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May 22, 2002
Brian J. Foley
Dick Cheney's Obscenity
Gavin Keeney
Bete Noire
Enron & the Great Game
Fran Shor
Follow the Money
Bush, bin Laden & Carlyle
May 21, 2002
George Monbiot
Riddle
of the Spores:
The FBI and Anthrax
Yulie Khromchenko
Displaced Reality:
Impressions from Jenin
Bernard Weiner
Kenny
Boy to Bush:
"Welcome to the Club"
Ron Jacobs
Confusing the Face
of the Enemy
Gary Leupp
"War
on Terrorism" in Yemen
May 20, 2002
Rep. Ron Paul
Say No to Military Draft
Dave Marsh
Music Monopolies
Jordy Cummings
Israel, Jews and the Left
Francis Boyle
In Defense
of a Divestment
Campaign Against Israel
Christian Salmon
The Bulldozer War
Edward Said
Crisis for
American Jews
May 19, 2002
Philip Farruggio
Where's Twain's Protector Government
Now?
Norman Madarasz
Canada,
NAFTA and Kyoto
May 18, 2002
M.G. Piety
Economic Fiction:
From Here to Annuity?
Michael Colby
Bush Fiddled
While
New York Burned
May 17, 2002
Wayne Madsen
Fox News Flashback:
Defending McKinney
James T. Phillips
Ceasefires
and Terrorists
Phillipe Dambournet
The Truth at Last:
Bush as the Energizer Bunny
Lori Berenson
In Defense
of Political Prisoners
Rep. Cynthia McKinney
Terrorist Warnings
Hussein Ibish
Clarifying
the Obstacles
to Peace in Palestine
Alexander Cockburn
Israel and "Anti-Semitism"
May 16, 2002
Marylin Robinson
A Garden
in Tent City, But Where Do You Bathe?
Paul de Rooij
Worse than CNN?
The BBC and Israel
David Krieger
The Bush/Putin
Agreement:
Nuclear Dangers Remain
Steve Perry
Unsafe at Any Speed:
Youth, Sex and the Heresies
of Judith Levine
May 15, 2002
Ahmad Faruqui
Revisiting
Camp David
Rick Giombetti
Spiderman v. Pentagon:
Working Class Hero Battles Corrupt Defense Contractors
Stanton / Madsen
When the
War Hits Home:
Planning for Martial Law, Telegovernance and Suspension of Elections
May 14, 2002
Jacob Levich
Leaving the Truth Out?
Alternative Online Publication
Tells the Big Lie about Palestine
Michael Colby
Bush's
Cuba Blunder
Dave Marsh
Scapegoats: the Music Industry's War
on Cassettes
Jensen / Mahajan
US Power
Mideast Power Plays
May 13, 2002
Robert Fisk
Why Does John Malkovich
Want to Kill Me?
Mokhiber / Weissman
IMF
and World Bank:
Out of Control
Dean Baker
Will Darth Vader do Time?
The Enron Saga Continues
Nelson Valdés
American
Democracy:
A Lesson for Cubans
May 12, 2002
Bernard Weiner
Why Is America Acting Like This? A
Letter to European Friends
John Patrick Leary
Aiding Colombia
Kathleen Christison
Israel
and Ethics
May 11, 2002
Joady Guthrie
The Holy Lands:
A Peace Vision
Patrick Cockburn
Bombing
Iraq:
the Pentagon Prepares a Prolonged Campaign
George Sunderland
CounterPunch Special
Our
Vichy Congress: Israel's Stranglehold on Capitol Hill
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Five
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How the CIA's Backing of the Mujahideen Created the World's Most
Robust Heroin Market and Helped to Finance the Rise of the Taliban
and Osama bin Laden
Whiteout:
CIA, Drugs & the
Press
by Alexander
Cockburn
and Jeffrey St. Clair
The New Crusade:
America's War on Terrorism
By Rahul Mahajan
The Memphis Blues Again:
Six Decades of Memphis Music Photographs
Photos by Ernest Withers
Text by Daniel Wolff
The New Intifada:
Resisting Israel's Apartheid
Edited by Roane Carey
A Pocket Guide to
Environmental Bad Guys
by James Ridgeway
and Jeffrey St. Clair
The
Phoenix Program
by Douglas Valentine
Al Gore:
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by Cockburn
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May
22, 2002
The Violence of Ethnic Profiling
a first-hand
account of being accosted at
the US/Canadian border
by Behzad Yaghmaian
My short visit to Quebec was nearing its end.
After a magnificent week of visiting friends, I was ready for
my trip home: New York City, USA. I had crossed the border many
times in the past. But this time I was exceptionally anxious,
unsettled and feeling insecure. I remembered the fear and anxiety
in my last visits to Iran--my place of birth, my original home.
