Saturday was one of those perfect summer days, in Budapest, when one could easily reach down and touch a rock without having to reflect on its philosophical quiddity: a rock is a rock, the sun is hot and the train is late because it's Saturday.
But reality, philosophy and human nature can, sometimes, find a way to intrude into one's life on the most laid-back of days. There are things that happen that make one wonder if life is really a lottery or, is someone actually tinkering around with all those numbers, permutations and combinations of infinite possibilities? In one tick of the second hand, I was thrust from a state of relaxed randomness into that murky world of metaphysics.
Still musing and a little disturbed about what I had just, recently, seen, I stepped back onto Andrassy Street. There, the third day of unseasonable 90 degree temperatures was beginning to take its toll: forcing me to slow down, stop; take a drink from my bottle of water. Through the window of the travel agency office, I saw something on the wall that caught my attention. Still reflecting on what I had just seen, my eyes slowly turned to a woman seated at a desk negotiating with a travel agent. Seated next to her was a teenage boy, who, from his body language, I took to be her son. I was about to continue on my way, when I was struck by the boy's mode of dress. I began to wonder how many people in Budapest, Prague or Paris had ever given thought about where this popular fashion among the world's youth, now popular with teenagers and young adults originated. They walk with their jeans hanging down, exposing what was once, euphemistically, called "the plumbers crease," and basketball shoes, with the laces left untied, loose baggy Tee shirts often worn backwards and inside out and a red or blue bandana wrapped around the top of the head.
I began to chuckle to myself because I knew where the style which has now evolved into haute couture among teenagers worldwide, had its genesis, and I was sure that no one within 5,000 miles could even make the wildest guess to its origin. Some of us who were not already adults 30-to-35 years ago might incorrectly assume that the style, at one point called "grunge" came from Seattle, as a mode of dress that wannabe skateboarders, lacking the requisite emblematic recklessness and fondness for injury, could don to walk around "posing" as skateboarders, perhaps even having a skateboard to cruise on from school-to pizza shop-to home. But, that would be wrong. I've mentioned this because, recently, I had time to reflect on all this as I stood in a small locked room at New York's JFK, holding the front of my pants with one hand so they wouldn't fall down below my waist... or worse, while shuffling around in shoes whose laces had been removed.
I wasn't feeling at all stylish, however. I knew that it was from similar situations that the style, albeit, grunge, first made its debut. It came from Brooklyn: the deepest and most remote parts of Brooklyn where the term "gentrification" is still an alien concept, at best, meaning to get dressed up to go out on Saturday night. It began when John was arrested for knocking down some poor old lady and snatching her purse containing the few dollars left from her welfare check after paying off the local grocer who told her the sum she owed from the ledger he keeps (for his eyes only) under the counter: paying him first insures that she will eat for the next few weeks even if the price of her purchases amounts to usury.
For that old woman and others like her, paying off the local bodegero on time maintains her good credit rating and the privilege to purchase more goods at twice the price of a supermarket. Or, it might have begun with Jose, who was mistakenly arrested for the crime because, to the frightened old lady, Jose looked like John. In Brooklyn, there were and continue to be many Johns and Joses whose stories begin with their arrests. In the holding cell, there are, also: Willes, Rafas, Miguels, Malcolms, Jorges, Ephraims and, Bad Dogs whose real names are Roger (they take on street name like Bad Dog for self protection), and perhaps 10 or 20 other young men, all standing up. Because there is no room to sit, they stand, holding their pants so they don't fall down: standing in "Converse" high tops (white in the summer, black in the winter), minus their laces. Later, "Tims" or Timberlains would alternate with the basketball shoes as a fashion statement in winter. (One side effect of this switch in fashion was that many non-ethnic types would stop buying Timberlains for fear of loosing them at knife point in a lonely subway car ...in Brooklyn, which has the distinction of having the highest murder rate in the City.)
The awkwardness of their dress was a result of by-the-book police standard operating procedures. However, not giving these young men back their belts and laces when they are released for lack of evidence, etc., was a result of pure calculated meanness. So, back to the block shuffled: John, Jose, Willy, Rafa, Miguel, Malcom, Jorge, Ephraim and Roger (who calls himself Bad Dog for self protection) each one holding his pants up with one hand while at the same time walking with a swagger and a mean look on the face to minimize the effect of appearing as a potential victim. Think for a moment: running -- and running fast, is a basic mode of survival in the neighborhood; no one can run very fast without laces in their shoes while at the same time holding up their pants. Instead, they swagger with a streetwise insouciance. The looks on their faces' convey a message, "That's right, I just got out of the joint where they beat me to the point of death and, I still wouldn't confess to the murder, so they had to let me go. But, you know I did it and if you **** with me, I'll do the same thing to you!"
Imagine the powerful effect it had on the neighborhood youths seeing these guys returning to the street after their encounters with the authorities, especially, on the affect of young men with books in their hands on their way to school. "Man, that guy is bad to the bone!" The next day, the subway and City buses are full of young men holding books with one hand while holding their pants--minus a belt--with the other, slogging in laceless Converse high tops. (Later, the laces would return, albeit untied, because of the simple exigency of walking without stepping out of one's shoes.) They sported a mean face that said, "That's right, I did it, and if you are not cool, you are going to find out how bad I really am!" It didn't take long for non ethnic types from the City and its environs to have co-opted and cloned the look, but with an added touch. "That's right; you see the cast on my right arm and on my left wrist? Well, not they, nor the bandage on my skull, are going to stop me from competing, this Saturday, at the skateboarding tournament in Scarsdale."
