Identity

 

A man in plainclothes asked to see my ID. I complied without making any effort to ascertain his credentials. He looked it over, gave it back, and ran off. I did not think much of it. Maybe he was looking for someone. Maybe he thought I had overstayed my welcome. Several years and thousands of kilometres later a government employee asked for my ID. He examined it with careful attention. I had an inkling why. Convinced he could not raise objections to this one, he asked for a second ID. I was prepared. He knew he had to let me through. I pressed the little hammer-sickle, watched for the little light, and moved on. Not long after that, I was asleep on the train. A ticket master woke me up, I mumbled a name, he wrote something on his list and moved on. Uncharacteristically smooth, the ticket was not in my name. On another train in the same parts, I said my name again. This time the ID had to follow, of course the ID had to follow. Then the azaan went off on my phone. My heart dropped on to the tracks. What a ridiculous oversight. Eyes were already on me before I turned it off. An uncomfortable 8 hours. Another time, I got stopped walking into my college hostel. Another ID request, somewhat surprising. “This is not you,” he said after some examination. Was he pulling my leg? There’s not a lot he had to do to get me to panic on this. He was busy – or maybe bored. The guard let me in anyway. Last year, a Palestinian I met told me “In the West Bank I sleep with my passport under the pillow.” How quickly things fall into perspective; I can lock mine away at night.