9/11, the TSA, and how I became Indian-American

For every generation, there is a collective moment which we recall so vividly, it feels as if it was burned into our brains. We can’t help but remember exactly where we were, and what we were doing, when the shocking news arrived. This memory becomes a shared commonality, a point of connection, amongst those who experienced it. For Baby Boomers, this event was the assassination of President Kennedy, or perhaps Robert Kennedy, or Dr. Martin Luther King. For so many millennials, our traumatic moment that fateful Tuesday in September when we first heard that a plane had hit one of the towers of the World Trade Center. I was stepping out of the shower and getting dressed, when I heard the news from my mother, as she headed out of the house, about to leave for work

 “Shiva, a plane crashed into the World Trade Center.”

“Wait, what?”

“A plane just flew into the World Trade Center.”

My mind started racing. The World Trade? How could a plane fly low enough to crash into one of those magnificent towers? Was it an accident? I don’t know. Maybe? My mind quickly flashed back to the summer of 2000, just 13 months earlier, when my family was vacationing in New York City, and my sister, cousin, aunt and I headed up to the World Trade’s  observation area, at the top of the South Tower, and looked out on the stunning landscape that lay at our feet. Being up there give one a sense of serenity, as if you were floating in a balloon above the world, calmly watching life in the world’s most vibrant city unfold beneath you. Suddenly, I snapped back into the moment. How could this happen? Was it an accident? Or did somebody mean to do this?

I got into my car and headed off to work. It was my last week at this position, a post-high school summer job which I had enjoyed tremendously. I was scheduled to begin college at UCLA in just 10 days or so. I quickly turned the radio to NPR, and learned that a plane had hit the second tower. This was Armageddon. The Real Thing.  “Oh my God. Oh my God. What? No way. No. Insane. No” I muttered various combinations of these phrases as I drove to work, expecting the ground underneath me to give way at any moment.

As the weeks after this horrible day passed, we all felt a searing sense of loss, often mixed with a heavy dose of fear and rage. We became familiar with names like Al Qaeda and Osama bin Laden, while American and NATO soldiers went off to war in Afghanistan, and Congress passed sweeping anti-terrorism legislation. Flying, never particularly pleasant to begin with, became a lengthy ordeal, thanks to lengthy security checks implemented by a new federal agency, the Transportation Security Administration (TSA).

Still, I had little inkling that the events of 9/11 would have a very personal, long-term impact on my own identity and outlook. I was born in the United States, but my parents are from India. Growing up, I was raised with substantial awareness of my cultural and religious heritage. I can still remember participating in various dances and plays, held at a local cultural center, as well as at a Hindu temple in Los Angeles. As far as the dances go, all that comes to mind now is frantically glancing at the other participants, clumsily following their moves, and hoping nobody was paying close attention to me. This was a pattern that would be repeated when I participated in the annual Indian culture show during college, and at a friend’s wedding last year. I did have several close Indian friends, but that was hardly remarkable, in that my friend circle at that time (and today) was of varied cultural and religious backgrounds.

Most of all, I thought of myself as an American. Just American. Not Indian-American, South Asian American, or Hindu American. I didn’t actively choose to not identify as Indian-American, but generally, I was not particularly concerned with these hyphenated labels. I was a fan of UCLA and the Dodgers, amongst other teams. My obsession started with politics started at a young age. At the age of 9, I attended a victory party for President Bill Clinton’s 1992 election, at the invitation of a teacher’s father, whose was a local city councilman. Mostly, I was an all-American kid (albeit a quirky one).

That’s not to say that I never heard prejudiced comments about my ethnicity or heritage. More than a few times, I was mockingly asked if my parents worked at 7/11 (they don’t, although to this day, I still fail to see what is so shameful about working in a convenience store), and on occasion, I heard poorly performed imitations of Indian accents (we can thank the character Apu from The Simpsons for the fact that most of these attempts didn’t come close to the actual thing). During a school cultural festival, I can still recall several students cursing the bhangra music that was played for an Indian dance, and Indian music more broadly.

Yet, these incidents didn’t, and still don’t, stand out as a source of great pain, or a reason to identify myself as anything other than a red-blooded American. There are a few ignorant people, I figured, and that’s just the way it is. I’m as much a part of this society as any of them are, and I am nothing but American.

And then, 9/11 happened. On some level, things changed almost immediately. A few days after the attack was my last day of work, and I was heading off to college just 10 days after that. In the sleepy suburb of Torrance, where I grew up, visiting the sprawling Del Amo Mall was one of the favored social activities of most teenagers. When my mom came home from work, I wasn’t home. When I did finally return, she inquired as to where I was.

“Oh, at the mall.”

“Don’t go there. Not now”

“Why?”

“Shiva, it’s not safe for people who look like you to be out there right now. Not after what happened.”

“Come on, what’s the big deal about---“

“Shiva, I am serious!”