I can think of some pretty strange things when I am under stress, and, as odd as it may seem, those were my thoughts as I sat in the "interview" room in JFK as I waited for my "official" hosts. Maybe it was the heat in the room or, maybe, it was the similarity of the interview room with the one I had seen earlier that summer, on Andrassy St. It was hot. The street and the buildings were radiating heat. I remember that I had a reason to come into town early that morning before going to my appointment at the travel agency. My friend, Ali, had suggested that I go and visit Budapest's newest museum, The 'House of Terrors'. It had once been the headquarters of the Hungarian Communist Party's secret police and security apparatus, the ÁVH (Állam Védelmi Hatòság).
Now, it had been reopened for public view as a reminder for those whose memories needed it. There, all the tools of interrogation were displayed: "Diving Boards," upon which prisoners were strapped then held submerged until they thought they were about to drown, then brought out to face further questions. If the answers were not acceptable to the interviewers, the poor soul would be submerged, again and again. There were implements that were used to administer electric shock, chairs were prisoners were bound in painful positions and then held there for hours, or even days; windowless cells no bigger than a closet where there wasn't enough space to sit much less lie down. Some cells resembled shower stalls complete with a shower head and metal rings in the wall which held the chains connected to the handcuffs of interviewees who, shackled from behind, had their arms raised up into unimaginable and excruciatingly painful position.
On the walls were photographs of the hooded interviewers. They were called "Pufajkas," so-called because when they came to get their victim at their home, whether late at night or in the early morning hours, they came in black Russian Ladas or Volgas, and wore heavy woolen surplus Russian Army World War II overcoats-- Pufkajka. All of these instruments of pain and torture had one purpose: to elicit a confession. More often than not, the interviewee had no hint of what the charges against him/her were. The Pufajkas may have gotten a tip from one of his or her neighbors that had reported that s/he was listening to banned western radio broadcasts. Or, a tip may have come from a disgruntled student and card-carrying Party member ruing over a poor grade, that such and such professor had made anti-Soviet remarks in class. Perhaps, the offender had failed to show up at a political rally, a sure sign of bourgeois and counter revolutionary sympathies. The truth of the charges never mattered. The only thing that mattered once you were in the hands of the secret police was the confession.
I didn't stay long in the House of Terrors, even though inside it was cool. My body was thankful for the few minutes of respite from the sun, but my mind preferred the heat to what it was being asked to contemplate. It didn't matter that I would be early for my appointment, I had to leave. Anyway, I understood what Ali had meant for me to understand. The message was clear. There was no need to stay any longer.
Thinking back, I started to get a feeling that things weren't right a few minutes after my plane took off from Budapest. As soon as the "Fasten Seat Belts" sign went out, I remember getting up and making my way to the toilet, nearly stumbling over the woman and her young daughter who were seated next to me as I squeezed myself toward the aisle. However, when I returned, instead of the woman and her daughter, two young men, one white the other, not, were sitting in the two seats next to mine.
Instinct took over immediately; I began to assess the situation at light speed. They wore similar suits, one black the other, not, which one might associate with someone making less than $50 thousand a year and they shared the same bad taste in ties. I knew immediately that I was in trouble, when I asked the young man next to me if he was going to New York City, and he drawled, "Yes suh!" That's when I looked down at their feet and right above their well polished Class A's, I noticed a similar bulge above both of their inside left ankles. I blinked hard and decided to forego the 12 hours of non stop movies, choosing, instead, to read my pocket size copy of the U.S. Constitution which I have always carried like a trusted companion in anticipation of just this type of occasion.
I did it for show: to look like I was occupied in thought. In truth, I didn't need it since, long ago, I had committed it to memory. However, I realized that if I sat back and closed my eyes and began moving my lips, I might have found myself in restraints. "Better," I thought, "to pretend that I was reading." The flight went by uneventfully. Every now and then, I noticed that the young man on the aisle seat would covertly nod to the young woman sitting in the same row seat across the aisle. She was dressed as if she had gone to the same school as the young men seated next to me... and probably had. Otherwise, I ate well not knowing when I would be able to eat again and abstained from any drinks containing alcohol. I had this awful feeling which told me that I was going to need a clear head. At Kennedy, I lost sight of my three traveling companions for a few minutes as I wended my way to the baggage retrieval section.
I had almost convinced myself, that I had been fretting for naught and that all was well with the world. But, as my eyes focused on the luggage rolling in, my companions suddenly reappeared. Each of the two young men grabbed one of my arms and warned me to keep my hands in my pockets and to come with them. They must have assumed in advance that I wasn't carrying any weapons because of all the security which now surrounds each airline flight. They announced that they were Special Agents from the Department of Homeland Security. "Special Agents," I thought, "a few years ago they would have said that they were U.S. Marshals or FBI, Now it's Special Agents, Homeland Security." The woman, whom I had previously surmised was with them, asked me for my baggage claim ticket and told me that she would retrieve it and bring it to me. All around, there were the sounds of "Ooohs, and Aaaws...” coming from my fellow passengers; with looks that were not disguised, but clearly showed that they already believed that I was guilty for whatever I was being detained. Plainly, some sneered as if they wanted me dead as payment for 9/11. I was beginning to feel a little nauseated, my knees felt weak and I needed to go to the bathroom.
