Circumstances can, from time to time, hold us for a moment against our wills. Frustration can ensue, but, ultimately, we know that we will be able to go on with our lives, as planned. There are rare instances, however, when the comfort of this certainty disappears entirely. It is the moment that one becomes confined and unable to act in any way, that the truest understanding of detention can manifest itself. The acceptance of uncertainty can tear a mind to shreds. I am guiding my luggage laden cart through a set of double doors in the innermost heart of Heathrow airport. Entering into what can only be described as a jail cell I realize that I am indeed going to be detained.
For what!?
The gruff fellow wearing the tactical uniform tells me he doesn’t have that kind of information. He rubs his shiny clean-shaven head, assumes a stern intentional stance and tells me how things are going to go, from this point on. This is his station and he doesn’t like trouble, but has no problem dealing with it. He has a job to do and will do it, whether I consent or not. He then points to another large fellow standing there and informs me that he will be searching me, as a part of my entry. I am directed to push my belongings into a little closet, where I leave them as I am escorted into another room and my person is searched. I have to take all of the items left on me including keys, change, wallet, belt, business-class ticket stub and put them into a bowl, which then goes into a plastic bag. This and all of my other belongings are marked with what look like brightly colored biohazard zip tags. I am, then, taken into a small private room next door and have to take off my shoes before being patted down. When he finishes, he lets me put my shoes back on and then I am told that I will get the rest of my effects back when I leave.
The room is a huge square, with a windowed booth and processing area in the corner that detainees enter through. The booth has that kind of security glass, with wire mesh in it. Inside the booth are phones, computers, a closet and my two armed friends. When I come out of the little search room off to the side, the gruff fellow asks me if I want anything to drink. His manner is becoming friendlier. I tell him that I don’t and he asks me how long I have been detained. When I tell him he insists that I have a cup of coffee. They have one of those instant coffee vending machines that add cream and sugar for you. He gives me the coffee and escorts me into the large holding room. Of course, I am asking every question imaginable, just wanting to know what is happening to me. They have no real answers for me, other than that there was a problem with my entering the country and that I will have to wait until an immigration agent can review my case. My case? How long will I have to wait? They have no idea.
My new chamber consists of a large square room with several tables inside. They are elementary school cafeteria, in style and construction. Each is square, with four chairs attached to a center post, bolted to the floor. The room is approximately 800 square feet. The bareness of the walls is relieved by various posters, with portraits of the outside world and a few advertisements. The people in the pictures are all smiling and look to be having a great time. This seems a little cruel, considering the circumstance. There is a TV hanging in one corner, with BBC news delivering up-to-the-minute reports of only one story. I have arrived on one of the last days of the riots in London and this is the only thing on the news. My detainer informs me, through a bank teller-style window, that I can have some snacks, if I want. They are neatly arranged on a table next to my side of his large glass window. He jokes with me that he doesn’t want anyone starving on his watch; that the paper work is by far more than he wants to deal with. His good humor does little to ease my mind or the nervous tension that has been building in me for the last few hours. I smile and oblige him by taking a package of biscuits (crackers) and retiring to a table alone.
Along the far wall are the restrooms and another small room, with a glass wall and door. Inside this room, the walls are painted with a cartoonish scene. I notice books, stuffed animals and an assortment of toys. It occurs to me that even children fall prey to the Border Gods’ whims often enough to warrant provision, evidently. The restrooms are worth noting. They are placed on a wall next to the play room directly in view of the control booth. There are two of them, a men’s room and women’s. The peculiar thing is that each door consists of two-thirds of a door, the top and bottom portions have been cut out. This is so the officers in the booth can see your head and feet while you do your business. In the opposing corner are two large “S”-shaped lounges on the floor where another lucky traveler is sleeping. I wonder how long he has been in here. There are also two large unhappy looking guys at one of the cafeteria tables. Inside the room, no one says a word to me. The two guys are talking aggressively in some eastern tongue that I don’t recognize. Eventually, they are called out and it’s just me and sleeping guy.
Much time has passed and my mind is increasingly restless. I hope that Rachel is on the other side, finding a way to get me out, because from where I am sitting there is nothing for me to do. I finally get called to the window, two hours later. It is my turn to go and talk with my case officer. He is a young fellow of eastern decent, with dark skin and black curly hair. He is short and thin and I notice how poorly his uniform fits him. It seems too large for him and he looks as though it makes him feel uncomfortable. He has a thin mustache and big glasses. He reminds me of a skinny Indian version of Napoleon Dynamite. He can’t be in his thirties yet. He takes me down another series of halls and corridors, to another tiny room with only a small cafeteria table inside. He puts me on one side of the table and seats himself across from me. He takes from under his arm a folder that contains two or three sheets of paper and my passport. My interrogation begins.
