We have lost the war on terrorism
I travel a great deal, by plane. I just flew down to Baltimore to visit my daughter and her family. It is a trip I take many times a year and I fly with Air Canada, because Air Canada is the only airline that flies direct. I try to arrive between one and a half and two hours ahead of time. Off to the ticket machine to retrieve my boarding pass. I was at customs within 20 minutes of my arrival where I have been known to wait for up to 90 minutes, but this time I breezed through after a few questions about the purpose of my trip.
On to the next checkpoint to hand in my declaration form regarding merchandise coming with me, said good morning, a little small talk and made my way to security. Shockingly, security was almost empty. I joined a short line that moved quickly and went to the designated table. And so began the ritual-undressing. Jacket, scarf, purse, glasses into the first bin. Carry-on bag on the table. Waiting for my turn to go through the first machine before I remove my shoes. Walked through confidently. I never beep. Ever. As I went through I got called over to the side. Oops. It must be my watch. Well, no. It was my lucky day. I was the winner of a search, as in body.I was directed to the new high-tech X-ray machine. Just walk through, hands over head, turn this way and that way. I said, no way.
Yes, I know that there is more radiation in the plane than I would receive from the ultra-modern, exceptionally expensive machine, but there is something ooey about standing in the machine, dressed, knowing that someone is looking at my naked body and that someone is a stranger. Dressed, but naked. Not for me. So I got the personal touch.
First, the lovely woman has to don her blue latex gloves. She does not appear to be happy. Then comes the wand. So I stand, arms straight out while she checks, for what I do not know. Beeping. Must be the bra. I attempt small talk but to no avail. Comedy is not appreciated, here. Then she tells me that she has to, for want of a better word, molest me. She actually asks my permission. Are you kidding? I gave up any sense of agency when I entered customs. Do I have the opportunity to say no and still make my flight? After patting down the front of me,spread your legs please, she asks me to turn around so that she can frisk the back. I’m thinking, thank God I no longer have a colostomy bag. That would be entertaining.
Not done yet. Lift each foot. I am barefoot. What could I possibly be hiding under or on my naked feet? Then I am asked to go to another counter to have my hands checked. I upset the poor woman when I returned to my clothes to get my shoes. I don’t particularly enjoy walking around public places with naked feet. Once we established the fact that I had no intention of fleeing the area, grabbed my shoes and went to the next stop. Blue wand over hands. Checking for remnants of bomb materials. Passed. Now it is time to get dressed, again and collect my things. Good thing I came early.
Intellectually I understood the frisking, but it left me uneasy. I am a Canadian, born and bred. I am 61 years old and the grandmother of seven. by the time you read this, I might be a grandmother of eight. Do I look at all like a terrorist? I don’t stand out in a crowd. I had just walked through customs where I had smiled and laughed. I had walked through security without a care in the world. No sweat on my brow. So why choose me? I have been chosen before for a “random “check. This was after 9/11 but before they came up with all these new machines to invade your privacy. I have been invited into American customs, Part Two. It is a small room. A large counter. No one there. Ask for assistance and you are told no talking. Great. I have been tapped just prior to entering the walkway to the airplane, pulled aside for a few more questions, just randomly, of course. But this was different. I was angry.
There is a desk just after the security check and a young man was there who looked as if he were waiting for people like me. His name was Justin. I told him I had a comment, not a complaint. I had been treated courteously. But I was annoyed that I was picked. Random or not. Being pulled over is an invasion of privacy. It is trespassing on boundaries. And what did I do to be pulled over except that I am flying. I understood his explanation.Anyone can be a terrorist. There is no racial profiling in Canada. But there seems to be a total lack of profiling at all. I had met and spoken to and shown my passport to the guard at the entrance to American customs, the customs officer, the guard who took my customs form, beside whom was another American agent, at least two people at security before the undressing ritual and then two people who watched me walk under the first machine. If anyone had seen something unusual would I not have been pulled over? With so many people interacting with me, I cannot believe that so many random checks are required. According to Justin machines are programmed to randomly select people to be sent to a particular station where all are scrutinized. For a slow day, there were plenty of people at my station.
We are all being held hostage to terrorism. It is in the name of safety and security. But I don’t feel any safer or more secure going through this. If they are spending so much time on me and others who act like me,how is that supposed to assure me?
Something terrible has happened to us. In the name of security, or the way it is handled here, in Canada, we are losing our freedoms bit by bit. We say nothing. Don’t want to rock the boat. Perhaps it is becoming a sin of omission.My grandchildren have grown up post 9/11. They have no idea of how life was lived before we were taught to fear almost everything. I’d like to say that I have a solution. I don’t. I only know, or feel, that what is happening is wrong in so many levels. I know that we will not be safe until all people love life more than death but in the meantime we must find ways to be safe without giving up our personal dignity and the basic freedoms we had once upon a time.