I was taken to a small office deep within the airport complex and after being asked a few clipped and routine questions:
"Is your name Luis Quelle? Are you an American citizen? Where are you coming from? Why have you been gone so long? Have you been to the Middle East?"
I was searched, had my belt and shoelaces removed and asked to empty my pockets and place all my papers, personal possessions and valuables into a manila envelope which I noticed had my name already typed on it. "That's good ol' American efficiency," I mused to myself as I was escorted into a small adjacent "Interview" room where I was told to wait. Just before being led into the room, I turned around and asked the man at the desk if I wasn't entitled to one phone call.
"Phone call?" he said, "You have no right to a phone call because you are not under arrest." He paused for a moment, and said, "yet!" Looking at the three Special Agents, he smiled, and said to me, "Would you like us to put you under arrest?"
"No, no," I responded, looking at my own diminished presence, but feeling a little reassured that I had not been arrested "yet!"
The room was no larger than a large bathroom, which, incidentally, had a toilet in the corner with no seat. There were four chairs: three on one side of a small desk and one on the other side, which I presumed was to be mine, all of which were bolted to the ground. There was a mirror, which I assumed served a greater purpose than my vanity, and three very bright lights, one on the ceiling and two fixed on the wall. "They're watching me," I said to myself, "but why? What did I do?" I sat down and, for the next 45 minutes to an hour, tried to make a situational assessment of my predicament. I knew that whatever was going on could easily get out of hand and I thought it imperative to quickly reach an assize with the Homeland Security people. As hard as I tried, I couldn't come up with any reason--not even an outstanding traffic ticket--which might have initiated this type of action. I started to think that, mirror or no mirror, I was going to have to relieve myself soon, when the door suddenly burst open. In walked three very big men and one, from the obvious physical characteristics, I assumed to be a woman, all wearing balaclava ski masks.
Instantly, my bladder gave way and I humiliated myself. They wore badges but displayed no paper ID. "We are Special Agents from Homeland Security," said the afreet who was obviously in charge. "Again," I said to myself. "We need to ask you some questions," he continued. I surmised by the sound of his voice and the girth of his belly that he was nearer to my age than the others who appeared to be knuckledragging-gym-rats.
Looking at me through his mask, he indicated with his hand that I should take the single chair on the opposite side of the desk. That's when he noticed the pool on the floor between my feet. He turned and smiled at the other three indicating with his head to the source of my embarrassment. They chuckled and he sarcastically asked whether I still needed to go the bathroom. "No," I reassured him, "not any more." "Afreets," I said to myself, using a term that I had recently learned from my friend, Ali.
I slumped down into the chair, overwhelmed for the moment by the Kafkaesque situation in which I had found myself coupled with a sense of supreme mortification. Then, the questions began and a new feeling started to take hold: fear! The masked creature, who was obviously in command sat down across from me leaving the other three standing. As soon as he began to speak, I recognized that he spoke with the same north Bronx accent in which the Irish boys with whom I had gone to school as a child spoke. I found it strangely familiar and I wanted to ask him if he had gone to Fordham Prep or Cardinal Spelman, but realized that this was neither the time nor the place for that kind of chit chat. I could smell the foul fragrance of cigarette smoke on his breath and on his clothes which immediately gave me a sense of intellectual superiority. I tried but failed to avert his glare by looking at the papers he had placed on the table between us.
Q. "Is this your passport?"
A. "Yes sir."
Q. "Are you an American citizen?"
A. "Yes sir."
Q. "Is your real name, Luis Quelle?"
A. "Yes sir."
Q. "Where were you born?"
A. "Err, why the Bronx, sir."
Q. "Where does your mother live?"
A. "Right here in the City, sir."
Q. "How long has she lived here....in New York City?"
A. "Almost 80 years sir"
Q. "What's your profession?"
Finally, he had come to a question that I had to think about. Did he want to know what I had done for the longest period of my life, that is, college professor? Or, what I had been doing for the last five years that would be radio host and writer. I thought to myself that it would be better not to go there...at least not right away. I decided on a compromise.
A. "Cultural Philosopher," I said, in my most professorial intonation.
Q. "Cultural what?" sneered my hooded interviewer.
A. "Phil.." I was about to say philosopher, but he cut me off. It was clear to me that he was not at all pleased with my answer.
"Don't give us any of that crap." he said, throwing a yellow legal pad and a pen at me. "Write down the names of ten people in the United States who can verify your existence, but before I could think of one name, he shrieked, "How many times, in the last five years, have you been in Pakistan and Afghanistan?" Then, in an even more threatening tone, "How many times have you met Osama Bin Ladin?"
I gasped, flabbergasted. For a moment, I lost my voice, but he continued, "Are you an operative for Al Qaeda?"
"Al Qaeda?" I choked, indignantly, and began to rise up from my chair. Immediately, the two male masked-knuckledragers standing behind my interviewer stepped forward in my direction, confirming what I had already suspected was their purpose. I quickly sat back down and they stepped back.
