[NIFL-ESL:6620] FW: A Nation of Immigrants Rebuilds

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------ Forwarded Message
From: "Maurice Belanger" <mbelanger@immigrationforum.org>
Date: Tue, 30 Oct 2001 17:24:48 -0500
To: <mbelanger@immigrationforum.org>
Subject: A Nation of Immigrants Rebuilds


            National Immigration Forum

Date:     October 30, 2001

To:     Forum Associates and interested advocates

From:    Forum Policy Staff

Re:    More Excerpts from Stories Relating to the Aftermath of the
Events of September 11

----------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
    1.    "Dinner at the Heartsick Restaurant," Washington Post
Magazine, October 21, 2001
    2.    "Mosques to open their doors," Des Moines Register,
October 20, 2001
    3.    "Stand beside her," Salon.com, October 22, 2001
    4.    "World War II Prisoner Dies, leaves $1 million for New
York, attack victims," Associated Press, October 26, 2001
    5.    "Not Yet Citizens but Eager to Fight for the U.S.," New
York Times, October 26, 2001
    6.    "'Who Is This Kafka That People Keep Mentioning?'" New
York Times
    7.    "A Tower of Courage," Washington Post, October 28, 2001
    8.    "California congressman Darrell Issa recounts profiling
incident," Associated Press, October 26, 2001
    9.    "Muslims try to speak out about faith," Boston Globe,
October 21, 2001
    10.    "His Sense of Duty Refused to Die," Los Angeles Times,
October 28, 2001 
    11.    "Sikhs spread word: We're peaceful,"  Seattle
Post-Intelligencer, October 29, 2001
    12.    "Kids recognize immigrants are Americans too," Tucson
Citizen, Oct. 29, 2001
----------------------------------------------------

The Washington Post Magazine
Dinner at the Heartsick Restaurant
Sunday, October 21, 2001; Page W09

The first thing he did on September 11 was take in the sidewalk sign and
close the month-old restaurant. Then he went home and grieved, like
everyone else. Asmat Pikar's grief was deeply tinged with apprehension
-- for his safety, for the future, like everyone else. Only different.

He, his wife, Fatima, and his sister Malaly Volpi had just bought the
old Khyber Pass restaurant on Calvert Street in the District. The Khyber
Pass was one of those neighborhood places -- a second-story business
over a nail salon, next to a no-name video shop -- that seemed to fade
as the neighborhood went more upscale. The old Thai place is the new
Thai place. There's a Mediterranean dining room and a Cajun cafe. A
year-old Chipotle bustles with customers. There's even a Pilates studio.

Then, in August, one more sign of growth among the many: Typeface on a
spanking-clean window proclaimed the rebirth of the Khyber Pass as the
Afghan Grill.

A late-afternoon visitor climbs the steps and enters a dining room,
tables beautifully set with polished goblets and flowers. A huge bouquet
in the window is flanked by American flags.

Asmat comes out of the kitchen. He is a young teddy bear of a man in a
clean white T-shirt and khakis. His prep work is obviously interrupted;
nevertheless, he's quick to smile and shake hands. He and Fatima sit
down to talk.

The Pikar family fled Afghanistan in 1982 to escape unending war. Asmat
is an American citizen. He was watching TV with his uncle on September
11. "The first thing I think," he says, "is, 'This is bin Laden.' "

The Pikars closed the Grill for a few days after the attacks. Lunch was
suspended until last week. When they began serving dinner again, there
were few customers. Then, neighbors began to come to express support and
goodwill, so business picked up.

Still, an Afghan baker friend was beaten in Alexandria. Others have had
menacing phone calls. A proud American, but tied to a homeland he misses
and loves, Asmat feels forced by fear to not attract attention to his or
his restaurant's roots. Downplaying the theme is not something in the
usual grand-opening business plan. He grins ruefully and admits, "At
first," after the 11th, "I tell people my name is Jose."

-- Mimi Harrison

© 2001 The Washington Post Company

================================

Mosques to open their doors
Muslims hope to enlighten Iowans about their religion
By PATTI BROWN
Register Staff Writer
10/20/2001 

Makhdoom Khan thinks Iowans might be surprised to learn that more
Muslims live in the United States than Methodists.

Or Episcopalians. Or Presbyterians. Or Lutherans.

Islamic centers in Des Moines and Cedar Rapids are holding open houses
this weekend to educate people about the religion. Both centers will
offer public tours and provide information on the history and teachings
of Islam.

The open houses also are a way to thank Iowans. In the days since the
Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, Iowa mosques have received an outpouring of
cards, letters of support, phone calls and homemade gifts of foods.

Khan, president of the Islamic Center of Des Moines and a professor of
anatomy at Des Moines University, was opening the center's mail earlier
this month, when a thick envelope filled with children's drawings and
letters moved him to tears.

"The letters said 'We care and pray for you,' and 'God loves you, too.'
Some of the children had drawn flowers. People do this to say, 'We don't
hate," " said Khan, who immigrated to Iowa from Kenya in 1982.

The mosques hope the open houses will enlighten Iowans about Islam, a
religion that may not be familiar, but can hardly be considered foreign.

Mohamad Khan, the imam or spiritual leader of the Muslim Community
Center located near Drake University, a satellite mosque from the
Islamic Center of Des Moines, describes the more than 6 million American
Muslims as a rainbow of cultures.

"Islam is not an Arabic religion. Muslims are from all over the world,"
said Khan, who is also a horticulturist with the Iowa State Extension
Service and host of a Saturday morning gardening program on WHO radio.

It is estimated that by 2010 there will be 10 million to 16 million
Muslims in America. Nearly half of all American Muslims are converts,
the vast majority being African-American; 25 percent are of South Asian
descent; and 12 percent are Arabs.

Mohamad Khan estimates that there are 25,000 to 30,000 Muslims in Iowa.
There are seven mosques in Iowa - in Ames, Des Moines, Waterloo, Iowa
City and Cedar Rapids. Although a large number of members of the
community are recent immigrants - especially from Bosnia, Sudan, Somalia
and Iraq - many are third- and fourth-generation descendants of Lebanese
Muslims who settled in the Cedar Rapids area in the 1870s to farm.

During the early 1920s the Muslim immigrants worshiped in a rented hall
in Cedar Rapids. In 1934 the community built what is now the oldest
standing mosque in North America.

The Islamic community in Cedar Rapids outgrew the first mosque and
relocated to a larger facility in 1971. The original building, known as
the Mother Mosque of America, now is used as a museum of the history of
Islam in Iowa. Cedar Rapids is also home to the Muslim National
Cemetery, the first Muslim cemetery in the United States.

