in a row before embarking on an
overseas voyage.
H indsight is definitely 20/20, and I am confident that
a valuable lesson was learned. At present, I have no
idea when or if I will return to Britain, but I'm worried
that this ordeal may tarnish future interactions with British
Immigration. All I can say to those in bands who may be con
sidering overseas touring: Make damn sure you have your shit
straight before you get on that plane!
Nate Mitchell
Cars Can Be Blue
Your School Band and Orchestra Headquarters
706-353-0802 OPEN
8849 Macon Hwy weekdays 11 - 6
Athens/Oconee Saturdays 11 - 5
DECEMBER 17,2008 • FLAGP0LE.COM 23