At that point, the interviewer motioned to the woman who unzipped a leather carrying case exposing a hypodermic needle. "Don't forget for one second," he shouted, "with whom you are dealing with here. We are the United States Government."
I thought that I was about to become sick. "How can you do this," I asked, "Haven't you heard of the Constitution?" I said reaching into my shirt pocket for my portable version of the U.S. Constitution and immediately realizing that it was the first thing they had taken away from me when I walked into the office.
"Haven't you heard of the Patriot Act?" the interviewer responded.
Irked by his dismissal of the protections guaranteed to me by the Constitution, I blurted out, "Well, haven't you heard of the ACLU?"
My tormentor remained silent for a few seconds. Then, first looking back at his three colleagues, he turned to me and said, "Haven't you heard of Guantanamo Bay?" That last remark brought smiles to the others. All I could think about was that I wasn't going to pee on myself again no matter what else happened. There was a short pause, designed, I believe, for me to absorb the full impact of his last statement, he then continued his questioning:”
Why did you move to Hungary in September 2000?"
I began to manufacture a story in my mind, but thought better of it, no matter how it sounded to them; the truth would be the best thing to say. "Because," I began, "I knew that J.R., I mean Bush was going to be elected president."
"That's your answer, because J.R., I mean President Bush was going to be elected president?" He said scornfully.
"Yes sir. You see, I lived through the Nixon and Agnew prevarications and illegal activities, not to mention their sinister assaults on our Constitutional liberties and their use of the government's law enforcement arm to illegally break into people's homes, fabricate charges and incarcerate hundreds--if not thousands--of people on specious and trumped up charges. I endured it even as young college students peacefully demonstrating against a war-too-long were shot down by federalized troops. Those two guys really frightened me. Fortunately for the country, their criminality was exposed and they were forced to resign in disgrace. Ford and Carter gave us a breather. It seemed to me that rational men and women had prevailed."
"What does this all have to do with moving to Hungary?" interrupted my interviewer gruffly.
"I'm getting to it, sir," I said, feeling that momentum was on my side. "Then came Reagan, an actor from Hollywood, who used lines from his old movie roles when speaking to the Nation. I thought that calling the former Soviet Union, an 'Evil Empire' was a good jab even though he took the phrase from the original Star Wars movie. But, when he went on and came up with the Strategic Defense Initiative, dubbing it Star Wars, I thought that he had gone absolutely bananas."
I could tell that that no one in the room liked a word I was saying, but the adrenaline was beginning to pump and I was on a roll. I took a deep breath, "However, when the Iran/Contra corruption was exposed and this louche character, Oliver North, was set up to take the responsibility and, then, only receiving a slap on a limp wrist at that, for his malefactions. It was just too much to bear." I had hoped that Clinton would be good medicine for the country. In fact, economically, under him, the country did better than it had in 50 years. The deficit was gone; there was a budget surplus and tax cuts. Everybody, it seemed drove an SUV. The country appeared to be doing great...."
My interviewer quickly cut me off, "Yeah, what about Jennifer Flowers, with a 'G' and the pizza delivery girl slash intern?"
"I thought that you would bring that up," I said matter-of-factly, "I mean, who cares? Isn't his sex life a private matter? He and the pizza -intern were both over 21. Shouldn't his wife have been the one to have made what ever moral or legal judgment that needed to be made?" If I had been he, I would have been more afraid of dealing with her than a bunch of politicians
"'Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were as yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as a leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.’ I didn't say that, Coleridge did," I said.
"Who?"
"Coleridge, the British Romantic poet.”
"We’re not here to listen to that crap," my interviewer snapped back, "We want to know what you were doing in Hungary, specifically, on your radio program?"
For a moment, I was caught off guard, "My program," I asked, "You want to know about my program? What is it about my program which interests you? I know that I received a lot of flak from the embassy, but they never indicated that I had gone over the line."
My interviewer, looked at the sheaf of papers he was holding and asked, "Have you ever done illegal drugs?"
"Like what," I asked, a little dumfounded by the question.
"Like marijuana," he responded, staring me straight in the eye.
"Marijuana?" I repeated out loud; thinking to myself, that all this couldn't be about a little grass. "If I ever huffed a little pot," I said, "I quit long before J.R. admitted he stopped snorting cocaine." I was mad and beginning to feel that for better or for worse, I needed to take control of the interview.
"J.R.?" he said.
"That's right, J.R." I replied.
"You mean President George W. Bush," he snapped. The sweat was beginning to show through his balaclava.
"Exactly," I exalted, "It's better that you said it than I."
My interviewer looked at his three colleagues as though he was looking for reassurance and then proceeded to ask, "Are you a Communist?"
"Communist?" I exclaimed, "There are no more communists, they are all dead," adding, "Communism is dead!"
"No they are not," he shrieked, raising his voice a full octave, " They are all hiding out as Secular,...Secular Humanists," he said, stumbling on his words.
"I know all about that theory. I even wrote a piece about it not-too-long ago." That's when I began to get an uneasy feeling. "What's this really all about?" I asked halfway expecting in which direction the interview was headed.
