I am at the airport. At the border. The Canadian border. I look up and into the eyes of the Passport Control man. He looks at me, looks at my passport. He looks at my passport very carefully.
“Iraqi.”
“Yes,” I say, “I am Iraqi.”
“I'm allergic to Iraqis,” he says.
I wait, nervously, for him to smile and tell me he is joking.
He does not smile.
“Why do you want to enter Canada ?” he asks me.
“I am a student. I am going to start a PhD program at a Canadian university.”
I am sweating a little, even though the airport is air conditioned. I am used to 60 degrees celcius. I should not be sweating.
For a moment, I consider running. I imagine crossing the border and tearing up my passport and every piece of identification I am carrying. I visualize myself asking for asylum.
I cannot go back. The way back is in flames. The country is in flames. I can only go forward.
I meet his gaze squarely. He is still not smiling.
“Are you coming directly from Iraq ?”
“No. Syria .”
I have a sense that I am not helping my case. He is flipping through the pages of my passport, reading each visa and scrutinizing each stamp.
And then, as easily and quickly as I imagined it should be, he puts down my documents and smiles at me.
“I was joking,” he says. “Welcome to Canada .”
And though I know he was not joking and his eyes are not really smiling, just his mouth, I thank him, gather my belongings and move forward.