One of Iowa's earliest known connections to the Muslim world can be
traced to the naming of Elkader, a town in northeast Iowa. In 1846, one
of the town's founders suggested naming the town after Abd el-Kader, a
Bedouin emir from Algeria who was a poet, philosopher, religious leader
and military strategist. In 1832 el-Kader led the resistance against the
French invasion in North Africa proclaiming a jihad, or holy war,
against the invaders.

Several years later he was credited with saving the lives of 12,000
Christians from a mob in Damascus, Syria.

Since 1984, Elkader has had a sister-city relationship with Mascara,
Algeria, the birthplace of el-Kader. At the invitation of the Algerian
government, Ed Olson, a former mayor of Elkader, traveled with a group
of residents to Mascara to link the two towns through Sister Cities
International, a nonprofit citizen diplomacy program.

Introspection: Mohammed Shams, right, former president of the Islamic
Center of Des Moines, meditates before services Friday.

===========================

>From Salon.com
Stand beside her
Fearing a post-terrorism backlash, many Muslim and Arab-American women
are afraid to leave their homes. Volunteers are helping to make them
feel safe. By King Kaufman

Oct. 22, 2001 | ST. LOUIS -- Neema (not her real name), an Egyptian
woman, brought her second-grade daughter to register at an elementary
school in the inner-ring suburb of Webster Groves last week. She says
that as she pulled into the parking lot, where lots of parents were
picking up their kids, two women blocked her with their cars, preventing
her from parking. They also blocked her exit, she says, and she had to
maneuver in reverse to get away. "And when we were leaving, some of the
kids from that school were throwing plastic -- well, thanks, my God, it
was plastic bottles."

Though Neema dresses in Western clothes, she has always worn a hijab,
the traditional head covering of Muslim women. "I have only put a very
small veil on my head. We're required that by the Quran."

But Neema has stopped wearing her veil, and she doesn't drop her
daughter off at school. She says she made these decisions partly so she
doesn't make others feel uncomfortable -- "just really to give peace and
tranquility for people" -- but she's also scared.

"If I am in my country, and they are saying, 'Americans will bomb my
country,' what am I going to do? I will try to do the best I can to
avoid the bombing, right? So that's what I'm trying here," she says.

Recently, Neema has had some help in avoiding "the bombing," as she puts
it. Local volunteers have come forward to act as escorts for those who
have been threatened, or feel threatened, by knee-jerk reactions to
their clothing or appearance. Similar ad hoc programs have sprung up,
with varying degrees of formality, in several other American cities with
large Arab-American and Muslim populations, providing company and a
measure of protection in public for those afraid to leave their homes.

Violence and threats against Muslims and Arab-Americans, and those, such
as Sikhs and Hindu Indians, who are often mistaken for them, have
skyrocketed since the Sept. 11 suicide attacks on the World Trade Center
and the Pentagon. Within hours of the plane crashes, a mosque in Texas
was riddled with bullets. Killings in California, Arizona, Texas and
Michigan have been attributed to the backlash. The FBI has opened more
than 160 hate crime investigations since the incident. Various Muslim
and Arab groups report that anywhere from 300 to 800 anti-Arab or
anti-Muslim incidents have come to their attention since the attacks,
ranging from verbal abuse to murder.

But, as President Bush noted last week, there's been another side to the
situation. "I was struck by this, that in many cities when Christian and
Jewish women learned that Muslim women, women of cover, were afraid of
going out of their homes alone, that they went shopping with them, that
they showed true friendship and support, an act that shows the world the
true nature of America," Bush said in a nationally televised speech.

In St. Louis, longtime peace activist Bill Ramsey, who runs the Human
Rights Action Service, a network of activists and a political
letter-writing service, hastily rounded up nearly 200 volunteers to
accompany Muslim and Middle Eastern people, most of them women, who were
afraid to go out after the terrorist attacks. He had checked in with
Arab-American colleagues and friends in the hours after the disaster to
find that many were going to their children's schools to make sure the
kids were not being harassed -- and in some cases pulling them out of
school -- and making plans to hunker down at home.

Ramsey also learned from the local International Institute, an
organization that helps immigrants and refugees settle in St. Louis,
that the group just settled more than 100 Afghans in the past six
months, and also had a large community of Somalis and a large community
of Iraqis that they were concerned about.

Angie O'Gorman, who directs the Immigration Law Project at Legal
Services of Eastern Missouri, trained the volunteers in techniques of
accompaniment developed for Central American refugees in the 1980s.

"It's basically good communication skills and learning how to use your
body in ways that are not aggressive, even if you may be feeling angry,"
O'Gorman says. She says the idea is for the volunteer to place herself
in a position to protect the person being threatened without becoming a
threat herself. 

Once trained, the volunteers were deployed at places like Soulard
Market, a downtown farmers market favored by immigrants and refugees,
among others, and at a recent international festival. They also made
themselves available to accompany women to English lessons and on other
daily errands. A day at the park was organized for families who had been
too frightened to let their children out of the house.

Neema reports that she's had several offers of help from both Christian
and Jewish organizations and individuals, and she's taken up one of
them. 

"I took only one Christian lady," she says. "She came last Friday and
she was very nice." The woman brought her two children with her and the
families went out together. "She even asked me can I wear my veil when
I'm coming out with her, and I said it's better off I can leave it. That
way we will not be bothered."

An immediate problem for the volunteers was that they needed to have a
way to be recognizable to the people they're trying to help. Ramsey
found the answer to that problem in a closet, where an old banner from a
Central American campaign repeated a folk-art representation of a bird
numerous times. The banner was chopped up, and each volunteer was given
a piece of cloth with a bird on it to wear to Soulard. The bird symbol
was also displayed at the International Institute, so it would be
recognized, and eventually buttons were made for volunteers to wear.
It's become the symbol of the accompaniment project.

At the market, the volunteers simply stroll around, giving people the
traditional Muslim "Salaam" greeting, but otherwise leaving them alone
unless the other person initiates a conversation. "It's sort of a
delicate balance of watching out for people but not giving them the
sense that we're stalking them," Ramsey says. "We're not doing this to
get all involved and interrupt people's lives with our service. We're
supposed to be there just making it easier for them to do what they're
doing. We sort of keep our distance."

Immediately following the hijackings, Muslim and Arab customers stayed
away from Soulard Market, say several vendors and volunteers. But many
people -- regardless of their faith or appearance -- stayed at home in
the wake of the trauma. And as "women of cover" have returned to the
market, there has been nothing resembling an incident there.

Which is just fine with the volunteers. "Our job is to intervene if
something happens, but more immediately our job is just to create
environments that people will trust so that they can go about their
lives and routines," Ramsey says.