Disregarding my question, my tormentor shot back, "Do you have an email account with al-Jazereeh?" his mouth still half opened as if he had just spoken a sinister incantation.
"Yes sir, I do." I replied. I felt sure now where we were going. So, I decided to stay calm and feign surprise when the time came, "And, what's wrong with that? I said as naively as I could.
"What's wrong with that? My inquisitor shrieked. “In the first place they are Islamic Communists who reject American Christian principles of fair play and good taste. And, second, it's the same thing as consorting with the enemy. It's UNPATRIOTIC." he roared.
But, I didn't let him finish. Quietly, I said, "No it isn't. It's no worse than reading the New York Post or Daily News."
"Those papers are American," he said noticeably angry, while at the same time trying to cover the exposed portion of his copy of The Post under the file folder, manila envelope and legal pads he had laid out on the desk
"Well, so is al-Jazereeh," I said triumphantly. Everybody in the world, except those people living in the USA, knows that it is a Saudi sponsored project funded and operated by the CIA and the Brit's MI6. Check it out. All I have been doing is accessing an Anglo/American news source. What's wrong with that?"
For a moment no one said a word. He looked as his colleagues and then looked at me sneering, "Oh yeah, wise guy, why did J.R., I mean President Bush want to bomb it?"
"You're right." I said excitedly, eager to get my point in, "He didn't know!" It took his Brit sidekick, Tony Blair, to remind him that he would be blowing up their joint covert venture.
"Wouldn't it be better," opined Tony, "if we just sold it off?"
"And that," I said triumphantly, "is where it stands now."
My tormentor looked at me intensely and then glanced at his cohorts searching for some sign; receiving none, he stated flatly, "We'll check it out and get back to you on that." There followed a moment of awkward silence in which I realized we were reaching a defining moment. My ancient Cold War warrior, continued to stare at me through his balaclava.
"What a strange world this has become," I thought to myself, "we ate our enemy of 50 years, the Soviet Union, and now we look and act exactly the way we used to portray it."
His hand reached inside the manila folder he had on the desk with my other papers. "What's this?" he asked, throwing a book down on the table in front of me. I recognized it immediately, and realized that they had gone through my luggage
"It's the Koran,the Muslim holy book" I answered, adding with undisguised indignation, "My Koran!"
"Yours?" He drawled.
"Yes, mine," I responded a little more respectfully, realizing that I was in a situation which required caution and some explaining, "It was a Bon Voyage gift from a friend." My mind flew back to that hot Saturday afternoon in Keleti Station, Budapest. I had been waiting anxiously for my friend to arrive before the train departed. My watch showed that the train was already five minutes behind its scheduled departure time when I spied my friend, Ali, running down the platform.
"Assalaam Alaikum," he said greeting me, as he struggled to catch his breath.
"Wa Alaikum Salaam," I responded.
"Thank goodness for the Hungarian Railway system," chuckled Ali as we climbed on board. A few minutes later, we were on our way.
"For goodness sake," I said, "Take off that jacket, it's really hot and you're sweating."
Ali, assented, removing his jacket and baseball cap. "I thought I was going to miss the train. I ran through the whole station." he said, still breathless.
His choice of outerwear struck me as a bit odd for the warm weather we were having, but knowing Ali to be a little eccentric and coming from North Africa where they have a different concept of what is hot, I didn't. I searched the faces of the other passengers wondering if anyone thought his appearance a bit odd. No one seemed to notice. To their credit, Hungarians rarely make a point of one's individual eccentricities.
Ali is a Palestinian student at a university south of Budapest close to where I live.
We had often seen each other on the train or waiting on the platform. Sometimes, I had been with my wife and son. On other occasions, he had been accompanied by his wife and daughter. One day, after several months, we began to chat, and after a short interval, we begun to look forward to our weekly commuter rides where we engaged in friendly repartee ranging from religion to politics.
"I brought you a present," he said, excitedly, and handed me an exquisitely wrapped package. "I have been thinking about what to give you as a Bon Voyage present, and settled on this," he said, while I eagerly sought to unwrap my gift without destroying the delicate wrapping paper.
"You are still planning on going back to the States, my friend?" he asked in a way which indicated to me that he already knew the answer to his own question.
"The Koran," I exclaimed not disguising my pleasure at receiving such a beautiful gift.
"Look at the inscription," he said, smiling broadly. "It's in Arabic, can you read it?"
I looked at the separate piece of engraved illustrated Arabic stationary, tucked behind the cover so as not to desecrate the Koran. "Yes, I can," I replied looking at the beautifully rendered calligraphic script.
"WELL?" The voice of my interviewer instantly shocked me back to the present
"Well, what?" I asked, hoping that the tone of my voice was not too offensive.
"Well, why do you have it? Are you a Muslim?" He sneered.
"No, I'm not," I answered straightforwardly and with no hesitation. "It was a present from a friend, so that I could go on practicing my Arabic while at the same time learn a little more about his beliefs during my stay in the States," I said, hoping that I had answered the question to his satisfaction.
”So, what's this?", he said throwing Ali's note on the table. I had totally forgotten about it.
"It's a personal note and a little prayer in Arabic," I said, torn between feeling frightened about the fact that it was in Arabic because I knew what that meant to him and a sense of pride because I could read it.
"Read it," he roared.
