Remembrance of terrorism past

Terrorism inspires hatred – in those who undertake it and those who are affected by it. But it is also true that terrorism is a relative matter. As they say, one’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter. Since the interpretation depends on who is applying or receiving the ignominy, one cannot discard easily the self-sacrificing, the self-immolating and the bomb-carriers as opposed to the cowardly button-pushers who deal out death from a distance.

Terror and democracy can be met face-to-face without the least provocation from the most ordinary citizen minding his own quotidian business, as was the case of yours truly on a quiet, long weekend on my way to Brussels, not long before the barriers and frontiers of the future European Union were discarded.

This super-express train went from Paris to Brussels without a single stop between the two capitals. This meant that French and Belgian customs and immigration officers were on the train from the very beginning and did their work from opposite ends towards the center, meeting and overlapping, examining passports and other papers and bags as they went along.

In Paris, before departing, I was comfortably reading on this rather empty wagon that very much looked, and felt, like a plane. There were two seats, separated from the two other seats by a corridor. I was seated near the window and had my bag next to me, a floppy sort of bag to carry necessities for a few days, containing enough to read for the journey and to comb one’s remaining, thinning hair. It also was the type of container that stays agape with a weary abandon.

Suddenly, a chubby, short, middle-aged Levantine sort of chap arrived, and I saw him pulling a chain as he advanced and tried to get into his row and the seat, which was exactly at the other side of the corridor. I thought that it might be a dog on a leash and that may start distasteful discussions with people who are less human than their own pooches.

It turned out to be not a dog but quite a voluminous bag being pulled by this gentleman. He lifted it with a grunt and tried to put it on the rack above the seats. By then I was getting interested for that lethal instrument could fall down as a great part of this "elephant" was leaning out. By the time he was starting to get settled in his seat, I told him how dangerous it was to keep the catapult aimed at us poor Romans-in-the-Siege. I suggested the big racks by the door, specifically provided for elephants, giraffes and even the well-packed obese.

That seemed like the end of a simple story but, unfortunately, it was only the beginning of a rather complicated one.

My passport was not interesting at all to the uniformed "Big Brothers,"who were so indifferent that they pointedly refused to admit they had the "genius of geniuses" (wink) right before them. I was miffed and relieved by my anonymity. Much less ignored, however, was my immediate neighbor, he with the whale of a bag. They grabbed his passport and bedlam broke loose. His document was confiscated, politely, but with not a chance of being returned as it was quickly ensconced in an officer’s bosom. They all left in a great hurry towards opposite ends of the train, and my neighbor had the bad taste of getting up and coming to my side of the corridor for a chat. Drats! Worse even was when each time he saw an officer rush in and out of our wagon, he would hurry back to his seat, looking, maladroitly innocent, away at the landscape as if he were trying to protect an accomplice – me! This happened several times and by then the fever of officialdom was escalating and they were looking at me with growing interest.

The neighbor started telling me his woes and even showed me the inside of his lips, saying he had been tortured (heaven knows where!), adding all kinds of details. Each chapter was opened by this crossing of the corridor towards me and away from me it was closed. My poor little heart was sinking faster by the minute as he was asked to follow an officer. Then I was faced by the inquisition. How come I knew him, where, why… the usual third-degree, menacing innuendoes and, worse still, wanting to know if he had given me something, etc., etc. I truthfully said that he had in no way given me anything. I said, "Just check my bag, if you wish." Gulp. I looked down and found my shaggy soft bag all agape and – flash! I remembered having gone to the toilet and leaving it there.

Inay ko! With a feeling of unexplainable guilt, I was answering their questions.My pumping heart showed pulsations that were no doubt, in every vein, exposed to official scrutiny and anti-terrorist acumen. As a final blow, I realized I had my name, address and even my phone number splashed on the tag that was attached on my bag. I was totally nude in this confrontation with this side of the law, but also on the less legal one. I did not know what would be the result of my stupid negligence vis-a-vis the outlaw or outlaws circulating on the train – how easy to make me part of that mission or later missions. Oh, to be found in the address book of some dark organization, arrested here and there. My mind went on a screeching race towards all the possibilities, and how to foresee an explanation about my trip to Brussels. The case of this man was so grave, dangerous, that they stopped the train midway, at St. Quentin, to get him off… with his whale of a bag and an embarrassed, sad look for me as he was being led away.

I had an officer come to me and we had a talk. I was more serene by then and had the minimum of intelligence in hiding that stupid tag that could have been quite a problem with underground and political obedience. It turned out that all kinds of allied police forces in Europe had been following my neighbor from Morocco, then from south to north of Spain, southern France – all the way to Paris and eventually right into my lap.

I had no words of thanks warm enough to express my gratitude that all this was happening in a democratic country. I would have probably been tortured to death by them to find out what connection I had with this chubby man, and… horror of horrors, in totalitarian regimes, the less you know, the more you are subjected to dismal pain, and only, as a deliverance – quick death.

This officer told me quite a few things about the fellow who caused all the turmoil. At that minute, he was being carted away. The officer proceeded to tell me that he had several passports, and your guess is as good as mine, despite my 007 rating in comic books, as to where he belonged and what he could kill for.

Probably this officer was gauging me with standard spy-game gambits, but my infantile charm must have worked on that hardened counter-spy for, after the long conversation, he brought out a stamp pad and stamped and imprinted on my blushing (wide, wide) forehead the words "Fragile But Not Dangerous."

In Brussels, during all of my stay I looked behind me, around me, to see if I was being followed by the good guys or the baddies. No doubt an innocent lamb like me was suspicious-looking to perverse minds…Di ba?

* * *

A lesson in modesty was offered me in Moscow, quite a few years back. The city was still under the boot of communism. I traveled with good friends (four ladies!). I used to get up quite early to take long walks without the imposed official accompaniment that would come at 9 a.m., with breakfast. I felt I was being followed at my own speed by a big dark gray car. I whistled, trying to look unimpressed, unworried… but my heart was saying otherwise. I finally faced my tormentors and realized they were only slowly dropping off traffic cops along the way, and the white flashing elements I was seeing in their hands were just white gloves they were putting on. My future as James Bond was depleted in my mind instantly! Had I swerved away from a confrontation with reality, I would have conjured pictures breeding of fear and animosity. As my good friend, colleague Francisco Goya said very clearly by stating in one of his sublime prints: "The slumber of Reason creates monsters."

I would have gone on thinking I was so important to the Soviet Union that I was being shadowed around. So much anti-communist propaganda had been delivered in the West that even my friends, in that tour, believed that we would die of hunger in Russia, and that the smoke-alarms in our hotel rooms were listening devices of the KGB. They wanted to go back home. I dissuaded them, saying the mere showing of smoke-alarm cones meant they were not to be taken for anti-capitalists’ listening posts. After all, even at the time, there were the almost invisible listening devices to inform all of Russia about our conversations. Fortunately, this seemed to calm them enough to stay on and enjoy the rest of the splendid museums and opera and palace.

All this to say that some terrors may be the result of the beholder, who churns them up out of being self-centered, feeling self-important and or in a position of power, such that the universe stems from him. Indeed, the eye of the beholder can be the eye beguiled.