It didn’t make much sense to me. Yes, the hijackers were Muslims of Arab origin. With my green eyes, and medium complexion, I have been, over the years, mistaken for Latino, Afghan, Israeli, Egyptian, Persian, and a combination of various other ethnicities. As my father observed, some years later, when reading a Wall Street Journal article, accompanied by a picture of fighters from the extremist Nusra Front in Syria: “You look like one of these guys.” I suppose some bigots might assume that I was Arab or Muslim, and so I, or others who looked like me, Muslim or not, might become targets for violence. But overall, that didn't seem too likely. Surely, this country had evolved beyond that?

I was quickly proven wrong. The weekend after 9/11, Balbir Singh Sodhi, a Sikh-American gas station owner in Mesa, Arizona, who wore the turban that is customary for observant Sikh men, was murdered by a man who claimed the murder was “revenge for 9/11.” Upon his arrest, Sodhi’s murderer proclaimed “I stand for America all the way.” Just a few weeks later, a Pakistani-American convenience store owner named Waqar Hasan, and later Indian-American gas station owner, Vasudev Patel, were both murdered by another white supremacist, who admitted he was seeking revenge for 9/11.

I was now a freshman in college, and loving every minute of it. New friends, new experiences, and new adventures, were the order of the day. The freedom of living away from home, and of engaging with new people, and trying new things, was simply exhilarating. But somehow, in the back of my mind, a dark cloud seemed to loom over my life. I was different. I wasn’t, I started to feel, just another American. What happened to Sodhi, Hasan or Patel could have easily been my fate, if I were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

To be sure, this wasn’t the first time I had considered the possibility of being a victim of a violent crime. Growing up in the era of Columbine and countless other school shootings, not to mention the horrific gang violence that was rampant in much of Los Angeles during most of the 1980’s and 90’s, random bloodshed never seemed too far away. But to be targeted because of how I looked? Because when someone saw my face, the first thing that came to mind was hatred and terrorism? That my eyes, my skin, my hair, could make me an object of fear, resentment, or potentially even a target of violence? That was both highly painful and scary to even consider.

It also felt like something I had little control over. I might be able to avoid a dangerous neighborhood, or a troublesome situation on the street. How do you get away from how you look, and who you are? I become increasingly involved with the Indian Student Union (ISU); this was, in part, a desire for friendship, as well as some social and cultural kinship. Still, in another respect, it was an acknowledgment that how I viewed myself, in terms of nationality and citizenship, was indeed shifting.  

It is now 2004. I had been at UCLA for three years, and was absolutely immersed in this magical place. I was a columnist for the Daily Bruin, and was quite involved with student government, the Project BRITE mentorship program and of course ISU. I had formed a wonderful group of friends, including a close-knit crew of roommates with whom I shared an apartment on Midvale Avenue in Westwood, where we ate lots of burritos from Del Taco, argued over our favorite NBA teams, and threw apartment parties so rowdy that we lost our entire security deposit.

In the summer of 2004, I went abroad to study in Italy, and to travel through several other countries Europe afterwards. This turned out to be yet another transformative experience. From getting lost on the way to Milan, to eating one of the most exquisite lunches of my entire life in Venice, and basking in awe at the Vatican, I felt myself becoming a more complete person with every moment. This was life.

On the way back home, however, occurred an incident that will stay with me for the rest of my life. I was on my way back from the UK to the US, still basking in the glow of this transformative travel experience. I landed at LAX, eager to see my family and friends after this extended absence. I waited in the passport control exit line for what seemed liked hours. Finally, my turn came.

“Your passport isn’t scanning. Looks like it’s bent.”

“Sorry?”

“There’s something wrong with your passport.”

The TSA agent eyed me warily. He stopped typing on his computer, and then abruptly swiveled his chair and stared intently at me.

“What brought you to Europe?”

“I was studying abroad in Italy, and traveling after.”

“OK. What do you study in school?”

“I’m an undergrad at UCLA, political science is my major.”

“Really, you are?”

“Yes.”

“OK.”

A few seconds passed.

“Tell me this: How many people are in the US House of Representatives?”

At this point in my life, aside from accumulating a prodigious amount of parking tickets, and participating in the D.A.R.E. anti-drug program in middle school, I had never had much interaction with any sort of law enforcement. And yet, here I was, completely terrified of this bespectacled, balding federal employee who sat before me. Visions of an interrogation in a back room somewhere at LAX flashed through my mind, with FBI agents inquiring as to who I had met abroad, and whether they, or I, were involved in any terrorist activity.

The TSA officer was now fully alert. His always-sleepy eyes were wide open.. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for an answer. My political obsession, well over a decade old at this point, was finally about to pay off.

“435. There’s 435 representatives in the House.”

“Yeah. You got it. You may go. Welcome back.”  

And with that, I walked through passport control. The tension hadn’t subsided yet, and I was still in a bit of shock. But, I was about to see my family, and I certainly didn’t want to alarm them with the new realities of being an Indian living in post 9/11 America. But that night, jetlagged and exhausted as I was, I had some trouble falling asleep. I couldn’t help but think about what had happened back there. Was the passport really bent? OK, even if it were bent, that’s a simple issue to figure out, right? What was up with all the questions afterwards?

