American border post

I have previously mentioned about Nam, my colleague in my temporary contract position. Things have been a little slow since I started here and we made small conversations on whatever came in our minds to pass time. We spoke about turmoil in Libya where the long time ruler Gaddafi had just been killed by the rebels. Nam didn't seem much interested. Possibly he figured out I had little sympathy for tyrants. Many Muslims had sympathy for Muslim born tyrants like Gaddafi and Saddam, I didn't. If they were wronged by USA or any other powerful countries they deserved it – that’s my opinion. Anyway, our discussions eventually and almost inevitably turned to USA. I have lived in USA for many years and had mixed feelings. However, Nam seemed to be quite agitated when the topic came up. He has been working as a contractor for several years as well and in his previous job travelled to USA to provide service to the clients of his employer. As we spoke about his experience with the clients in USA he looked annoyed and slightly disturbed.

"I tell you, this Americans has no respect for others." He stated.

This wasn't something I heard for the first time but I was curious to know what his reason to get to that conclusion was. Everybody who felt that way had their reasons. "What they do?" I innocently asked.

"They give me hard time every time I go across the border." He caresses his short beard. "They look at my religion, my beard and decide that I must be planning something sinister. Every time I go. This Americans...!"

"What really happened?" I persist. "Did they send you for interrogation? Something like that happened to me once. We had just moved to Canada from USA. We were going back to get some of the stuff that we left behind. The guy at the post sent us to the main building where we queued with hundreds of people and finally they interviewed my wife, not me." I wasn't particularly sour about it. Waiting in the queue to see the agent was painful (I hate waiting like every other North American) but rest went well. After that I never had any particular issue with border agents. I offered the details to Nam to warm him up a little bit so that he would share his story with me.

Nam opened up a little more. "See, one of my friends came from Kazakhstan, my country, you remember, and he was staying in Niagara falls. He called me up and asked me to come see him there. In the American side. I drove to the Niagara Falls border post and they won't let me in. Can you believe?"

"Why not? Just because of the beard?"

"Well not really. See, I forgot where my friend was staying. I mean, he told me but I sort of forgot. I kept calling him so that I could get the information from him but he wasn't picking up his phone."

"Why not?"

"It was dead. He forgot to charge it. We were talking on my way to Niagara Falls and suddenly it went dead. I couldn't reach him anymore. Now, this agent keeps asking me which hotel he was staying. I told him I forgot but I had his cell phone number and once I went in I was going to call him up and find out. He won't listen. He kept on saying he can't let me in unless I can tell them where I was going."

"Who else were with you?"

"I was going alone. I know, I am a young man travelling alone, don't know where my friend staying - it all look very SUSPICIOUS. But I offered him my cell phone, the call record, all my papers and ids - nothing worked. He won't let me in. Can you believe? I drove two hours from Toronto for nothing."

"What was he saying?"

"He called his manager. The manager scrambles through all my documents for half an hour and said exactly what the agent said."

"What did he say?"

"Find out where your friend stays and come back. We'll let you get in."

"Now what? What did you do?"

"What can I do? I had to turn around. Two hours later my friend calls me and tells me about his cell phone dying. I get his hotel name but I can't go back again. I haven't seen him for five years. I really wanted to meet him. This Americans! I tell you."

"Why didn't you just wait for a little longer in Niagara Falls?" I inquired. I probably would have done so, hoping my friend to charge his cell phone or find another phone and call me on my cell phone. After all I was coming to see him.

"I couldn't." Nam shrugged. "I had to return the car."

"What car?"

"Well, my car was having some engine issues. I had to take it to a mechanic. The mechanic said it would take him two more days. So I was driving my friend’s car. He needed the car back before evening. I didn't want to take any risk."

I was shocked. "You were driving your friend's car?"

"Yeah. And those idiots made a big deal out of that. The agent keeps saying why you are driving your friend's car? Where is your friend? I said, what do you mean? I can't drive my friend's car? If he let me drive his car why you care?"

It took me a few moments to take in this new information. Finally I summarized," So, you are a young Muslim bearded man, driving a car that was owned by one of your friends, trying to go through the border post to see a Muslim friend and you didn't know where he was staying." 

"Big deal. I told them - why would I lie? I gave them all my papers. I drove four hours for nothing. I hate to go there. Racists!"

I exhale quietly. I like Nam. I don't want to risk alienating him. I move my head in a way that neither qualifies as a nod nor as a shake.  

   

In a full circle

I joined back one of my favorite clients recently, in a contracting mandate. I left them sometime in 2008. Things were going quite well. I was working as a contractor, making reasonable money. I liked the environment, very international with people who spoke much thicker English than I did, making me feel quite a bit superior – something that rarely comes while you make money. Anyway, like all good things my days here had come to an end abruptly. My contract extension was all set for another six months however the Director who managed the group got promoted and sent to take care of bigger and better things while we got stuck with a new MBA graduate (was already an employee) who unilaterally decided not to extend any contracts for the time being. Three days from contract ending I learned this and was quite disturbed. Usually it takes couple of weeks to find a new contract. Manager was a Srilankan gentleman, much younger than me, and tried his best to push the contract through. That didn’t go too far.

Anyway, since I left I went through several other jobs – contracts and full time, from downtown Toronto to uptown, had a very stressful stint in management, made many friends, most much younger than me, quit twice as I felt the jobs weren’t going to lead me to anywhere – not to money, not to position, and finally after some stroke of luck came back here for another short contract to start with. They love me, I love them. I just don’t want to settle in a full time position for less money and more work. There’s high hope in my mind that this time getting extensions won’t be an issue – there’s plenty of work. I have expertise in two different areas; one of them should hit the target.

This new episode with my old company started this Fall. Noticed several changes. Some of my colleagues have opted for working from home and were only allowed to come to the building twice a week. There are many cubes with two nametags, time shared. I don’t see them most of the time. I did not get a cube either. The company is running short of cubes as two different floors were merged into one. I got a desk on a side corridor, one of many in the spread out floor, near the main passage. This is unusual but not totally out of the world. Has happened to me before once in my 17 years carrier in North America. Like most things this seemingly oblique situation came with something good as well. I got to meet Nam (not his real name) who was sharing the same desk with me. He is here since June and settled in the corridor. Originally from Kazakhstan, he is a mild mannered man. Possibly of my age or little younger he wears a short beard, dresses nicely in office cloths, speaks softly and receives constant phone calls on his cell phone. I am one of those unfortunates who start any acquaintance with doubt, dislike and suspicion. Trust is a very late addition in my dictionary. But Nam seems to be a likable guy. I have particularly become soft when he explained how Russians generally segregated Turkish born compatriots when Kazakhstan was part of Soviet Union. His last name was Hajiev – something that I found curious and inquired about his religion which I found to be Islam - as I guessed. He mentioned something interesting. In Soviet Union the government was forcing Muslims to add -ev at the end of their last name to make them sound more Russian. After separation many were changing their last name to –me from –ev  (like Hajiyev to Hajime).