"In Arabic or English?" I asked trying to be humble at the same time not trying to show the fear I was experiencing.
"Both," he commanded.
"Okay," I said, "But I have to warn you that it won't be perfect."
"Read it," he said, beginning to show, what I presumed to be genuine impatience.
"To Luis," it begins, "Remember, for Islam and the rest of the world, it began in the Year of the Elephant. Your friend, Ali."
"The Year of the what?' Growled my interviewer who I imagined, had a red face under his black mask: a result, I concluded from high blood pressure from the cigarettes and the feint scent of whisky I could smell on his breath.
"The year of the Elephant is an allusion to the year of the birth of the prophet Mohammad. The prayer is called the 'Shahadah,' and all Muslims repeat it five times a day," I said, and began reading it aloud as if it were just any old verse I had found in a magazine, but within a few lines, it began to sound like a prayer.
"ALLAH AKBAR, I guess that you don't need to know Arabic to know that it means, 'God is Great.' And, 'La Illah ha illa Allah! Means, There is no God but Allah. The source of all that is good. The well-spring of a Muslim's faith for which he sheds his blood. La Ilah ha illa Allah! The One, the True, the Great, To Muslims the guiding star, The ruler of their fate. La Ilah ha illa Allah! To Thee we humbly cry. When Allah Akbar strikes thy ear, Oh! To our prayer reply. La Ilah ha illa Allah! This call we daily raise, "Salaam aliekoum, waramat Allah! To Thee we give the praise. That's it," I stated matter-of-factly.
\
My interviewer stared at me me for what seemed an eternity, then, at the hooded woman who, had sat down on the chair to the left of him. She nodded affirmatively, by which I surmised she understood Arabic and had read the note previous to coming into the room.
"And do you believe this crap?" he snapped, "It's a lot of anti-Christian unpatriotic horse manure."
I was beginning not to be able to disguise my disgust for this man and the entire affair, but I knew that it would be dangerous for me if I became aggressive. I answered hesitantly. "Well, I believe that there is only one God, and that we give It different names." I was a little surprised that he hadn't reacted to my use of the pronoun "It," for the Deity. Maybe he hadn't heard it? I was about to elaborate on my belief system further, when he interrupted me by slamming his fist down on the desk for emphasis, and asked me the question that I knew all along was coming.
"What's your connection to Jose Padilla?"
The words slid from his mouth like an oily piece of fish, half of which his teeth had not been quite able to properly grasp and was still hanging from the lips. "Jose Padilla?".....I asked, as I tried, but was unable to feign a response. A light had gone on in my head and I knew that all this had been about Jose Padilla.
"Jose Padilla," he repeated, "Jose Padilla the terrorist!"
"Yes, I know who you mean. " I said choosing my intonation carefully, "The fellow that was convicted in Miami, not-too-long-ago, for alleged acts of terrorism. I have no connection to him," I said, "other than we are both Puerto Rican. I know what you are getting at, though," I added. "But seriously, other than he is an American citizen of Puerto Rican heritage, I have no connection to him."
My interviewer quickly went to the next question which I had already assumed was coming, "Why did you represent him on your radio program as an innocent person being victimized by an over zealous political witch hunt?"
(Bingo!)
"I said all that. Gee?" I choked disingenuously. Then, taking in a deep breath, began, "What I said was, that from the moment he was arrested at Chicago's O'Hare airport, he has been denied his Constitutional rights and, because of that fact, there is no way to tell whether he is really guilty or innocent of anything because he had been kept incognito deep in some U.S. Naval dungeon."
"Brig," my interviewer interjected, forcefully, "Brig, not dungeon."
"Err, that's what I meant," I hastened to agree because I did not want to stop. I felt comfortable with the subject because I have often had to explain my position on this topic on several different occasions and could feel a sense of momentum coming on. "You see, sir, I realize that I am an imperfect messenger, but it's my belief that when one of us loses his Constitutional protections, we all have lost them. And, just because some C- graduate of a New Haven college and member of the Laccopluti." defines patriotism, with an ersatz Texas drawl, as synonymous with being a Born-again Christian, I have to disagree."
"Lako-Plu-Tee?" My interviewer interjected. "What kind of word is that?" I knew that I would get that response. I had used the word to change the rhythm of the interview and to give myself a breather.
"It's Greek," I said, "It means someone who's found his riches in a well. It's a long story. It's like 'JR' who put up $25,000 as an investment on a baseball team and then a couple years later, got back $2.5 million. I'm not opposed to the concept. I've been looking around for a similar investment." Seeing that I wasn't going to be interrupted, I continued on. "There are plenty of things I don't like, and, if I had my druthers, would call unpatriotic. On top of the list would be a ban on membership, or association, with any organization that has as its core a phenomenological reflection on experiences (Erlebnis) of events that predate 1877."
This time, he didn't take the bait. "Why?" I continued, "Because, anything that happened before then no longer properly defines what it means to be an American today." Then, looking directly at the hooded woman with the syringe seated across the desk from me, I said. "The only woman I know of in American history that wore a hood before 1877, was Mary Stuart and she was hanged with that hood after losing her Constitutional protections during a period of national paranoia while the nation's leaders cynically played to the emotions of the citizenry instead of their sense of reason.
