Testing airport security ....

Claude Mills, Staff Reporter

Since the September 11 terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, D.C., travel by air has been drastically cut because would-be passengers fear hijacks and terrors in the sky. In attempts to assure safe air travel, airports have increased security measures on land and on board aircraft planes. The Gleaner's Claude Mills took to the skies to see what improvements have been made.

The Jamaicans in the departure lounge of the Norman Manley International airport shot daggers of suspicion towards the middle-aged man of Middle Eastern descent dressed in a red shirt and turban, in their midst.

And when he eventually answered the boarding call for the Miami flight, a few of them, waiting to board the flight to New York breathed sighs of relief.

One man joked: "Mi no know 'bout you but mi glad seh de Arab gone."

Rich laughter greeted his remark.

The terrorist attack of September 11, 2001 will live in infamy, and exactly one month after the incident, images of the World Trade Center collapse were still fresh in the minds of anyone who was about to board a plane.

In Jamaica, there have not been many visible physical changes in security arrangements at Norman Manley International Airport.

A few tables have been set up close to the check-in area so that bags could be searched at that point, but procedures at the checkpoints remained unchanged with metal detector frisks inside, and unrestricted curb-side check-ins outside.

However, items such as aerosol spray cans, scissors, nail files, knives or nail clips have been nixed from the flight plan.

JFK AIRPORT

The trip to New York passed without incident, but the atmosphere changed upon entering the John F. Kennedy (JFK) airport.

At the first checkpoint - the immigration department, a heavily-jowled white woman examines my passport and my documents.

"What's the purpose of your trip here?" she asked.

"Business," I answered, deciding that it was perhaps best to give monosyllabic answers to avoid any trouble.

"And you're leaving the next day?"

"Yes."

"You're staying at the Ramada-JFK? Yea, right...like we're gonna buy that one."

I feel awash with fury but I say nothing.

She turns to her computer, I watch, fascinated, as the fat dances and jiggles on the back of her arms. She turns back to me.

"What's your company's name?"

"The Gleaner."

"The Cleaner?"

"No, The Gleaner as in gleans...gathering information."

"Okay, When did you write your last article?

"Last week."

"What was it about?"

"Fat women with personality problems," I said, giving her a deadpan stare.

A thoughtful expression passes her face as she mines my remarks for sarcasm or irony.

Then she picks up the passport and, with a dramatic flair, drops it into a blood-red, transparent Immigration and Naturalisation Services (INS) folder.

She points towards the INS department. My heart begins to pound itself against my ribcage. INS? A wha dis fadda?

FACE TO FACE WITH INS

There were five persons of Middle Eastern descent already waiting in the INS department, one of them a woman with a young son.

A man in a faded Stars and Stripes windbreaker, black jeans and sneakers is checking the green passports of the woman. The aroma of authority is heavy in this room.

The room is very quiet, there are three workers sitting at a large counter, but the loudest sound is air conditioning chundering cold air into the room.

I stare at the carpeting of blue lines and green squares, trying to remain nonchalant and calm.

Soon after, the man hands the passport back to the woman, and she leaves with her son.

However, the men continue to wait. Soon, they are escorted into a small adjoining room, and the door closes behind them.

Each of the men wears resigned, pained expressions. I asked the eldest Arab who looked like thirtysomething.

"Are you upset about being detained here?"

"No, not really, we just came in on a flight from Saudi Arabia, and they sent me here. This is a little inconvenient but expected...they did the same thing to my cousin last week, I guess they are just being careful," he said.

The white guy in the windbreaker comes back and returns the man's passport.

The man stands up and looks at it and says "this is not mine that belongs to him, my name is Yatah, that's not his name", pointing to one of the other Arabs.

The white guy apologises, and hands the passport to its owner. The Arab guy sits down and says sotto voce: "He must believe that we all look alike...that's how white people are."

Presently, a dark-skinned lady calls me to the counter, rescues my passport from the red INS folder, and sends me to the Customs department.

In the Customs department, a pleasant-looking Hispanic woman checks my bag. She is packing heat.

"Do you have family in New York?" she asks.

"No," I lie.

"When was the last time you were in New York?"

"I don't remember," I say.

She checks her computer. Satisfied, she returns to interrogate me.

"Who bought your ticket?

"My company."

"Is anyone expecting you?"

I give her a name and a number, and she asks a security guard to stay behind to watch me while she makes a call in another room.

The security guard fingers the holster holding his gun, and then dips into my bag, and takes up a notebook.

What is this?" he asks, pointing at my scribblings.

"Words."

He dips into my bag, and takes out my ATM card.

"Is this yours?"

"Yes," I say but I couldn't keep the blunt mind-your-business edge off the word.

He shoots a steely-eyed, stone-faced look at me. I stare back. The man has a prominent Adam's apple, which makes him look like a lizard when he swallows. I look away, trying not to look at him but he walks a semi-circle around me, repeats it, all the time, his fingers trip lightly over the handle of his firearm.

"What's that in your back pocket? Another notebook? Let me see," he said.

"Yes," I reply, lifting my shirt.

Nothing much gets past these guys, does it?

Eventually, the Hispanic lady returns, and clears me to go. I walk off, a little peeved but offering up a silent prayer that they had not invited me into a small room to initiate a thorough cavity search.

Later that day, I learned that the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), had issued a warning to U.S. citizens that there would be a terrorist attack within the U.S. and against U.S. interests "within the next several days".

GOING HOME

7:08 a.m. October 12, 2001. There are no curb-side check-ins so the taxi leaves me about 30 metres from the entrance to the JFK airport. I have only one item of luggage so it is no problem.

As I enter the airport, I see three undercover members of the National Guard at the security checkpoint. There are three others stationed at an adjacent entrance.

I approach the checkpoint, dropping my keys in a plastic bowl already filled with nail clips, belts and other metal items belonging to other passengers. I place my bag on the conveyor belt and it disappears into the mouth of the X-ray machine.

I step through the metal detector hoping that my braces don't trip off the alarm. There is no warning beep. I breathe a sigh of relief.

I join the line in the check-out area. I see the harried faces of a few Jamaican women who are told that their bags are too heavy. They return to the check-out point to rearrange the stuff in their bags to meet the regulations.

"No unpacking and packing is allowed at the check-out point anymore, only one piece of hand luggage will be allowed on board, and no Pullmans will be allowed on the plane either," the Air Jamaica agent says, with a brilliant smile.

Remarkably, the woman doesn't argue.

Interestingly, most Jamaicans seem to empathise with the Americans' situation in the face of the awful tragedy and were receptive to the new rules.

"We understand the rules are here for our protection. I feel safer with the rules, and the guards on duty at the entrance. Everyone wants to reach their destination safely," one lady said.

Things proceeded quite smoothly, and according to a flight attendant, "the level of paranoia is falling and there's a nice percentage of visitors on the flight as well".

And when the wheels of flight JM O16 kissed the tarmac at the Norman Manley airport a few minutes earlier than its scheduled time, the usual applause seemed louder and more heartfelt - an emotional spillover from the shared horror and fear touched off by the tragic events of the past four weeks.

Yes, there's no place like home.

No place.

Claude Mills was flown to and from New York, courtesy of Air Jamaica.

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