The Immigration Line

They’re treated like animals. 

Okay, maybe that’s a little strong. 

But they’re definitely not treated like humans.

They are different. Set apart from the crowd. You can spot them easily, waiting in the lines of the flights going to the Middle East. Their hardened hands clench their passport and ticket, holding on to them dearer than life. Maybe they are.

They huddle together, looking for a familiar face, or at least, someone from the same state, speaking the same language. Someone to share their fear. Their nervous eyes continuously scan the counters ahead, as they know those counters represent a gateway to a new life. Whether a better one, they’re not sure. As they watch in dread, one of their own gets pulled aside by the staff. There’s a problem with his ticket. He is told he needs a new one. As the hyperventilating man tries to reason and grovel, the others clench harder to their documents. Praying. Hoping. Worrying.

They approach the counter slowly. Told by the guard which counter to join. Pushed forward. Pulled back. Shoved around like cattle. While the girl standing next to them, wearing markedly different clothes, looking calm and relaxed with her earphones, is told respectfully, “Madam, line number 3.”

As they finish up at the counter, wondering if it is time to relax yet, they’re handed a new document with their boarding pass: a form they are expected to ‘fill out.’ A form in English. A form that requires reading and writing. A skill that had they already learnt, they wouldn’t be leaving their families and homes for Jeddah and Bahrain. Did these officers think they didn’t know that already? Looking up in confusion and expectation, they are met with a politely distant smile, as the person at the counter is already looking at the next customer.

Dejectedly, they look around, trying to find someone to help. Should they ask that family traveling with kids? Or those men in the business suits? Or the young college girl? They hesitantly approach one, holding up their passport and form in a silent plea for help. The airport staff say they are too busy. The passengers have a flight to catch. Ignored. Refused. Waved off. With each failed attempt, their insides get clammier. They had come too far to back off now. Too much was at stake.

Trying not to think of that poor man who was turned away at the ticket counter, they continue to ask for help. And the moment one of them gets a positive response, they swarm like bees. It’s their one chance; there’ s no way they can let it pass. Especially if their jackpot is too polite to refuse. But what that miserable person filling out a dozen forms does not realize is that he really is their jackpot. To him, they’re a bunch of illiterates hovering around for whom he’s doing a favour. To them, he’s their ticket to a new life.

Besides the one they’re already clenching in their hands.