A Stranger in His Own Lands

In some ways, I’ve always had a fascination with exile. I was born in Pakistan. I moved to Canada when I was 4 years old and became a citizen of that nation at age 11.

All of my education, kindergarten to PhD, was in Canada. In 1997, after 27 years of living in Canada, I moved to Los Angeles. I have now lived in Los Angeles for almost seven years, or three years longer than I lived in Pakistan. Does that make me more of an Angeleno than a Pakistani? I’ve always considered myself a Canadian, proud of my home. But my last name is Hussain, and I am brown and a Muslim. And I teach about Islam. Am I a “real” Canadian? If not, who is?

Returning to Los Angeles in January from a week’s vacation in Vancouver, I was stopped by U.S. immigration at the Vancouver airport. No problem, I thought. I’m a Canadian citizen. I have a valid U.S. work visa for the job that I have held for the last seven years. I was told to go to a separate area for further processing because I had to be “entered into the system.” When I asked why, the U.S. official just said they were registering certain people because of their country of birth.

I was given a sheet of questions to fill out. Thirty minutes later, I was called in by another officer, who entered my information into a computer. She didn’t appear to look at my business card or my California driver’s license, both identifying California addresses. Curiously, she asked me if I was a student, when my faculty identification, business card and visa all stated that I was a professor. She then removed the H1-B work visa from my passport, replacing it with one marked “special registration.” I was fingerprinted, photographed and given a 27-page instruction manual about my new status.

As far as my experience went, there was no explicit humiliation; I was not mistreated or deported. But it hurt all the same, and I have serious concerns about both the U.S. and Canadian governments.

With respect to the American government, I wonder why this procedure was necessary given my residency and work history. I was hired at Cal State Northridge after an international search. I have been on television, radio and stage, and I have been profiled in magazines and newspapers. I have never had a criminal record in either the U.S. or Canada. Any doubt about my work or any suspicions about me being a “terrorist” or a “risk” are put to rest when one examines my life. If I’m not “safe,” then I don’t know who is.

My concern with the Canadian government is much deeper. I grew up believing that I was Canadian. In no way am I am ashamed of being born in Pakistan, or of my Pakistani heritage. But I was 4 when we moved to Canada. The first language I learned to read and write was English. The next one was French. I grew up in Ontario, but I have had the privilege of living in every province from Nova Scotia to British Columbia.

I am Canadian. And yet to my government, I am clearly second-tier. That’s what hurts the most. As a kid, I had to deal with racism and prejudice. Growing up in Toronto and Oakville in the early 1970s, I was called “Paki” more times than I care to remember. I thought things were different now. Clearly, all Canadians are equal, but some are more equal than others.

And I’d like to think that there are some lessons that can be learned from my experience. If the American government can do this to me, it can do it to anyone. And if the Canadian government can decide to fight for some citizens but not others, what does that say about our citizenship?

My country may not love me, but I’m still proud to be a Canadian.

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Amir Hussain teaches in the department of religious studies at Cal State Northridge.