Thousands of miles away from Iran, I was engulfed in the same
feelings of fear and vulnerability.
Saturday, May 18, 2002. I said farewell
to my friends, put my bags in the car's trunk and headed towards
the U.S. border at 7:30 in the morning. Highway 15 South, a cold
and cloudy morning: I unzipped the side pocked of my knapsack,
got my American passport out, checked all my documents, lined
up behind the other cars--others with New York and Quebec license
plates--and slowly approached the passport control. A  middle-aged woman with short hair, stocky,
blond, and a blank face: she took my passport without smiling.
"Where are you going Sir?" she asked authoritatively.
"Home, New York City," I replied. The officer inquired
about the places I visited, the names of people I met, and my
profession. I responded calmly. Leaving her booth, she asked
me to open the trunk and remain inside my car. I acted accordingly.
My car had to be searched. I waited in
the car and watched with anger and frustration other cars passing
me by. I stared at men and women driving through the border,
not questioned, not suspected of an uncommitted crime. Male,
young, Middle Eastern: I was singled out, questioned and later
interrogated like a convicted criminal. I was nervous, doubting
my own innocence, feeling the need to justify my activities and
existence. I remembered the same feelings when I was arrested,
beaten, and jailed in Tehran for an innocent act of walking in
a park with a female companion not related to me by blood or
marriage.
Returning to her booth, the officer filled
out a form, placed my documents in a bag and on the windshield,
and demanded that I proceed to the garage behind the booth and
remain in the car. My hands over the steering wheel, I waited
in the garage in fear. Two armed officers left the building facing
my car. Slowly walking towards my car, hands over their guns,
they surrounded the vehicle. "Step out please," said
the officer on the driver's side. I was asked to open the trunk,
take my bag, leave the trunk open, and stand beside my car. Moving
back, the officers stood one foot behind me--one on my left,
they other on my right. Their hands nearly touching their guns,
they escorted me to the building. All my moves were closely watched.
They were prepared to shoot. I was technically under arrest.
Standing between the officers, I was
asked to place my bag on a long metal table, proceed to the counter,
remove everything from my pockets, and wait. I was given a form
to fill out. Having left my reading glasses in my knapsack in
the car, I requested permission to get my glasses. They conceded.
Hands over their guns, they escorted me to the car. Surrounding
the car from a two-foot distance, they watched me take my knapsack
from the car, and escorted me back to the building. Shaking in
fear, I stood before the counter and filled out the form. Staring
at my shaking hands, an officer emptied my knapsack. The other
returned from searching my car.
I was no longer being searched for illegal
objects in my car. The car was clean. They were now interested
in my identity, activities, exchanges and purchases, friends,
travels, and all that made me different from the men and women
who were allowed to cross the border without questioning. Every
card and piece of paper in my wallet was checked. I was asked
to explain my credit card receipts. A $500 bill from a small-town
garage for the purchase of four new tires led to suspicion and
more questioning. A receipt for an airline ticket to Atlanta
raised further alarm! "What was the purpose of your trip
to Atlanta?" asked the interrogating officer. "My book
was featured at a conference." I replied. He asked about
the subject of my book. "Do you travel a lot?" he asked
while leafing through the pages of my passport.
My nervousness increasing by every question,
a mixed feeling of violation and anger overcame me. I felt invaded.
Flashbacks from Iran reappeared. I saw myself back in the custody
of the guardians of the Islamic Republic, remembered leaving
Iran without saying farewell to my loved ones. An activist and
critic of the Islamic Republic, a citizen of the United States,
a frequent traveler: I had all the prerequisites to be a suspected
agent of the Great Satan, the United States of America. I was
a perfect target.
Thousands of miles away, I was now in
my new home, a haven away from the everyday violence of the Islamic
Republic, its repressive laws and practices, and its violation
of people's basic rights. But, once again, I was a target. I
had the perfect profile of an imagined terrorist, a Moslem fundamentalist,
an agent of the Islamic Republic and its global network. For
the first time in my life, I felt the heavy burden of homelessness.
I had no home. I was not acceptable, but rather the object of
official and intrusive investigation.
The interrogation ended. I was seated
on a corner. A new officer arrived. More questions were asked.
Half an hour gone, I was cleared. "Have a good day,"
said the first interrogating officer. I left the building, sat
in my car, slowly drove away, and began my search for a new home.
Behzad Yaghmaian
is the author of Social
Change in Iran: an eyewitness account of Dissent, Defiance and
a New Movement for Human Rights.
He can be reached at: behzad_yaghmaian@hotmail.com
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