Either You Are with Us or You Are with the Terrorists

Every nation needed an enemy, you wrote, every group a nemesis. Quite a statement, though you should have left it at that. But you added that the stronger a nation was, the more defined the enemy needed to be. I thought that wasn’t right. I know it was one of the characters in your novel who said it, not you; nevertheless, it gives me pleasure to point out that you were wrong and your character too.

Who would have expected that the new enemy would be terror? Who would have thought that we’d declare war on an abstract noun?

That speech, that fucking speech.

Either you are with us or you are with the terrorists.

You and I had a similar reaction to the bombing of the World Trade Center, beginning with the shock of it and on through the grief. You were alarmed, but more so when the president gave that speech days later. You knew, just as I did, that our world would soon spiral into horrors hitherto unimagined.

They hate our freedoms.

You knew, I knew, everyone from the Middle East knew. Hell, every immigrant knew. Our country was redefining the enemy and it was us.

But first let’s bomb them over there. Shock and awe, baby. Let all of us who believe in progress and pluralism, tolerance and freedom blindly destroy their countries, shatter their political systems, economies, infrastructures, and create millions of refugees for generations to come. Bush called that civilization’s fight.

Even grief recedes with time and grace.

But not before we damage the world for eternity.

You had to adapt; you were good at that. First you were an enemy because you were queer, but suddenly being a Middle Eastern immigrant was a bigger threat. A shift of wind. A sailboat has to adjust to the whim of the wind, not the other way round. You adjusted. Every time you returned to the United States from Beirut, the new Homeland Security people gave you a funny look, until you figured out how much the sail needed trimming, how to jibe the boat. You learned how to camp it up at passport control, a sashay here, a seductive grin there, a small drop of the shoulder, as if saying, “Look at me, I’m no threat at all.” Worked like a miracle.

And the true revelation arrived on a flight from London back to the United States after you’d visited Pakistan. You were worried that you’d be interrogated, that the customs officials and the Homeland Security agents would conspire to delay you at the airport for an hour or more. You would be exhausted after such a long flight. The woman in the seat next to you was polishing her nails a delightful pink. You told her you loved the color; she told you she was willing to share. Of course you partook. Of course you did.

And when you arrived at the desk with hot-pink nails a stark contrast to the dark blue of your American passport, the agent simply opened the little booklet, briefly glanced inside, returned it with a smile, saying: “Welcome home.”

Look at you. Building any kind of explosive device would ruin your manicure.

No one at a US port of entry had ever welcomed you home before. Every day now, hell might be shadowing your soul, but stark nail polish is your companion as well and maybe a touch of eye shadow.

And Wellbutrin.

After Lesbos, definitely Wellbutrin for you.