He starts by telling me that he has talked with Rachel on “the other side” and that he has to ask me some questions. He has a blank piece of paper and a pen. He writes down and circles the number one. He then writes down his first question, then asks it aloud to me. The first several questions are personal information like my name and eye color. At about question five or six, he starts asking the real questions about the visa and my intentions.
This takes a while, because everything has to be handwritten. I find this odd. By the time we make it to the second page, I can tell that he is growing sympathetic to my venture. I answer every question honestly and in detail. I explain that I wanted to perform music while in England, but have no band or CDs. I tell how I planned on meeting people there and getting to know the scene on the inside. I talk about the visa application process and how difficult it was to find one that fit what I was trying to do. I go to great lengths to have him understand that the main reason I am there is to stay with my friend. He tells me that he understands. He then explains that my problems started with me filling out the wrong visa application.
After an hour of question and answer, he finally tells me that he understands completely what has happened and that he will now have to meet with the next officer up in the chain of command. I ask if I could simply take care of the paperwork, right there. I could fill out whatever form was needed. He tells me that there is no way this could happen as that kind of paperwork has to be taken care of in the country of origin and approved by the country’s British Consulate. I ask if I will be allowed in. He tells me that he can’t say, that it isn’t up to him, and that it does not look good at all. At that instant, my heart finally sinks and I lose all hope. I ask what will happen in this case. He explains that I will be put on a plane and sent back to the States.
From here, it is back to the cellblock to wait for a verdict from the higher-ups. This time around in the cell, I am alone. Sleeping guy has been taken away while I was being interrogated. I lie down on the floor chair and try to sleep. I can’t. I feel awful. The rejection is like a fist in the gut, like taking a blindside hit. The last thing my mind would ever have conceived, just slammed me squarely between the eyes. This is coupled with the emotional plunge of feeling like a rock star to being treated like a criminal, all in the course of a day. There was a helpless pang of un-wantedness that echoed from my mind to my body, back and forth, ever amplifying itself in the heaviness of each breath I struggled to take in and let out.
I don’t know how long I lay there, trying to understand what was happening and why. It seemed like a very long time. Finally the officer in the booth told me that I had a phone call. It was my case agent. He informed me that my entry had officially been denied and that I was going back to the States. He informed me that Rachel would be returning with me. He then told me that there were two flights going back to the US, one going to Atlanta and one to New York. He said that Rachel thought the New York flight may be better, since the British Consulate is there. I wasn’t allowed to speak with Rachel. I had to go on what he said, and told him that New York would be fine.
It was another forty-five minutes before a different officer came to escort me. I was given all of my personal belongings back and allowed to wheel my cart out of the storage closet. The new officer handed me this very official envelope:
I wheeled my sad cart behind the man, in a stupefied daze. We finally came out of the heart center of halls and doors and cells, into the open air of a terminal. Rachel was there, waiting. She smiled but I was unable to offer the same. We were quietly escorted to the proper gate and told that the officer would have to stay with us, to make sure that I got on the plane. My luggage was taken at this time to be loaded except for my two guitars. As a joke he offered the optimism of my being the first passenger to board the plane. The seat that I was assigned was a regular coach seat, near the rear of the plane. When I got onboard, the attendants were the same disinterested variety that I was accustomed to. I asked one man if there was a place that I could put my guitars and, with a huge sigh of utter disgust, he told me to follow him. He then pointed to a closet and sharply told me to put them in there. Wow, that made me feel even worse. In twenty-four hours I had gone from being treated like a king to being this man’s burden of tedium.
When I returned to my seat, Rachel was in the next one frantically sending texts and leaving voicemails with every person she knew in New York. She told me she was trying to find a place for us to crash, for a day or two, until we get everything sorted out. I nodded and stared out the window. The sun was going down. I looked out across the runway, to trees and roads that I wouldn’t get any closer to. Defeat was upon me and I could feel myself giving in, more than I ever thought possible. The loss of control, the derailment, and the unforeseen had taken their toll on me. I can, to this day, think of no other time in my life where I was riding so high and plummeted to such depths, so rapidly. Rachel told me that she understood that I wasn’t up for talking and that we would figure it all out tomorrow. As we taxied out toward the setting sun and eventually took flight, I wrapped myself tightly in my own arms, took a few deep breaths and willed myself to sleep.
Joshua Obleo Gray is a musician and permanent resident of Starkville, MS, who is currently travelling overseas in Europe. He studied at Mississippi State University and is also the owner of a local recording studio in the Golden Triangle.
February 17, 2012
Culture, Entertainment, Travel