After having spent a tiring day on planes and in airports, I was ready to get my vacation started. One last hurdle—would I be hassled by the Customs & Immigration people yet again? After going through the initial customs checkpoint, where my documents were checked, I was instructed to go to immigration. The woman in immigration asked me why I was coming to Canada.
"To visit friends," I replied.
"How long will you be here?" she asked.
I showed her my return ticket.
I told her that I did not.
"Are you sure?" she asked insistently.
Thinking that this was quite possibly the most idiotic thing I'd heard in weeks, I told her that I was quite sure about my lack of a criminal record.
Growing a bit exasperated with this inane questioning, I said that I might go shopping at some point during my stay. At this point, I was sent back to customs for a baggage check. The officer conducting the baggage check was more polite than the woman at immigration. In one of my bags, he found a book containing the text of a ritual which we were going to be performing.
I said, "Yes." It wasn't really any of his business, but what could I say, as he was looking at the text of the ceremony? He told me to repack my bag and walked away. A few minutes later, I was sent back to immigration. After waiting a bit, I was called back into the same office and confronted by the same woman.
"You lied to us," she flatly asserted.
"You came here to perform religious ceremonies," she said, eyes blazing—a prosecutor who had caught a defendant in deceptive testimony.
"Well, no." Her disappointment was clear.
"It's the same thing," I affirmed.
"But you are going to be conducting your ceremonies. You should have told us that you were here for that." She was looking for some leverage.
She grudgingly acknowledged that I had a point and went on to the inevitable questions about my hosts. I provided the information they requested and informed these officials that my friends would be waiting here at the airport, should they wish to confirm any of this.
The plane arrived at the same time we did—7:15 p.m., on time. We watched, patiently, for the first 45 minutes, as passengers from Michael's flight filed through the Customs/Immigration doors. Half an hour later, out strode the inevitable immigration officers—one female with an agenda and the other male, who held back somewhat closer to the doors.
"Yes we are." We had bridged about half the distance between us by this point. I could see those eyes, the eyelids opened just a bit too far, pupils dilated—the general look of fanaticism.
The rest of the people in the airport turned around, gawked, and began listening to this public interrogation. Obviously, I thought, there would be no tact or respect of privacy with this one. Both of our tempers beginning to flare.
"Or is it his religion?" Robert added suavely. At this point she must have realized where we could head with this. Canada does not yet officially endorse the persecution of minority religions.
"Oh no it's nothing like that," she said hastily. "Thank you. He'll be out in just a few minutes." She and her silent back-up turned and left.
Another 15 minutes later, Michael finally emerged—annoyed, but otherwise unscathed.
When "Miss Immigration" returned, she took my documents, made copies of them and issued me a temporary pass which, she said, I must have with me at all times. Recollections of films wherein Gestapo or KGB agents perennially asked for "your papers" flashed across my mind. She then assured me that my religion had nothing to do with these hassles—it was what they had to do to everyone.
She seemed to miss the irony.