And soon enough, I knew. It’s because I look different. I wasn’t just an “American” anymore. Indian-American? Certainly. South Asian American? That as well. Hindu-American? Well, I was Hindu and American, so of course. But I just couldn’t bring myself to accept the argument I had once advanced, that I was just an American, and nothing else.

If that were the case, there would be no reason to treat or perceive me differently. I would not be a target of suspicion by law enforcement, or have to worry about being a victim of racially motivated violence. I came to see that I could not truly comprehend or accept myself, if I didn’t take into account that I was a person of Indian descent, living in the United States. There is a unique context and experiences, especially after the events of that second Tuesday in September, which accompany this reality.

The term “Indian-American” contains two separate words, which, when put together, carry a very specific contextual meaning. We’ve established that because of I’m of Indian descent, I’ve had certain experiences, closely linked to my ethnicity, which set me apart from many other Americans who don’t share my background. But what about the second half of this term? What does being American really mean to me?

Over time, I believe I’ve found the answer. What causes numerous people of goodwill, from various backgrounds, to be so troubled by unequal or unjust on the basis of one’s race, ethnicity, gender or sexual orientation? And is it that so bothers us about injustice more broadly? After all, there are societies across the globe where genocide still occurs, where one’s religion or family name can serve as a death sentence. In those places, being questioned by customs or immigration authorities, or even discriminated against in employment or housing, might seem to be the least of a person’s worries.

Yet, America was somehow supposed to be different. That's why we get upset, It says it right there in the Declaration of Independence: “All men are created equal.” This is an ideal which our nation was born with, and we are often troubled when we don't live up to these lofty standards. Equal treatment before the law. Freedom of speech. Freedom of conscience, that is, the right to choose one’s religious beliefs. To not be deprived of one’s freedom or property without due process. The right to trial before a jury of one’s peers. All of these principles were contained in the founding documents of this nation.

A few years ago, I conducted a thought experiment, seeking to assess what my life would be like if I didn’t enjoy the right to speak without governmental restraint, or if I were presumed guilty until proven innocent, if accused of a crime. Could I write about and speak on issues of concern, or post about them on Facebook or Blogger.com, without the protections contained in the First Amendment? What if I had been questioned by the authorities at LAX, and I lived in a nation with no due process, or which lacked a right to legal counsel in criminal cases? What might have happened to me in such a place, if the TSA agent didn't trust or believe my responses, or was just suspicious of me for arbitrary reasons, such as my ethnicity and appearance?

I came to see that I valued all of these protections tremendously, and that they make my life more secure. And, it’s important to remember, each of these rights that we enjoy are in large measure due to that visionary, brilliant, and often highly flawed group of men whom we call our Founding Fathers, and the document in which they inscribed their revolutionary ideals: the Constitution of the United States.

It is true that our nation’s founders, and successive generations, have often failed to uphold the promises and goals contained in our nation's foundational documents. When one examines our shameful history of slavery and segregation, the treatment of Native Americans, or the internment of Japanese Americans, to name just a few instances, it is clear that we have often fallen far short of where our best ideals seem to lead us. While less impactful than the atrocities of the past, the injustices of today, including wrongful and excessive incarceration, or the violations of basic expectations of privacy, due to large-scale spying by the NSA and other agencies, make it clear that there is still much work to be done.

Yet, since our nation has publicly committed itself to the cause of individual rights and liberty, no matter how far we sometimes seem to stray from our core values, it always seems that we have at least a fighting chance of ultimately doing the right thing, and upholding the best of our constitutional and democratic heritage. As a people, we always have a better society, an improved condition, a brighter reality, to aspire to, no matter how rough the road ahead might be. Our history is living proof of it. That ability and willingness to change, grow, and become a more equitable and livable nation, to live up to the vows we've taken over the centuries, is nothing short of remarkable. 

And so, in time, that's what America has come to mean for me. The pillars of liberty, equality, and the freedom to prosper, and to admit that one was wrong, while aiming to do the right thing tomorow, are what being American means to me. These are values that both those who share my national origin, as well as individuals whose forbearers hailed from lands thousands of miles from mine, can support and cherish. These common aspirations are the bonds that hold us together, and make us American.

Yet, as my life post 9/11 has taught me, each of us has different experiences, and faces different challenges, sometimes due to our race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or religious background. We can’t reasonably expect to overlook the unique context of our respective identities. It is, at the core, a part of who each of us is. That's why, for example, I consider myself Indian-American.

But yet, in spite of the unique cultural space we each occupy, we can also embrace a common vision of human dignity and freedom, grounded in the underlying vision of the Constitution, and use this as the basis from which to build and participate in an incredible society, a place worthy of what Dr. Martin Luther King might have envisioned when he spoke about the Beloved Community, or what President Reagan might have had in mind when he referred to the United States as a “shining city on a hill.”

9/11/01 was more than thirteen years ago, but the traumatic memory of this event remains fresh in my brain. That day, not only did our society change forever, but so many of us, experienced drastic personal changes, at many levels. For me, perhaps the most lasting consequence of those events can be felt in how it shaped my own identity. Indian. American. Indian-American. That’s me.