"I think the first day, everybody was scared so the words came out, but
I think now everybody's figured out that people who are in America are
mostly running away from that stuff," says Sam Rammaha, a Jordanian man
interviewed at a crafts booth at the International Folksfest, a festival
sponsored by the International Institute at which accompaniment
volunteers were present. "I think we're cautious, that we expect
[problems], but really it's not what people make it sound like. Most
people who are prejudiced, they will just come out anyway, but in
general everything is good. Thank God, as they say!"

Sahla Peterman, an Iranian college teacher shooting the breeze in a
Persian food stall at the same festival, agrees. "I guess I've lived
here long enough, I've been here 26 years," she says, "and you know,
sometimes you get this feeling, like, you go to a store or something,
that people stare at you, but for the most part people have been very
supportive." 

Ramsey believes, however, that some ugly incidents are going unreported.
"I don't think we're getting the full story on how people are feeling
and how much that kind of harassment is going on."

He says that about two weeks after the attacks on New York and
Washington, he and others met with groups of refugees from Somalia, Iraq
and Afghanistan. "In one or two cases of those meetings, they would
start to talk about things that were happening to them, and then they
would say something to the effect, 'Well, this is just something we may
have to swallow right now because we know this country is going through
something it's never gone through before,'" Ramsey says. "So I'm certain
that all acts of harassment are not being reported to the police, or
even to the International Institute or to us accompanying them. I guess
it's hard to get a statistical analysis of what's going on. We have a
lot of anecdotal stuff."

It's worth noting that Iranians are not Arab, just as it's worthwhile to
know that most Muslims aren't Arab, either. In fact, a huge number of
Arab-Americans -- maybe half or more -- are Christians, not Muslims. But
these distinctions are lost on most of the American public, especially
those who would lump all of the above in with terrorists.

"A number of people are worried about [violence or threats], especially
ladies, who are readily recognizable outside as a Muslim if they are
covering their head with a scarf," says Muhamed Hasic, a Bosnian who is
the imam at the Islamic Center, a mosque in St. Louis. "Also when they
go to the store they receive completely different treatment. People look
at them strange and all that."

Several women mentioned harassment at supermarkets in the weeks since
the terrorist attacks. Neema says she's been followed around her local
Schnucks by store employees.

"You find one guy or one woman behind you, watching what are you doing.
Are you putting anything on the food? Do you have anything? Do you have
any big bags, are you bringing things out of it? Or whatever. That's the
main problem now, because of whatever they're saying, the biological
weapon or whatever," she says.

Neema says the store employees don't actually ask those questions or say
what they're doing, but that that's what she believes they're watching
her for. 

(Schnucks spokeswoman Lori Willis says she's "floored" by the charge.
"This is the first such incident that's been brought to our attention.
We'll certainly look into it." She says that Schnucks not only trains
its 16,000-plus employees not to discriminate, but also assures them
that the company will stand behind them if they feel that customers are
mistreating them. "We've always made it very, very clear that no one
should be treated unfairly in our stores," she says, "no associate, and
no customer for certain. So this would be completely going against all
of the Schnucks policies and philosophies with which we do business.")

Another consequence of the current tension, Neema says, is that she
feels bound to hide her daughter's identity as an Egyptian-American and
a Muslim. She told the school only that her daughter was born in Canada,
she says, and "I told her not to speak about religion, not to say
anything, not to become identified as a Muslim or anything. You have to
be very careful. She was very confused, but I did not know really how to
approach her except to just warn her. She kept saying, 'Why?' I told her
that it's a bad time now, and she might not make friends if she did.
Kind of sad." 

Dianne Lee, a community college professor, says that hearing about this
sort of thing stirred her political fires and caused her to get involved
as an accompaniment volunteer.

"When I started seeing reports in the media about Arab-Americans being
singled out and how many American citizens felt like the Arab-Americans,
even if they were citizens, should be forced to carry special I.D.," she
says, "I just really felt called to take a stand on this one, that this
is not OK. We need to stand with people and do everything we can to
respect how horrendous what happened on the 11th was, but not allow
ourselves to become perpetrators of evil because of it."

Kally Higgins, who works at an advertising agency, got involved after
seeing a flier in the Delmar Loop, a shopping area in nearby University
City, close to Washington University. She took an Afghan woman and her
daughter grocery shopping and found the experience eye-opening.

"They were just wonderful," she says. "This little girl spoke English
great. She was 7. So she was kind of the translator. It was really
interesting. You know, I see on television how horrible it's been in
Afghanistan for these women, and you feel that and try to imagine what
it must have been like, and then suddenly I'm sitting there with two
women, because she'd invited me into her home and there was another
Afghan woman. To sit there and hear their stories of what it was like to
be in Kabul and the Taliban taking over, it was pretty amazing."

With the accompaniment project entering its second month, Ramsey and
O'Gorman, the volunteer trainer, both say they'd like to evaluate the
program by meeting with both volunteers and members of the immigrant
community and asking them how it's gone so far and what else can be
done. 

"I expect that that [the individual accompaniment] is going to
increase," O'Gorman says. "As soon as people begin to trust that the
folks that we have trained will actually be available and present to
them, I think we're going to get a lot more requests from individuals to
take kids to school, because a lot of these kids have been pulled out of
school." 

For the moment, there will be no more volunteer training, mostly because
there are so many in place already that it has become hard to keep track
of them. So far, they seem to be welcome in the Arab-American and Muslim
community, where fear has decreased but not completely evaporated. For
all of the good feeling that has been established since the tragedies of
Sept. 11, there is still a real danger of ignorance and fear creating
dire situations for innocent people.

"I think a very, very high percentage of St. Louisans understand," says
Hasic, the imam, referring to the fact that Muslims are not all
terrorists, "but unfortunately, still, it doesn't matter how small a
percentage: Those people who do not understand, maybe you just walk
beside that one. 

"One in a million, if you walk beside that one, it doesn't matter, you
still could be really harmed."

==========================

Associated Press
October 26, 2001
World War II prisoner dies, leaves $1 million for New York, attack
victims 
 
Minneapolis-AP -- He seemed to have nothing -- but Joe Temeczko
(teh-MECH'-koh) apparently had a lot.

The Polish immigrant who had been imprisoned during World War Two by the
Nazis died earlier this month in Minneapolis, playing the part of a
pauper -- even foraging through city streets for things.  But in his
will, the self-employed carpenter left behind an estate of perhaps a (m)
million dollars -- quote -- "to the city of New York, to honor those who
perished in the disaster of September eleventh."

People who knew him aren't surprised by his gesture -- although they
never would have guessed he had so much money. They say the 86-year-old
Temeczko loved his adopted country and had a special love for New York,
where he passed through Ellis Island on his way to becoming a U-S
citizen. 

