Immigrants seek justice in new home

After 9/11, many of my friends began to hate me. People looked at me differently at airports and other public places - even my coworkers. They made derogatory comments. I wound up apologizing to many people over the years, even people whom I didn't know. But all I was trying to do was tell the world that I am not a terrorist.

My family and I fled Iraq with no choice. Saddam Hussein personally organized a team of men to bury my family alive, all because of my father's involvement in a plan to oust the Iraqi dictator.

During the 1980s and the 1990s, my father worked as an informant for the CIA. As a result, our family of seven lived in a dangerous world, moving from town to town in fear. In 1988, Saddam put a contract out on my father's head and the rest of the family. Several times we were shot at, and though we faced very real threats, my father continued with his job until other Iraqis began to suspect what he was up to.

In November 1996, the Clinton administration ordered my family to leave Iraq immediately, and within three months we were in Utah. Ecstatic and extremely lucky to have survived that tyranny, my family and I were no longer in fear.

It was snowing and freezing when we were dropped off at a one-bedroom house on the evening of Feb. 25, 1997. The electricity wasn't functioning properly and the heater wasn't turned on. At that moment, I thought we had somehow returned to the freezing dark mountains of Kurdistan.

We soon learned that our rent was only half paid. The initial agreement from the Rescue Committee stated that the first three months of rent were taken care of. Wrong! We needed to find jobs - and soon.

I desperately went on a job hunt, and luckily found something in a library at a nearby college despite my terrible English. Fortunately, I was hired to reshelve books, so I didn't really need to communicate. That job earned me enough money so I could pay the other half of the rent. Yet the landlord seemed to have no patience; he warned us that, if this happened again, we could face eviction. (In Iraq we would have faced execution.)

By mid-March, my father found a job doing carpentry work. Meanwhile, I wrote numerous letters to our congressman and state senator about our situation. There was no response from either.

The immigration department labeled my family as illegal despite our initial status of "political asylum." In 1998, we applied for our status change to get our green cards. Eight months later, we found out that they had lost our forms.

We continued trying to fight for our rights, but nothing could be done without a good attorney. And we had no money for high-priced lawyers. I wrote several letters to Homeland Security, as well as the director of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. I even sent a letter to President George W. Bush. Again, no response.

Shortly after Sept. 11, 2001, our family decided to move to Detroit, hoping to avoid any discriminatory backlash after the terrorist attacks. We thought Detroit offered more diversity.

One early afternoon, my father and I went for a drive downtown. It had been a while since we had a father-son talk, and one of the topics we discussed was my father's wish to stay in Michigan and apply for our green cards.

While driving, we missed our exit and before we knew what was happening we were on a road heading toward the bridge to Canada. The eight-lane road was bedlam, jammed with small vehicles and SUVs. The only thing I could do was to go straight toward the border.

At the checkpoint, I simply told the man that I had taken a wrong exit. However, his suspicions were aroused when I told him I was from Iraq. He had us wait there for a few minutes while he made some phone calls. When he returned, he told us to go straight and to make a sharp U-turn. I was ecstatic!

I drove away as instructed, only to discover more than a dozen Border Patrol officers waiting for us, their rifles pointed in our direction. This was embarrassing!

We were ordered out of the car, with our hands above our heads. They combed through the vehicle searching for "bombs." Then the K-9 unit arrived, and they also searched us. After 45 minutes in the freezing temperatures, we were taken into an office on the border, still handcuffed.

Three federal agents were waiting for us with photos of alleged terrorists. They wanted to know if we knew any of them. Then my father told them that he had worked for the CIA in Iraq. The agents seemed to have no interest in his work as an informant. The interrogation went on for four hours that evening until they finally decided that we were clean.

Not long after that, my family moved back to Utah, where the unemployment rate was lower.

But that time on the border wasn't the last time we were treated unfairly. In one instance, I was removed from a plane because I sat in the exit row. Another time, my luggage was lost for eight days. I was nearly attacked by a U.S. marshal for having a fishing pole on a plane. They thought I had snuck a rifle on board.

The Obama administration and immigration officials should really focus on helping those of us in the United States legally. Process their documents, help them adjust to their new homes, before moving on to assist those who are here illegally. There are so many refugees and immigrants in this country legally who are awaiting their status change. I would love to see reforms to the system that would speed the processing time for such documents.

Fifteen years after our arrival in the United States, my family and I are still fighting with immigration officials. Regularly, we must reassure people that we are not terrorists. My father, who so long ago risked his life and his family to help this country, lives with this disappointment daily. Yet he is determined that someday we will find justice.

E-mail Alan Karam at alnkaram@gmail.com.