"Maybe it was Assad," my father said. Assad lacks opposable thumbs and is a cat, so I doubted that he had planned and executed a daring passport heist. There were only three of us in the house (plus Assad), and so I knew that it was either my mother, my father or both who had taken my passport and replaced it with my older, much more expired passport from a decade ago. A part of me was enraged in a way that I can barely comprehend, but the largest part of me felt a profound sorrow and understanding: They didn't want their son to die, or even be at risk.
My family has long debated the merits of non-violent direct action and solidarity versus its costs. Every year, a few months before I depart, my parents, siblings, relatives and I sit for hours on end discussing the current international situation and whether the best course of action is to go or stay. I always end up going, but this year is the second out of three in which the destination country has changed as a result of these discussions (the initial plan was Chechnya).
My parents - like any parents - follow a primal directive to protect their young. No cause, no matter how inspired, is worth their son's life. They will always support me, but they are always afraid for me. In essence, I choose for them - not only for myself - the life of the oppressed people of wherever. For their part, my parents don't like living every moment in fear of losing a son, and feel that they must do what parents do when they see their toddlers heading for the stairs.
I now have a shiny new passport, and will make my originally scheduled departure time. I respect my parents' actions and have kept them posted on my progress. I have told them at every turn that I understood why they took my passport and sympathized with their situation. Ultimately, though, I have to go.
tarek : )
Photos:
Monday, 14 June 2004: The older, much more expired passport, which Assad apparently replaced my real passport with.