Copyright 2001 Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may
not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
 
=========================
 
October 26, 2001
Not Yet Citizens but Eager to Fight for the U.S.
By DAVID W. CHEN and SOMINI SENGUPTA

As a youth in Kazakhstan, Alexandr Manin had no interest in the war that
the Soviet Union was waging in Afghanistan in the 1980's. But since
arriving in New York three years ago, he has had a change of heart, and
has joined the military. The United States military, that is.

Mr. Manin, who is here as a legal permanent resident but is not yet a
United States citizen, is scheduled to leave on Nov. 5 for basic
training with the Marines. The law allows permanent residents like him —
those who have a green card — to enlist.

"It doesn't matter that America is not my country; New York is my city,
and what happened shook my life," said Mr. Manin, a fast-talking
25-year-old from Greenpoint, Brooklyn. "I feel patriotic, and I have
this itch now to go sooner."

Particularly in New York, with its huge population of immigrants, many
residents for years have been signing up to fight under the American
flag, even though they do not carry an American passport. In fact,
immigrant men and women seem more likely to enlist than their
native-born peers.

In New York City, 13 percent of those under the age of 18 are
immigrants, both legal and illegal. But in the Navy, 1,200, or 40
percent, of all New York City recruits were green- card holders in the
last year. In the Marines, the number is 363, or 36 percent; in the
Army, it is 589, or 27 percent.

On a national level, the percentage of green-card military recruits is
relatively small, hovering around 5 percent for most services. Even so,
the proportions have been steadily rising in recent years, especially in
cities like Los Angeles and Miami.

There is no simple explanation for why these permanent residents opt for
the military. Some do it because they want to speed up the citizenship
process. Some do it because they are, like many immigrants, of meager
means and believe that the military offers economic and social mobility.
And some do it because they feel patriotic and want badly to belong.

That has been especially true during wartime historically, and the weeks
after Sept. 11 are no exception.

"There's an us versus them thing," said Philip Kasinitz, a sociologist
at Hunter College who studies the assimilation of the children of
immigrants. "This happens in wartime generally. As a result, a lot of
immigrants and certainly the children of immigrants feel a need to
assert which side of the line they are on."

Many of the green-card recruits in New York reflect the city's changing
demographics, and come from countries in Latin America and the Caribbean
such as the Dominican Republic, Jamaica and Ecuador.

And while there are proportionally fewer recruits with Asian
backgrounds, one immigrant from Hong Kong, Wai Wan, a 22-year-old from
Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, recently joined the Air Force because he
thought the technical training would look impressive on his résumé. But
after Sept. 11, he felt a patriotic tug, too.

"We asked for computer-related jobs," said Mr. Wan, who signed up with a
friend, Alex Wong (a Brazilian green card holder). "But now, we've been
looking for combat-related jobs."

For immigrants, the military has long served as a gateway to the
American mainstream and a ticket to American acceptance. Indeed, to
prove their loyalty, many Japanese- American men volunteered in the
Second World War, even as their families were forced into internment
camps as "enemy aliens."

There are tangible benefits as well. For permanent residents, military
service can shorten the wait to apply for citizenship from five to three
years.

Between 1994 and 1999, more than 3,600 immigrants became United States
citizens through this provision, according to the Immigration and
Naturalization Service. There is nothing in immigration law that
prohibits illegal immigrants from serving in the military, but the
services say anyone without the proper documentation is automatically
rejected. 

But even those immigrants who do qualify but are not citizens face
restrictions, too. They are not eligible for up to $17,000 in college
tuition aid under the R.O.T.C. program. They are generally not allowed
to perform certain duties, including reconnaissance, intelligence and
data systems. 

If they are from what the military deems to be a hostile country like
Afghanistan or Iraq, they need to go through additional security checks.
But residents from Egypt or Saudi Arabia, the birthplace of the Sept. 11
hijackers, are not considered to be from hostile countries and need no
special security clearance.

Through the years, a few improbable figures have emerged from the
gallery of immigrant soldiers. The Marines can claim the famous —
Shaggy, the Jamaican-born and Brooklyn-raised singer — and the infamous
— Hussein Mohammed Farah, the son of the late Somali warlord, Gen.
Mohammed Farah Aidid.

But the numbers in New York now are stark. In some neighborhoods, like
Flatbush in Brooklyn or Washington Heights in Manhattan, up to 90
percent of recruits are not yet citizens.

Some 40 percent of all Naval recruits in New York City in the last
fiscal year which ended in September, were green-card holders, up from
perhaps 20 percent a decade ago, said Senior Chief Tim Stewart of the
Navy Recruiting District New York. Throughout the country, the figure
was 8 percent, up from 5 percent in 1995.

The Navy's national recruiter of the year was Petty Officer Second Class
Lenny Ramos, whose territory includes most of Manhattan. And one of his
most recent green-card recruits was Samantha Ruiz, 19, who moved to
Washington Heights 11 years ago from the Dominican Republic and signed
up two weeks ago.

This summer, she gave some thought, though not serious, to joining the
military because of the citizenship and travel perks. But then came the
terrorist attacks.

"That pushed me along to make me really want to join," said Ms. Ruiz,
who now spends much of her time as a volunteer in the Navy's recruiting
office in Harlem. "This is my home now. And I just felt, I would better
be able to contribute by being in the Navy."

In Lower Manhattan this week Gunnery Sgt. Duane Silvera, who is in
charge of Marine recruiting in Manhattan, welcomed Mr. Manin, the
Kazakhstan native, into his office near City Hall to go over some final
preparations before he starts basic training at Parris Island, S.C.

Mr. Manin said that his wife — an American citizen whom he married in
1999 — had mixed feelings. And his parents, who still live in his
hometown of Petropavlovsk, were uncomfortable with his decision because
they know of too many young men who never came back or were disabled
after the Soviet war with Afghanistan.

But he was unbowed. He talked excitedly about becoming an infantryman,
maybe doing reconnaissance work, maybe using his fluency in Kazakh
(which is similar to Uzbek), Russian, Polish and Czech.

"I've been asking that I can go to Afghanistan to participate," Mr.
Manin said.

His brother, Pacha, a 20-year-old who is now studying English at
Fordham, wanted to enlist, too. But he is here on a student visa and
does not have a green card — not yet.

But Sergeant Silvera, 35, said that if Pacha Manin gets his green card,
he would be a prime candidate. After all, Sergeant Silvera himself was a
permanent resident and Jamaican citizen when he enlisted in the Marines.

