January 14, 2003	Tuesday	Ziqa'ad 10, 1423

NEW YORK: Arshad Ali thought he left his fears behind when he came to America. He was right. He experienced love, hunger and pain, sometimes all three at the same time, in his seven years in New York. But he never feared anyone in this big, bad city called New York.

Six-foot-three, Ali is a strong man. He comes from Peshawar, that borders the wild Afghan frontiers. He had a comfortable life in Peshawar. The youngest in his entire family, he was much in demand. Birthdays, marriages or religious festivals, he was always the center of attraction.

But when two of his cousins were killed in sectarian riots and he had to spend one whole night on the roof of his old “haveli” in Peshawar — watching once-friendly streets with a 12-bore shotgun in his hands — Ali’s parents borrowed money from other relatives and sent him to America.

If he wanted, he could have applied for political asylum. But he did not. He always felt that seeking asylum was like betraying his motherland. “So what if I had problem back home, I am not going to betray my country,” he would often say to his friends.

Instead, he decided to walk his way through the system in America. So as soon as he could, he got a license and started driving a cab. New York is a wild city, particularly for cab drivers. But Ali was never afraid. “I have closed the door that opens to fears,” he used to say. But fear forced the door to open.

When the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center collapsed, Ali was driving his cab in Manhattan. He drove close to the collapsing towers, watched people jumping out of windows to their deaths and went home. “For two days, I did not drive my cab, for two full days. I just did not feel like it,” he later said.

When he came out on the road again, he was a changed man. Now he would tell his friend that fear is like a ghost, it goes with you wherever you go. It is there, lurking, even when it isn’t baring its mythic fangs, waiting to leap from its inner lair and overpower you at the slightest excuse.

It was there, with him, part of Ali back home, too.

After Sept. 11, 2001, it reared its head again and again. First, there were these attacks on Muslims. Even Sikhs were not spared because they have beards. Then came the Immigration and Naturalization Service’s campaign to catch suspected terrorists. Hundreds of Pakistanis and other Muslims were arrested from New York alone. Some are still in jails while more than 500 have been deported to Pakistan. INS says it still wishes to catch more than 300,000 people who are living in American despite being ordered to leave the country.

And while this campaign was still continuing, the INS announced yet another campaign, asking visitors and temporary residents from 20 countries, mainly Muslim, to register, give fingerprints and have their pictures taken.

During the first two phases, hundreds of people were again arrested, some are still in jail, but most have been released on bail and face deportation proceedings.

In the third phase, which begins Jan. 13, Pakistanis and Saudis have to register. INS officials acknowledge that the Pakistanis would be the largest ethnic group to register. Between 100,000 to 150,000 are expected to be affected by this new programme.

All this has had a profound affect on Ali and his Pakistani friends. When they go out, they are not sure whether they will return home or find themselves in a jail or on a plane for deportation. Now when they go out, they watch their own shadows.

Last week, Ali was on a train. It was packed. No one was looking at him. He felt safe in the anonymity of the crowd. But his freedom from fear was short-lived. At one of the stations, he does not remember know which, a burly policeman boarded the train. He stood right in front of Ali, looking into his eyes. Ali’s fear rose in his throat.

Fear has a strange effect on people. It makes you feel guilty without committing a crime. That’s how Ali felt. He felt as if he was responsible for what had happened to New York and whatever else was happening around the world.

He imagined himself being led away by the police as an Al Qaeda suspect and his picture on the front pages of all the newspapers and TV screens.

Confused and scared, he took out his cell phone — the train had not entered the tunnel yet. He called a friend in Brooklyn; spoke with him briefly before the trained entered the Manhattan tunnel, ending the conversation.

Ali called his friend again, who asked him to “get off the train, take a cab and come over.”

When the conversation broke off, Ali looked around for some reassurance, a friendly smile, a known face, a little affection. He found nothing. He got off the train at the Grand Central Station.

As soon as he got off the train, his phone rang. It was his friend. “What happened? Why did you switch off the phone?” he asked.

“Nothing, I got disconnected,” Ali said.

“OK. But keep it on. I will keep checking,” he said. And he did. Several times.

Ali was already feeling better. It is a pleasant walk from Grand Central Station to the UN Plaza. You pass and meet people of every colour and creed. Ali has always enjoyed this walk. And now he likes it even more. It makes him forget who he is.

This desire to assume a neutral identity that transcends all boundaries of colour, caste and religion is not new. Ali has yearned for a nameless and faceless identity for years. Even when he was living in his own country, he was a minority, both ethnic and religious. He thought he got rid of the tag in New York. But he was wrong.

The revived sense of insecurity has increased his desire to acquire a new name tag that makes me him of the larger crowd by erasing all those features that distinguish him from others.

But at the same time, Ali wants to retain what he brought with him from home. He not only wants to retain it but also want to pass it on to his children, if and when he has them.

This is a strange dilemma that perhaps all minorities have to face. Whenever they feel the crush, they regret being different from others and when they are among their own, they want to preserve what makes them different.