"But, getting back to Jose Padilla, the issue is really simple. If I am held in some CIA Black site; subjected to the methods sanctioned by J.R. and his alter egos: former Attorney General Alberto Gonzales, Vice President Haliburton Cheney and what was that other guys name? Oh yeah, Rumsfeld: to wit, cruel and degrading treatment of any prisoner in U.S. custody, I could be coerced to confess to any crime no matter how heinous. Further, I don't do well in isolation. I calculated that it would take no more than 30 days of isolation in some CIA "salt pit" to get me to fess-up to being the other "Shooter" in Dallas.
"That time frame changes to five days when I am treated to the 'Frequent Flyer' technique and denied sleep. However, the entire calculus changes when pain is introduced: then, I would confess to anything within minutes. There is no need to use standard interrogation tactics like: 'Fear Up,' 'Pride and Ego Down,' or 'Futility' with me. It's not that I am a coward: it's just that I'm not stupid. If someone is willing to use a little pain to get me to admit to something (I was speaking to my tormentors, directly), they are just as willing and determined to use a lot more pain, later. Why prolong the inevitable? I confess: It was I behind the grassy knoll! Err, how many shots did I fire?"
I wasn't sure that I should have said that, because confessing to anything in front of those people might have constituted probable cause. However, they said nothing, and I warned myself to watch my exuberance and choice of words in the future.
"The government's credibility has been so damaged in its case against Padilla and the other alleged Al Qaeda terrorists, albeit, those being held in Guantanam, or, in some Black sites scattered around Europe: Thailand, Afghanistan, the Middle East or, on US Naval ships floating around the Indian Ocean and, who knows where else in the rest of the world, that I can't believe anything that he, or they, might have confessed to.
"Nor, can I believe any evidence supposedly garnered from the other so-called detainees --no matter how much I might want to. Even the most ardent Republican has to agree that, especially, in the Padilla case, We, the People of the United States, have lost the opportunity to send that Brooklyn-born-convicted murderer-Arab-loving-Puerto Rican to prison for the rest of his life, or better..., to stand in front of a firing squad. We could do it any way, of course, but we wouldn't feel that good about it, because we's always know that we really hadn't learned the whole truth!"
Finally, I could feel that I was in my groove. I could tell that they were listening.
"Has anyone ever considered that the Government's case was nothing more than a red herring and that Padilla is innocent? The thought may sound crazy after the entire hullabaloo surrounding his arrest at Chicago's O'Hare Airport. But, haven't you wondered why the government, after finally charging him with a crime, chose a weak conspiracy charge rather than the original allegation for which he was unceremoniously deprived of his rights: to wit, planning to explode a radiological bomb, a so-called 'dirty bomb'?"
I stopped speaking because they hadn't stopped me first. I asked myself if I had said anything that could be used against me. "Boy," I thought, "I wish I had a lawyer." Seeing that they weren't going to ask me another question and uncomfortable with the silence, I continued. "Anyway, under our system of government aren't we supposed to be presumed innocent until proven guilty in a court; the so-called 'War on Terror' notwithstanding?"
"Further, this thing in Iraq, is it still a war? I thought that JR had declared victory years ago. Now, I read that he will not pull out the troops from Iraq until we have total victory which he calculates to be some time in the next presidency, or maybe even longer. I recall that his former defense secretary began calling it the 'Long War.' By then, we will have lost 5,000+ American young men and women, and for what? meanwhile, the original war--the forgotten war--the War in Afghanistan is beginning to heat up again. Is there a plan to end it all?
“I'll tell you this, the day we pull out of Iraq, it will be Iran who will declare victory. All we have done in all these years is to waste hundreds of billions of dollars, lose thousands of American lives and who knows how many lives of innocent civilians. 'Collateral damage’ is what I think they call. In the end, all we have accomplished is to have gotten rid of Iran's main enemy and given her a new puppet state ally, Iraq. So, what's has this been really all about? Could all this have been about the price of oil?”
Still nothing: I began to ask myself if I was talking myself into a deep cell on an island somewhere. But I had my rhythm, call it psychological rebound; I felt elated and had to keep going.
"None of us could stand up to the torture to which Padilla and his alleged cohorts have been subjected. We would all have confessed. Courageous and Enlightened thinkers during the height of the witchcraft persecutions of the Middle Ages pointed out that confessions acquired through torture were worthless." I had a fleeting thought, that this must be the way it felt to defend a client before the Supreme Court, but I checked my hubris, reminding myself that lawyers generally don't have to hold their pants up and usually have laces in their shoes while arguing a case before the Court. However, I couldn't stop. I had a few more thoughts I needed to express.
"The administration's legal position vis-à-vis illegal incarceration and torture, smells like it was taken from the pages of Sprenger and Kramer's medieval tome 'Malleus Maleficarum,' which supplied the legal framework and logic for pursuing 100,000 powerless and unfortunate individuals--mostly women; burning or crucifying them for the relief and entertainment of the local folk, who were happy that it wasn't they screaming from the pyre.
"Perhaps, Shrilly Jackson's insight was more prophesy than literature and Padilla had simply won the lottery." I stopped. I was nearly exhausted and a feeling of dread began to tug at me. My interviewer hadn't uttered a word in 10 minutes. Perhaps he was tired? More likely, he had already made up his mind. I looked around at all four of them trying to imagine what they looked like under their masks.