====================

October 21, 2001
'Who Is This Kafka That People Keep Mentioning?'
By DEBORAH SONTAG

More than 600 people have been detained in the wake of Sept. 11. At
least one spent 13 days behind bars, guilty of nothing more than
coincidence. 

Dr. Al Bader al-Hazmi was not asleep when the F.B.I. came knocking
before dawn on the morning after the World Trade Center attack. An early
riser anyway, he had suffered a fitful night in his San Antonio town
house, dreaming of a man jumping from a twin tower engulfed in flames.
In the dream, the man expected Hazmi to catch him, and the doctor was
running and running with his arms outstretched. Shaking off the dream,
Hazmi got up, prayed and then stretched out on his bed to study
gastroenterology for a coming medical exam. Becoming board certified as
a radiologist is the sole purpose of the 31-year-old Saudi citizen's
stay in America. 

The federal agents did not break down the door or pound on it or even
ring the bell. Standing in the dark on a suburban path in a condo
community called the Villas at North Gate, they simply knocked. Hazmi
answered, wearing the thin blue caftan that serves as his nightshirt.
''F.B.I.,'' an agent said. Holding a gun by his side, the agent ordered
the doctor, a wisp of a man with soulful eyes and an almost unsettling
serenity about him, to sit on his green-and-red-plaid couch. ''I made a
quick calculation to be pleasant and calm,'' he said later. ''Anyone who
attends a mosque had to be prepared for a few questions.''

Almost immediately, Hazmi formed the impression that the agents were
fishing. They threw out a name that had not yet been made public:
Mohamed Atta, the Egyptian-born suspected ringleader of the attacks. The
doctor told them that the name meant nothing to him. Then the agents
pointed to the passenger list of the flight that crashed into the
Pentagon, to Nawaf and Salem Alhazmi (an alternate rendering of the
name). ''We have reason to believe that these are your brothers,'' they
said. Hazmi wanted to laugh from nervous relief. ''These are not my
brothers' names,'' he said. ''Al-Hazmi is common like the Smith name in
Saudi Arabia.'' 

Pushing his glasses up his nose, the doctor summoned the nerve to say
that he would answer no further questions without a lawyer. A short time
later, schooled in his rights by American television, he also asked to
see a search warrant. Then, not knowing what else to do, he opened his
gastroenterology text and studied while the American government searched
his belongings. Some five hours after they arrived, the agents let him
make a quick call to Saudi Aramco, the giant oil company that is
sponsoring his medical residency. Saudi Aramco's in-house counsel,
knowing Hazmi's character and background, told him not to worry. In
turn, Hazmi told his terrified wife that the family would go out to
breakfast after the agents realized that they had stumbled into the life
of a simple medical resident with three young children who were,
thankfully, he said later, sleeping unusually late.

At the end of six hours, however, the agents asked Hazmi to step
outside, where the morning breeze held the pungent aroma of his wife's
mint plants. ''Give us your back, your hands,'' the agents told him.
''You are under arrest.'' When he asked, ''What is my guilt?'' they
answered that he would find out in due time. He was not allowed to
change out of his nightshirt before they whisked him away, leaving
behind other agents with his stunned wife. Entsar al-Hazmi, who barely
speaks English, did what she usually does when there are guests in her
home: she prepared food. The agents turned down her melted cheese
sandwiches and sweet tea.

''Bader, where are you going?'' The doctor's wife's words echoed in his
head. He didn't know; over the next 12 days, in fact, he would be
transported many times, and no one would ever give him an itinerary. In
the back of a government car, his head lowered, he was puzzling over
what he had just been told: that his five-year visa, set to expire next
June, had been summarily revoked and his Saudi passport confiscated.
Therefore, he was undocumented. ''Who is this Kafka that people keep
mentioning?'' he would ask me later, after his release.

Hazmi spent 13 days in custody, mostly in New York City, where he was
flown in shackles on a government plane and greeted by an armada of
agents with guns pointing. In the chilly cell where he was kept in
solitary confinement, Hazmi was unaware that he had been publicly
identified as a material witness to the horrific attack and later
misidentified by the media as a key suspect. Afterward, too, he didn't
realize that when the United States attorney's office in Manhattan
finally cleared him of any link to the attack, it issued a statement
that came as close as the government ever does to making a public
apology. 

The government is fortunate that Hazmi was the apparent innocent drawn
into its web at such a charged moment. Another person -- an American,
say -- might have made a federal case out of such an experience, which
was not only harrowing but has tainted Hazmi's name in a way that will
be difficult to erase. Hazmi, a man of faith, has chosen to be
high-minded about what he endured and to leave the larger questions
raised by the government's methods to Americans.

''I'm committed not to complain about what I went through,'' Hazmi said
recently, stretched out on his couch in a pinstriped caftan and bare
feet. ''Given the seriousness of the larger situation, it would be
improper. I keep thinking about the man in my dream who jumped from the
tower and about the families who want to recover at least a hand of
their loved ones so they can put them with dignity into the grave. What
I went through was not fun. But in another country, I might be in jail
for four years and nobody would know.''

ntil September, Al Bader Al-Hazmi's life story had been unremarkable. He
came from a village, Sabya al-Jedidah, in southwest Saudi Arabia. He was
the child of illiterate parents. He aspired to a career in medicine,
making his way to and through medical school. He secured his first job
as a primary-care physician for Saudi Aramco. The oil company agreed to
sponsor him for a five-year radiology residency in Texas on the
condition that he return afterward to work in a Saudi clinic.

At the University of Texas Health Science Center in San Antonio, he
stood out only because, for more than four years, he prayed several
times a day and because, nearsighted, he always sat in the front row
during lectures. Otherwise, said Dr. Gerald D. Dodd III, the chairman of
the radiology department, ''he was simply a competent resident who did
his job. I enjoyed working with him.''

When the doctor's low-profile existence changed overnight, it stunned
his friends, colleagues and adopted Texas town. Like the early-morning
train that barrels though San Antonio with its horn blaring, word of
Hazmi's arrest traveled quickly through the city's small but growing
Muslim community. 

Marwan Yadak said that he was vacationing in Jordan, but a friend
reached him there within hours. Yadak said that his heart quickened: ''I
said to my wife, 'If they take someone like Bader away, we're all in
trouble in America.'''

Abdulla Mohammad, who speaks English with a drawl and drives a pickup
truck, said, ''We had to ask ourselves, 'Could he have a concealed
identity?''' But, Mohammad said: ''I was imagining Bader, who is the
original 97-pound weakling, flashing a box cutter and trying to get
passengers on a plane to take him seriously. If a stewardess would sit
on him, she'd kill him.''

