For the next two weeks I am dealing with nothing but this problem. I go to see Somaliland’s president, who promises to help, but after the visit I am forced to stay in Hargeisa, supposedly for my own safety. School is closed for the summer, and I am leaving to take my students to the United States for their scholarships at Worcester Academy.
Sadly, a few days before we leave, there is a delay in Fadumo’s visa processing, and she can’t go with us. She is devastated, and I am for her. We are beginning to understand the visa process, which is not easy for Somalis. There is no U.S. embassy in Somaliland or Somalia, and the United States has no formal diplomatic relations with either. Therefore, anyone trying to travel to the United States must go in person to the U.S. embassy in Djibouti.
Early in the morning of August 5, 2011, Mubarik, Deqa, and I take a bus to Berbera Airport. I dread most long trips, but today I am fueled by the excitement of watching my travel companions as they discover a whole new world. While my frustration with Khadar continues to weigh on my mind, for now I focus on the success of my kids.
The short flight from Berbera to Dubai is the first time Deqa and Mubarik have been on a jet plane, their flights to and from Djibouti having been flown on an ancient Soviet propeller plane. They are excited, but it is Dubai International Airport that really wows them. One could say Dubai International is a microcosm of all that is Dubai, but there is really nothing “micro” about it. A full assault on one’s senses, it’s a cross between Disneyland and Las Vegas—glitzy, gilded, and filled with huge displays of the fanciest cars and most desirable shops. It isn’t just the size and luxury, or the ceilings, which are taller than any building in Somaliland; it is also the incredible range of people—well-heeled Europeans on vacation; American businessmen in Western suits; Arabic women fully covered, with just slits in their gold face masks; immigrants struggling with children and baggage. Among the shops, there are rooms for prayer, one for men and one for women. More international travelers go through Dubai than any other airport in the world, and its central location means they are off to India, the Pacific Islands, the Middle East, Africa, Europe, and even stops throughout the Americas. Our flight would be serviced by British Airways the whole way, changing planes in London.
Once at the airport in Dubai, Deqa and Mubarik see a world they could not have imagined existed. Deqa is so excited by what surrounds her that she declares, “I could stay here forever.” She adds, “I love Dubai and I’m excited to see London next.” Explaining that this is not really Dubai and our stopover at Heathrow would not really be London isn’t worth bringing her down.
“I don’t understand something, though. Who owns this?” she asks.
“Who owns what?” I ask, unsure of what she is referring to.
“Who owns this airport?”
In Somaliland, pretty much everything is owned by someone. Dahabshiil Money Transfer is owned by Mohamed Saeed Duale and his son Abdirashid, the Maansoor is owned by Abdulkadir Hashi, the Ambassador Hotel by Khadar Adan, and so on. Dubai Airport comprises a larger project than constructing all of Hargeisa, and Deqa cannot imagine anyone being rich enough to build it. Seeing a world of mass structures sparks questions she couldn’t have previously conceived of, just as my coming to Somaliland has made me rethink assumptions. I explain in simple terms the concept of pooling funds through large corporations and government projects. I am not sure it all clicks, but Deqa seems captivated.
We sit down in one of the airport coffee shops for tea and hot chocolate. For the first of what will be about twenty times, I check them for their passports. Deqa is pure fascination, but Mubarik has a different reaction. Despite the whipped cream on his hot chocolate, he looks depressed. “It is hard to find out that everything you thought was good was really nothing,” he states, obviously comparing Somaliland’s limited development to what is here. The boy who a decade earlier had learned that a truck was not an animal is struggling with the latest shock.
I am enjoying my students’ wonder right up until it is time to board our flight to London. We are halted in the boarding area by a British Airways representative, who puts me on the phone with someone from the British government. This person tells me that Deqa and Mubarik will not be allowed to board the flight.
“They have perfectly valid U.S. visas,” I protest.
“We know that, and we don’t question that,” the official says. “But we don’t recognize the Somalia or Somaliland passport. They can’t come to England.”
“They don’t want to come to England,” I argue. “They just want to transit from one British Airways flight to another in Heathrow Airport. They have scholarships in the United States.”
My pleading doesn’t have any effect. “It doesn’t matter. They can’t board” is the final answer. And with that we are stranded.
On the inside I am quite unhappy and nervous. It doesn’t help that I haven’t slept in forty-eight hours, a lot of the sleep deprivation on account of Khadar. As far as I am concerned, there is no good reason to deny entry to Mubarik and Deqa when they are obviously headed to something better than Heathrow Airport. I have no idea how many countries will block our entry, even though our final destination is the United States.
Not wanting to take any more risks, I decide we need to fly directly to the United States, to whichever city it might be. I look at the options online and see that there are direct flights to San Francisco, Houston, and New York. A New York flight has just closed, but another will be departing in eight hours. I rush to the ticketing line, Mubarik and Deqa in tow. I am trying to appear calm, not wanting to ruin their experience or worry them. Even before I reach the counter, I learn that there are five seats left on the flight, which leaves no time for delay. But there is still a complication. We are traveling on different itineraries, with Mubarik staying in the States for one year, and Deqa and I for a shorter time, meaning I cannot book all of our seats at once. What if after I book Mubarik, the other seats get scooped up before I have a chance to book Deqa and me? If that happens, Mubarik will have to figure out how to get from New York to Worcester on his own.
Then comes the next glitch. My credit card company blocks the purchase, for which I don’t blame them. They should be suspicious, seeing my itinerary change mere hours before takeoff. Getting the authorization is hard. I don’t have a phone that works in Dubai, so I borrow one and try to reach customer service. Finally, an agent picks up, and he authorizes Mubarik’s flight first, then Deqa’s and mine. I remain uneasy, wondering what other challenges await us. I hadn’t expected to lose Fadumo in the visa issuance fiasco or be unable to change planes at a British airport, either—all lessons that prove it isn’t easy to be a Somali trying to get to the United States.
As soon as the plane is in the air, I feel great relief, as I was silently waiting for someone to escort us off the flight. Every flight attendant who walked by made me nervous. I’m now overtired and almost delirious, but I don’t sleep more than thirty minutes during the fourteen-hour flight, worrying about what is to come at Homeland Security. When we land and approach border control, my fears are realized when an officer tells Mubarik to follow him to a back area. Then, Deqa, too, is instructed to follow the officer. At first, I wait for them to reappear. But as it becomes clear that this is not going to resolve quickly, I ask if I could join them and am surprised to be let through. I find Mubarik and Deqa sitting on chairs, waiting to be called. No one has talked to them yet. They are tired and resigned that they have no control over anything going on. I still maintain the illusion that I have some.
At the desk, I ask why they are being delayed, and a nice gentleman explains, “They need extra processing, but the system is down. No telling how long it will be.” Eventually, they are summoned and, without too much fuss, allowed entry. As we pass through the doors to where families await, I realize they can’t stop us now. My first kids are officially in the United States! That I haven’t slept in days, we are in New York and not Boston, and we now learn Mubarik’s luggage is lost are small-time, solvable problems.
Despite my relief, I can’t help but wonder why Mubarik and Deqa needed to go to border control in the first place. Their visas are in order, so being detained for extra screening seems unnecessary. It reminds me of how suspicious the Somalis are of me. We in the West have certainly had more interaction with those of other cultures, but we are still anxious and afraid of the unfamiliar.
Just being in a new society will teach Mubarik and Deqa so much. I am learning so much, too, even if it is the hard way.