The woman with the syringe looked over to my interviewer and said that she had some questions to ask me. He nodded affirmatively, and she turned directly toward me. While I was still caught off guard by her soft honeyed voice: a voice, I told myself, I could easily yearn to hear again...over lunch...on a pillow...? Then in a stern prosecutorial tone which quickly broke the spell, she asked. "Mr. Quelle do you consider yourself a Christian?"
The question was totally unexpected. I thought of responding with my usual glib retort when asked that question, that is, "Yes I am. I'm a Bad Catholic." But, realizing the perilousness of my situation, I decided to forego humor and answered firmly and straightforwardly, "Yes."
It was only then, as our eyes locked onto each others', that I noticed that one of her eyes was blue, the other green. In my confused and nearly exhausted state, all I could think of was to which eye should I play? If her first question stunned me, her second sent me reeling.
"Are you born again in the Blood of the Lamb?"
"Blood of the Lamb," I repeated to myself, seeking some form of relevance to her words and what was going on around me. "Does she mean Charles Lamb?" I asked myself, looking at her Green eye in the hope of a further hint: nothing. I dismissed that notion because I remembered that Lamb's essay was about a pig. I turned my focus to her blue eye but, even there, I couldn't discern a soupçon of sympathy nor a hint of where I was supposed to be headed. All I could come up with was a story told by the philosopher, Strabo, which on the Ides of March 44, before going off to meet his fate, Caesar had met with an augur. Upon examining the entrails of the sacrificial lamb, the prophet had found that the slaughtered creature had no heart... a very inauspicious omen for a 56-years-old man looking forward to retirement and a pension.
One could easily suppose, that at the same time the lamb would have said, "And this," looking down at his eviscerated abdomen, "This was the most unkindest cut of all."
I must have faded out for a second, because the next thing I recall is her asking me if I was alright. I nodded affirmatively. It was then that I noticed that the hooded knucledragging-hulk, standing to the right of my interviewer, had a bright orange bundle under his arm which, occasionally, he would pass from one side of his body to the other. I hadn't paid much attention to it before, however, now I realized what it was: an official U.S. Government prison jump suit, which set my adrenaline flowing again, jerking me up from my swound. I realized that I had better pay more attention to what was going on. It was beginning to get unbearably hot in the room.
Returning to her soft voice after realizing that I was not responding she said, "What I mean is: Are you a Born-again Christian?"
My heart leapt, I knew that she would be happy with my answer. I nearly shouted out, "Yes! Yes I am! I am a Born-again Christian!"
Well, that seemed to change the entire atmosphere in the room. She and the supervising interviewer stood up and huddled with the other hooded brutes. I could see that they were unsure of what to do next. Meanwhile, I began reflecting on my recent visit to Zaragoza, Spain, formerly, Cesarauguta, after C. Augustus, the home town to one of my progenitors. As it happens, I was digging around the archives of the Basilica, 'Nuestra Senora del Pilar', for family records that would help in achieving my goal of obtaining dual Spanish and American citizenship. Outside, the kind priest who had been helping me, noticed that I was shivering in the 90 degree heat as we stood in the plaza facing the Basilica.
"Before they built the Basilica in the middle of the 17th Century," he said, this had been the spot where they burned witches and heretics. You might be feeling something for those poor lost souls."
It was an epiphany: a thunderbolt. Family lore on my father's side, tells of one, if not several, of my ancestors, to have met their fates trussed to a stake above flaming faggots. I knew, immediately, that I was the reincarnated essence of one of those former Quelles. I felt very comfortable telling my inquisitor, that "yes" I was a Born-again Christian. I had just, jesuitly, omitted the fact, that I was also a Born-again Heretic.
The heat had now become oppressive, and, as I have often stated, I don't do well under torture. I was prepared to confess to anything when the female voice said, "Are you planning a trip?"
I became confused, not so much by her question as much as by the fact that she said it in perfect Hungarian: "Utazni készül?" I repeated.
Then, in a slower voice in heavily accented English, she restated her question: "Are you planning a trip to the States?"
\
It was the word "States," that probably brought me around. I looked directly into the smiling and hoodless face of the woman posing the question. It was the travel agent. The grungy boy and his mother were slowly walking down the street, and now she was turning her attention to me.
She was amusing herself by looking at my trousers which had become soaked from the water bottle which I had stowed in my shoulder bag but had neglected to fasten tightly. Either from experience or intuition, she had made me out for American.
"Are you planning a trip back to the States?" she asked again. I looked up at the sun, which was directly overhead, then, down at my pants and the pool of water between my legs flowing in a stream toward the curb. I looked back through the glass of the travel office, and there, prominently displayed on the facing wall was the poster that had originally caught my attention. It was a huge panorama photograph of the New York City skyline which had to have been taken before September 11th, 2001.
There they were: tall, proud; radiating a majestic insolence and for some, evidently, a little too much arrogance...the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center. At the bottom of the poster, in bold letters was the legend, "WELCOME TO AMERICA!".
I turned to face her and, in a low voice, answered, "No, I don't think so..... not for a while, anyway."
Szia, From Budapest
-END IT-