Dodd said that the university took the official position that it would
not change its positive assessment of Hazmi until the federal
authorities made a further determination. But, he said, there were daily
leaks in the media citing supposedly mounting evidence against Hazmi,
referring to him as ''Dr. Terror,'' ''the Terrorists' Money Man,'' ''A
Man Unknown: Healing Physician or Foreign Terrorist?''

''Every day, I'd come in, and the support staff would say, 'Did you hear
what he did?''' Dodd said. ''With multiple different accusations coming
out, it wears down people's ability to keep an open mind. And it makes
it that much more difficult to make the leap of faith to ever consider
him innocent.'' 

Hazmi was oblivious to the reverberations of his arrest. On his first
night in custody, he shared a holding cell with three Mexicans. ''What
you doing here, man?'' one of them asked him. Hazmi explained. ''Wow!''
the Mexican man said. ''They think you're behind the attack on
America!'' Then the man offered some advice: ''You're innocent. Don't
worry about those I.N.S. guys. They send us away all the time. And we
just come right back.''

Hazmi spent his second night in the county jail, alone and missing the
Mexicans. A guard handed him a short, thin robe, said Merry Christmas
and locked him in a cell that felt refrigerated. He tossed and turned on
a bare mattress on the floor, trying to cover himself with a blanket the
size of a hand towel. He was scared, he said, ''but only of the
unknown.'' 

The next morning, when a guard tightened metal shackles on his thin
ankles, Hazmi's stomach clenched. But it was after a somber group of
officers loaded him onto an airplane that he finally began to realize
the gravity of his situation. There were two other suspects aboard, who
had been found with box cutters on a train bound for San Antonio. The
three men acknowledged each other only with a courtesy greeting, salaam
aleikum. 

The plane made a stop in Minnesota to pick up Zacarias Moussaoui, a
Frenchman of Moroccan descent. Moussaoui, who later emerged as a serious
suspect, was not trembling like the rest of them. He was the only one
bold enough to ask where they were going. ''New York City,'' an agent
answered. The suspect to the doctor's left was sobbing, and Hazmi also
began to cry softly. Moussaoui urged calm. ''We're all innocent,'' he
said, and joked about whether the agents would try to save them if the
plane crashed. ''Oh, don't worry,'' an agent said. ''We'll take care of
you.'' 

A fully armed convoy sped Hazmi and the others to the Metropolitan
Correction Center in Lower Manhattan, near the World Trade Center rescue
site. ''Zero tolerance!'' a prison official shouted as they entered, the
doctor said. For three days, he did nothing but sleep and pray, reciting
Koran verses from memory. ''I willed everything else from my mind,'' he
said. 

On his seventh day in custody, Hazmi was transferred to a Brooklyn
prison where, he said, emotions were charged. He could walk only
clumsily with his legs shackled, but the guards, one at each elbow,
moved him so fast that he was tripping and dragging to keep up. ''It was
not comfortable,'' Hazmi said. ''But I believed they could not help it
if they really thought I was guilty in that terrible crime.''

Hazmi finally saw a court-appointed lawyer on that seventh day,
immediately asking the man about his overriding concern: ''Will I be out
in time for the board exam?'' The lawyer told him that the exam was the
least of his worries. He then read him the affidavit, which is sealed by
the court, detailing the government's suspicions of Hazmi. The doctor
exhaled. He heard nothing he couldn't explain. He asked the
court-appointed lawyer to contact the Saudi government, which had hired
a private lawyer for him -- Sean O'Shea, a well-connected Manhattan
attorney and former federal prosecutor.

On the tenth day, the two finally met and talked through a screen.
O'Shea told him that the government's case was pitifully thin, Hazmi
said, and that he wouldn't sleep until he got him out of prison. ''Sean
was my man -- I loved Sean,'' Hazmi said, although he is perplexed at
the idea that O'Shea secured his release. As the doctor sees it, O'Shea
was essentially a legal adviser to his real defender. ''God saved me,''
he said. 

When Hazmi returned to his tiny cell after that visit, a guard slid a
tray through the window. ''He brought me a Koran like it was
breakfast,'' the doctor said. The book fell open to a verse about the
righteousness of patience and forgiveness. Hazmi willed himself to be
righteous. 

It wasn't until the 12th day that Hazmi finally got to answer the
government's suspicions. At about 5 p.m., he said, he and O'Shea sat
down with ''two F.B.I. agents named Mark and Martin'' and reacted item
by item to the government's points.

He said he told them: 1. Check the pages and pages in Saudi phone books
and you will see that al-Hazmi is a very common name. 2. Lots of Saudis
obtain American visas in Jiddah, where he did, most of whom are not
hijackers. 3. He had indeed wired $10,000 from Saudi Arabia to another
Saudi doctor in Texas in 1997 -- so that he could buy furniture and a
car when he moved to America. 4. His recent trips to Boston and
Washington -- cities connected to the hijackings -- were to attend
medical courses. 5. The five plane tickets to California that he had
purchased on Travelocity -- which the hijackers also allegedly used --
for ''people with Saudi names'' were for him, his wife and his three
children. He had planned to go to San Diego in late September for a
course in muscular and skeletal radiology. 6. The two calls that he had
received in the last couple of years from a bin Laden were from an
Abdullah bin Laden who directed the Northern Virginia office of a world
assembly of Muslim youth.

''At the end I said to myself, These guys are clueless,'' Hazmi said
later. ''How can they figure out who is behind this thing? I would
suggest that Americans don't rely on the F.B.I. I say, God must protect
America instead.'' 

Not long after the meeting ended, his lawyer told him that he would be
released the next day. On that day, waiting to be processed, he was
shuffled from one locked room to another and left by himself for hours,
he said. At one point, an official in a suit and tie came in, stood
behind him and asked him his name. When he didn't respond quickly
enough, he said, the man kicked him in his back. That is the only
abusive incident that Hazmi claims. It particularly irked him, he said,
because ''they knew I was innocent by then, no?''

O'Shea and his investigator both wrapped Hazmi in bear hugs when he was
finally freed. The F.B.I. secured him a room at the Southgate Tower
Hotel in Midtown Manhattan, where he was checked in under an agent's
name. The doctor called his family and friends. He prostrated himself
before God on the hotel carpet. He took a long shower, his second in 13
days. He went shopping for clothes with O'Shea's investigator because he
had been released in prison garb. And the next morning, he took a Delta
flight back to San Antonio. This time he was escorted by F.B.I. agents
as a courtesy. 

Rene Salinas, spokesman for the F.B.I. in San Antonio, characterized
Hazmi throughout as ''very professional, very polite and at no time
hostile.'' He also suggested that Hazmi might have spared himself a good
part of his ordeal. ''We backed off when he requested an attorney,'' he
said. ''As soon as he lawyered up, we couldn't ask him to clear up our
questions, and then the system took over and he was off to New York.''

