A Lesson in Prejudice
Recently, it seems, there has been a spate of hate crimes everywhere. As I read of one such incident, I recalled a time in 1972. I had gone to London for my cousin’s wedding and continued to Milano and the Lago Maggiore with my father. I had left my children in Israel in the care of my mother’s cousin. I was in need of a much needed rest. Things were not going well between my then husband and myself.
Soon it was time for me to pick up children and return to Tehran. I had to take a plane from Milano to Rome where I transferred to an El Al plane which would take me to Tel Aviv. It was a matter of getting off one plane and boarding another. I had some hand luggage with which I was struggling. A kind American G.I. soldier offered me assistance, which I accepted with much gratitude. He walked me to the checkout counter and left.
In those days, in Iran, foreign companies had to work under the umbrella of an Iranian entity. El Al operated under my father’s name. It was simply a courtesy that my father extended to the airline. There were many acts of terror going on at that time. One was a female terrorist with the same last name as ours, Tawfik. Apparently she had a reputation of being blood thirsty and a penchant of wreaking great havoc. For that reason the females in our family experienced unnecessary problems when traveling abroad. For that reason, on that trip El Al provided me an official letter stating that I was a friend of El Al and Israel.
The person at the check-in counter in Rome eyed me suspiciously when she saw me approaching with the GI. She asked me who he was. I answered frankly that I did not know him. He was just a kind man who had offered help to me. That was obviously the wrong answer. She called for back up. She asked for my passport. I was born in Iraq, that presented quite a problem! Moreover my surname, Tawfik, also raised suspicion, plus I was in my late twenties, approximately of the same age as the terrorist! They separated my luggage from everyone else’s, then thoroughly examined my luggage. They discovered the stunning Nina Ricci copy evening gown that I had worn to my cousin’s wedding in London. It was in a suitcase of its very own because I was worried of it being crushed. It was truly a work of art. I still have the dress. It’s still housed in the same suitcase. For some reason that heightened their suspicion that I was the terrorist. They asked for more agents to be present. I was getting annoyed. I produced my letter written by the El Al office in Tehran. A pompous little man read it, then read it again. Then he looked at me and said, “You don’t look Jewish!”
I saucily replied, “Are You Ashkénaze or Sephardic?”
The little twit objected to my questioning him. Pompously he replied, “Ashkénaze of course!” I am Sephardic and some Jews of European background do not like being mistaken as Sephardim. I sensed he was one of them.
“Well, you don’t look Ashkénaze! You look Sepharadim,” I replied cattily. I did not like his attitude and was playing with his self esteem. I was feeling completely annoyed by his condescending attitude. This whole rigmarole went on for over an hour. I sighed a weary sigh of relief when it was over. But I was mistaken; it wasn’t over. They led me to an area where almost everyone was speaking Arabic. They still suspect me of being a terrorist, I thought! I said nothing, just waited. Finally I was escorted to my El Al flight. I was assigned to a middle seat. On each side of me there sat a hefty looking man. I buckled my seat and leaned back. We were on our way! Upon take off, each of the men made it a point of leaning forward to allow me to notice that they were carrying guns in holsters underneath their suit jackets. At that point I became rather alarmed. I did not move from my seat for rest of the flight. I did not relish the idea of being led off the plane in handcuffs at the least or shot.
At last we landed. I stood in queue once more to have my passport stamped. I was asked all the relevant questions, what is the purpose oh my visit and how long did I intend to stay? It was not until I cleared customs that I realized they haven’t given me back my passport. I was now shaking with anger and nervousness! I turned and banged hard on the exit gate until they let me in!
“Enough of your nonsense! Give me back my passport!” I exclaimed. I snatched my passport and marched out once more, still fuming.
I caught a taxi to my uncle’s house. The taxi kept going in the wrong direction. I kept correcting him. When we finally reached my destination, the driver commented, “We had to be sure.” I understood but I never forgot or forgave that unpleasant experience.
Many years have a passed since then. It seemed it a lifetime ago. After the Revolution in Iran, we immigrated to the United States. We now lived in New York. Our whole way of life changed. They were difficult years. We were met with extreme hostility at each and every corner. I felt as if I was crawling on my hands and knees, trying to survive. We were surrounded with animosity, but the hardest thing was how to protect my children from all this hatred. That was difficult. Thankfully we met other people in similar circumstances as ours. We became friends. Our children played with each other. We began to feel more comfortable, for we now had a group of friends who underwent similar experiences as us. I remember being invited to a ladies luncheon. Everything was so Iranian, the food, the decor, the music, the atmosphere… When it was time to leave, I got into the car and it suddenly dawned on me, that no, I wasn’t back in Tehran. I’m still in this country that hated us for no fault of our own. Tears stung my eyes as I drove home. My children would be coming home from school soon. “Why?” I silently asked myself. “Why all this hatred?”
One day, from this same group of ladies, about four or five of us decided to venture into the city. We were looking forward to the outing. It was one of the first times we ventured into Manhattan without our husbands. We wandered about the busy streets. We took in the crowds, we window shopped. In one of the stores, something caught the eye of one my new friends. We entered, excitedly chattering in Persian. Behind the counter stood an old man. Upon hearing us speaking Persian, his face turned stormy. He raised his arm in rage and shook it at us.
“Get out you filthy Iranians! Get out! You are contaminating my store!” he roared. We scurried out in alarm.
Many years have passed since then. We are now an integral and respected part of society. Yet prejudice and hatred is still alive and well. I think of the Ukrainians and their nemesis, Putin, and again I think, why all this hatred, why?
Then I remembered the day my son and daughter took me to the Palisades soon after my Peter passed away. They went hiking with our dog Picasso. I was holding our pup Ebony. Peter had been eagerly looking forward to meeting her, but she was born in late April. She had not been weaned a month later when he passed away. He never got to meet her, I thought, as I sat waiting for my children to return. The sun was setting. I was holding Ebony to me as I sadly gazed at the mountains in melancholy despair. The crowds had gone. There was no one about. Silence enveloped the mountains. Just then a couple passed by. They noticed me, sitting there alone with the tiny puppy snoozing in my arms. They stopped and asked if I was alone and if I needed help. I thanked them and said I was waiting for my children to return from their hike. They said they would sit and wait with me since they didn’t think it was wise for me to be alone. They were so kind. We started to speak. I told them that I had recently lost my husband and they related that she was Israeli and he was Palestinian and they were a married couple. I remember thinking then that if people who were supposed to be arch enemies loved one another, then all is not lost. So why does not mankind know how to live in peace? I fervently wish it would, for it is so much easier to love than to hate.