Meeting Nadir
10 June 2003
[Editor's Note: Nadir is a citizen of Pakistan who was working in Philadelphia as a truck driver sending money home to support his wife and children. He was arrested in a raid at a house described in this dispatch and taken to a prison facility in Texas and kept there without being charged with any crime for more than eight months. It was a case of mistaken identity and gross negligence for which our government has neither apologized, nor made any restitution. After reading about his ordeal in The Philadelphia Inquirer, I started a fund for Nadir to help offset his financial losses. This dispatch records the first of three meetings where I was able to give him checks from that fund. totaling $1.720.]
When I called to set a meeting time, I was struck by how Nadir's desire to accommodate me overshadowed other unspoken pressures he was facing. I guessed it had to do with work, so I made sure that he found a time that didn't conflict with it. Finally we agreed on Saturday afternoon. It occurred to me only later that he might have to take off work to meet with me anyway. I hoped that wasn't the case, but I feared it was.
Nadir (pronounced nah-dear) lives in a hardscrabble neighborhood in the shadows of old Veteran's Stadium in Southeast Philadelphia. The streets are narrow to begin with and the cars parked on both sides of the street made barely enough room me to navigate through. I found a place to park in his block - a miracle.
The rain blurred my glasses for a minute so I had trouble making out the address numbers... there was 2316 and 2320 on either side of the storefront, so this must be it, 2318. The tiles on the façade were dark, blackened either by intention or neglect was impossible to know, but above the door in sharp relief was a sign made of white tiles. The sign read Bon Ton Hosiery and Lingerie. I remember thinking that it has been a long time since there were any good times in this neighborhood. It is a harsh world, the world that many foreign nationals enter into when they first arrive in Philadelphia.
Not sure for a moment if I had the correct address or even the right street, it occurred to me that this was the neighborhood where many of my relatives lived a few generations ago. This part of the city was the toehold, the place to gain purchase in this land of opportunity. Now it seems to have taken on the quality of a place for the permanent underclass. If there is toehold, it is meant to keep from sliding further into poverty and homelessness rather than a launching pad into the middle class. The neighborhood does not seem to show any signs of hopefulness for its residents. The street seems to say, Get use to me. I'm as good as it gets for you here. This tide of immigrants will have a much tougher time pursuing the American Dream than my family did, and if half the tales I heard are true, they had an unspeakably difficult time.
All this was going though my mind when I heard my name being called.
Bounding across the street was a man with a slight build, wearing a dark sweater and work pants. His black hair is flecked with grey. He had a tentative look on his face, but even with that he also had a smile. "Are you Edd?" he asked even before he finished crossing the street. I said yes, and he then greeted me with a warm hug, and said, "I thought that was you. I knew when I saw you coming down the street who you were." I immediately let go of the feeling of being a stranger in the neighborhood. I felt welcomed.
Nadir unlocked the gate that guarded the entry into his house. We walked down a short hallway, took off our shoes and entered his living room. Three old couches lined two walls of the room. In one corner was a television with some videos piled next to it. I smiled when I saw them remembering Gaiutra's remark in her story about how the marshals mistook his Bollywood tapes for suspicious Arabic ones. Strange given that the tapes are from India, and neither Indians nor Pakistanis speak Arabic. The convergence of arrogance, stupidity and the PATRIOT Act, I suspect. I sat on the couch adjoining his and we began a conversation that had an odd familiarity to it. It was as if this was a reunion after a long absence rather than a meeting for the first time. We spoke of our lives, our families and our work - only touching slightly on politics.
Nadir spoke lovingly about his children at home. He hesitated for a moment before talking about the fact that they had to leave school because the family had run out of money while he was in custody. For a moment he thought of going upstairs to get some pictures to show me. And then he remembered - the federal agents tore through all the belongings of everyone he shared the house with. He didn't know where the pictures were. He was still sorting through all the possessions that were jumbled together. "Next time you come, I will show you." I was pleased at the thought of a next time and said, "Yes, I would very much like to see their pictures."
He told me that he was last back in Pakistan to be with his wife and family four years ago. "What we do here is work and come home to watch videos. Six days a week, that is what we do..."
Then he asked me if I wanted some tea. I said yes, but hen added, "But please not so much sugar. I have had tea made by your countrymen before and it is way too much sugar for me." Nadir smiled and said, "Yes, I know. So much sugar. I will add only a little." Having no choice in the matter, I trusted that his idea of a little and mine would not be too far off.
When he brought in the tea, we then began to talk about why I was there. First I spoke to him about how outraged people who heard his story were. I told him how ashamed I was that he was treated that way in my country by my government. And then I gave him the check, telling him that I hoped this was the first of several that I could give to him. He took the check and laid it down gently on the coffee table in front of him, and was silent for a moment. I took a folded piece of paper from my pocket and laid it flat on the table. It was the spreadsheet with all the names of the people who had contributed so far to his fund. I showed him that they came from all over the country. From Philadelphia. From New England, Chicago, Alabama and California. His eyed welled up as he spoke haltingly about how grateful he was for the help. I told him how grateful I was, and all those who have contributed to his fund were, to be able to do it. He understood, smiled and nodded. And then we sat quietly for a bit and drank our tea. It was perfect.
I then began to ask him some questions about his ordeal. Even though the newspaper article gave many of the same details, it was more powerful hearing it from him, and being where it occurred. I could see the broken legs of the coffee table, and the pile of tapes still in disarray.
Nadir spent seventeen days in a facility in Philadelphia before being flown to Texas. There he languished for seven months. Finally, the real criminal they were looking for was long gone, he was released and he was flown back to Philadelphia. He didn't want to go into detail and I did want to impose. I did ask him how the authorities found him. He was told by one of the agents that they found his name in the phone book. He spells his first name differently than the other Nadar, and "Khan" is like "Smith" in Pakistan. But no matter. They arrested him anyway.
Upon his return to Philadelphia he was greeted with the chaos of his possessions having been ransacked. The agents left both the front and back doors unlocked and open. They stayed that way for several weeks - an open invitation for looters. His car was also left on the street for three months. It was ticketed repeatedly before it was also broken into and ransacked. Eventually, it was towed away by the city. He got a bill from the towing service for more than the car is now worth.
I sat quietly for a bit to let him collect his thoughts. Then he made the harshest comment about America he was to make during the entire conversation. He said, "In America there are many good people, and a few bad ones." That was it. That was as harsh and critical as he would get. I sat in awe of this simple man who in that moment was teaching me so much about authentic humility, and how integrity and dignity can remain intact even in the face of callousness, fear, hatred and maybe worst of all, indifference.
We talked for a few more minutes about the future. He said that he wanted to stay in America for a while longer to tie up the legal loose ends following his release. His wife wanted him to come home right away, but remarkably he in no rush to leave. But I could see in his face that the ordeal has taken its toll on him. "Maybe it is time that I go home. Maybe now is the time..."
We returned to the hallway together to retrieve our shoes. He walked with me to the street. We made plans to meet again soon. I said that I hoped it was with a larger check next time. He said it didn't matter. "It is good that you come again."
"It is good," I said, as I hugged him good-bye. Then I turned and put my hood up and stepped out into the misty rain and back into the world.
© 2003 Edd Conboy & HigherPortal