At the Islamic center of San Antonio, two American flags nearly obscure
the English-Arab sign for the mosque. Following the World Trade Center
attack and Hazmi's arrest, the center has been bustling. At first, it
was busy because local Muslims were seeking refuge there from some of
the uglier voices in Texas. Then, it was because of all the parties for
Hazmi. 

On a warm evening in late September, five days after the doctor's return
to Texas, his buddies cooked him lamb and rice on a gas stove behind the
mosque, and they all enjoyed a feast at picnic tables under the stars.
''Welcome Home Brother'' banners in English and Arabic draped the
center's facade. Most of the men were in jeans or slouchy khakis, but
Hazmi wore a button-down shirt and pleated slacks, his thin frame
enveloped in fabric.

His 8-year-old daughter, Ebtehal, was tucked under his left arm, her
wire-rim glasses askew.

''Did you pray for me while I was away?'' he asked her in English. She
nodded. ''How many times?'' he continued, with a light, teasing tone.
''Six,'' the girl said, then amending, ''no, actually, morning and
night, morning and night.'' Her father again: ''What did you say to
Allah?'' Ebtehal: ''I forget.'' She paused, adding, ''I wanted to break
the cop's window.'' The doctor asked her why, saying it was not the
fault of the police. ''Right,'' Ebtehal said, ''it was George Bush's
fault.'' 

The next morning, I visited the doctor's home. Ebtehal answered the door
munching on a cheese tortilla and led me upstairs to her Mickey Mouse
bedspread. She and her 6-year-old sister, Afnan, showed off new baby
dolls, which they had picked out the day before at Toys ''R'' Us, ''when
Baba'' -- that means Papa in Arabic -- said we could have anything we
wanted 'cause he missed us.''

I was coughing, and Hazmi insisted on bringing me Robitussin gel
tablets. Over the next two hours, his wife served: coffee laced with
cardamom, sweet tea, two large pieces of white cake with chocolate and
pink frosting, cheese toast, figs, jelly candies, a banana and an
orange. The food piled up on a gold tray-table, and every once in a
while Entsar Hazmi shook her head and motioned with fingers to her
mouth. 

Hazmi eyed his schoolbooks while we talked, eager to get back to them.
His easy manner, poise and magnanimity were at first disconcerting,
given the details of his story. But eventually, it felt soothing, even
uplifting, to hear him say: ''The American justice system is not
perfect, but it is pretty good. I am whole, I am intact and the whole
matter is behind me.''

Others see the doctor's experience as ominous, or at the least, a
cautionary tale. William Harrell, executive director of the American
Civil Liberties Union in Texas, said that ''what this man endured should
send a shiver down the spine of anybody who respects democracy.''
Abdulla Mohammad, the doctor's Texan friend who grew up in Kuwait, said,
''What happened to Bader makes those of us Arabs and Muslims who are
American think, Are we living in a country as dirty as the ones we ran
from?'' 

Following Sept. 11, the government has availed itself of its fullest
power to detain and arrest individuals, and it inevitably walks a fine
line between using and abusing that power. Few Americans would suggest
that the government should not be aggressive in arresting and
prosecuting those behind the Sept. 11 attacks and in preventing future
ones. But since the government's huge investigation is operating within
a shroud of secrecy, it is impossible to know what kind of
aggressiveness is at work and whether it violates any of the legal
principles, like individual rights and due process, that Americans hold
dear. 

In a nearly four-week period, more than 600 people were taken into
custody, and it is presumed that the overwhelming majority are
immigrants and foreign nationals. Unlike Hazmi, most of them haven't had
the ill fortune to be trapped in the national spotlight at the time of
their arrest. But most haven't enjoyed the good fortune, either, to have
the Saudi Embassy behind them. Hazmi's experience raises troubling
questions: How many other detainees have been swept into this
investigation without cause? Where and under what conditions are they
being held? Who will intercede with the government on their behalf?

''The doctor's experience should give all Americans pause,'' Harrell had
said. When I related this comment to the doctor, he shrugged and then
said, ''I agree.'' 

Meanwhile, eager to bring her husband's tale to a close, Entsar had
fetched a boombox. She put on a tape of Saudi Arabian music. Her
daughters changed into pink taffeta party dresses and began tapping
their feet and whirling. And Entsar, who had seemed so burdened just
minutes before, put her hand over her mouth and ululated as if at a
wedding. Two-year-old Abdulrahman started running in circles. Al Bader
al-Hazmi clapped and laughed.

In the background, a television news channel was on, muted. There was a
close-up of a Koran, then an image of the first tower crumbling, then a
shot of Hazmi. 

''Baba!'' Abdulrahman said.

Deborah Sontag is a staff writer for the magazine.

=====================

Excerpted from . . .

A Tower of Courage 
On September 11, Rick Rescorla Died as He Lived: Like a Hero

By Michael Grunwald
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, October 28, 2001; Page F01
NEW YORK

"You watching TV?"

Rick Rescorla was calling from the 44th floor of the World Trade Center,
icy calm in the crisis. When Rescorla was a platoon leader in Vietnam,
his men called him Hard Core, because they had never seen anyone so
absurdly unflappable in the face of death. Now he was vice president for
corporate security at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter & Co., and a jumbo jet
had just plowed into the north tower. The voices of officialdom were
crackling over the loudspeakers in the south tower, urging everyone to
stay put: Please do not leave the building. This area is secure.
Rescorla was ignoring them.

"The dumb sons of bitches told me not to evacuate," he said during a
quick call to his best friend, Dan Hill, who had indeed been watching
the disaster unfolding on TV. "They said it's just Building One. I told
them I'm getting my people the [expletive] out of here."

Keep moving, Rescorla commanded over his megaphone while Hill listened.
Keep moving.

"Typical Rescorla," Hill recalls. "Incredible under fire."

Morgan Stanley lost only six of its 2,700 employees in the south tower
on Sept. 11, an isolated miracle amid the carnage. And company officials
say Rescorla deserves most of the credit. He drew up the evacuation
plan. He hustled his colleagues to safety. And then he apparently went
back into the inferno to search for stragglers. He was the last man out
of the south tower after the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, and no
one seems to doubt that he would've been again last month if the
skyscraper hadn't collapsed on him first. One of the company's
secretaries actually snapped a photo of Rescorla with his megaphone that
day, a 62-year-old mountain of a man coolly sacrificing his life for
others.

It was an epic death, one of those inspirational hero-tales that have
sprouted like wildflowers from the Twin Towers rubble. But it turns out
that retired Army Col. Cyril Richard Rescorla led an epic life as well.
In this time when heroes are being proclaimed all around, when brave
actions are understandably hailed as proofs of character, here was a man
whose heroism was a matter of public record long before Sept. 11.

At the same time, Rescorla's own fascination with heroism and hero-tales
was a matter of private record. He even co-wrote a screenplay about the
World War II infantry legend Audie Murphy. Rescorla was a man of
introspection as well as action, and some of his final soul-searching
e-mails provide an eerie commentary on his final day.

Rescorla, after all, was once an infantryman himself, declared a
"battlefield legend" in the 1992 bestseller "We Were Soldiers Once . . .
and Young." Another photo of Rescorla -- gaunt back then, unshaven,
carrying his M-16 rifle with bayonet fixed -- graced the book's cover
and became an enduring image of the Vietnam War.

The survivors of the 7th Cavalry still tell awestruck stories about
Rescorla. Like the time he stumbled into a hooch full of enemy soldiers
on a reconnaissance patrol in Bon Song. Oh, pardon me, he said, before
firing a few rounds and racing away.

"Oh comma pardon me," repeats Dennis Deal, who followed Rescorla that
day in April 1966. "Like he had walked into a ladies' tea party."

Or the time a deranged private pulled a .45-caliber pistol on an officer
while Rescorla was nearby, sharpening his bowie knife. "Rick just walked
right between them and said: Put. Down. The. Gun," recalls Bill Lund,
who served with Rescorla in Vietnam. "And the guy did. Then Rick went
back to his knife. He was flat out the bravest man any of us ever knew."

Rescorla was also a passionate and complex man, a writer and a lawyer,
as well as a blood-streaked warrior and six-figure security expert. At
his home in suburban Morristown, N.J., he carved wooden ducks,
frequented craft fairs, took playwriting classes. He wrote romantic
poetry to his second wife, Susan, and renewed their vows after just one
year of marriage. "He was a song-and-dance man," she says. He was a
weeper, too. He liked to quote Shakespeare and Tennyson and Byron -- and
Elvis and Burt Lancaster. He was a film buff, history buff, pottery buff
-- "pretty much any kind of buff you can be," says his daughter, Kim. He
liked to point his Lincoln Mark VIII in random directions and see where
it would take him.

In his last days, Rescorla had been reading up on Zen Buddhism and the
Stoics, contemplating the directions his own life had taken him. A few
years ago, he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer that had spread
into his bones. His doctors had given him six months to live. But the
cancer was in remission, and he couldn't help but wonder what it all
meant. In a Sept. 5 e-mail to his old friend Bill Shucart -- once a
medic in Vietnam, now the head of neurosurgery at a Boston hospital --
he mused about kairos, a Greek word for a cosmically meaningful moment
outside of linear time.

"I have accepted the fact that there will never be a kairos moment for
me, just an uneventful Miltonian plow-the-fields discipline . . . a few
more cups of mocha grande at Starbucks, each one losing a little bit
more of its flavor," he wrote.

But Rescorla's moment was coming soon.

'A Natural Number One Man'

This American story began in England.

Rescorla was born in Hayle, a seaport on the north coast of Cornwall. He
was the only child of a single mom, although he didn't know that as a
boy. He thought he had a traditional family with married parents, a much
older sister and an older brother. He only found out later that his
parents were really his grandparents. His "sister" and "brother" were
his mother and uncle. No matter. It was still a close family. He called
his mother Sis until the day he died. He never did meet his father.

Rescorla's neighbor and friend Mervyn Sullivan, a retired meter reader,
remembers him as "a natural number one man," a broad-shouldered,
curly-haired man-child who wowed the girls and led the boys. Rescorla,
known as Tammy then, was also a talented, hypercompetitive rugby player.
Sullivan still sports a scar on his forehead where Rescorla kicked him
50 years ago while chasing a ball -- and Rescorla was on his team that
day.

"There was no need for that kick! No one was anywhere near us. We
could've had a cup of coffee!" Sullivan recalls. "But that was Tammy,
you know. Totally committed."

Hayle was a working-class tin-mining town, and the Rescorlas were a
working-class family. But Tammy wanted to see the world -- and some
action. He joined the British paratroopers as a teenager, then served as
an intelligence officer in violence-torn Cyprus. He later joined Her
Majesty's colonial force in Northern Rhodesia as a commando. As Northern
Rhodesia -- now Zambia -- began its transition to independence, Rescorla
returned to London to serve in Scotland Yard's elite "flying squad" of
detectives. But the job and the paperwork bored him.

He was looking for a fight. In 1963, America seemed to be looking for
one, too.

So Rescorla reported for basic training at Fort Dix, N.J., a mercenary
at 24. "He was looking for bang-bang shoot-'em-up," says his best
friend, Hill, who met him at Fort Dix.

Rescorla and Hill, who was starting his second Army tour, were the only
grunts at Fort Dix with combat experience. It was the same story when
they began Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning, Ga. -- the
so-called Benning School for Boys was a hotbed of fresh-faced college
graduates. Again, Rescorla emerged as a swaggering leader, belting out
Cornish songs in his lusty baritone when his classmates were stressed
out and exhausted.

After graduating as a second lieutenant in April 1965, Rescorla was
assigned to lead a platoon in Bravo Company of the 2nd Battalion of the
7th Cavalry -- once General Custer's outfit at Little Big Horn, now the
vanguard of a new helicopter-based "air-mobile" fighting concept
designed for Southeast Asia. That fall, President Johnson shipped him to
Vietnam.

"Most of us were in awe of Rick," recalls Larry Froelich, an OCS
classmate who is now the news editor at the Lexington (Ky.)
Herald-Leader. "It came as no surprise when the stories began to trickle
back from Vietnam about his exploits in the field." . . . .

=========================

California congressman Darrell Issa recounts profiling incident
Copyright © 2001 AP Online
 
WASHINGTON (October 26, 2001 5:23 p.m. EDT) - Rep. Darrell Issa, the
grandson of Lebanese immigrants, says he was the victim of racial
profiling earlier this month when he tried to board a flight to Paris.

The airline denied the California Republican a seat on a late-night Air
France flight from Washington's Dulles International Airport on Oct. 4,
after he showed up at the gate an hour before departure with a one-way
ticket to Saudi Arabia via Paris, and, he said, "an Arab surname."

Air France workers would not budge, despite Issa's protest that he was a
member of Congress who was departing on an official trip to the Middle
East, and the intervention of Rep. Robert Wexler, D-Fla., who had
already boarded the plane. Both men carried a series of one-way tickets,
including one for a return trip to Washington, which Issa said he gave
to the airline employees.

"They disappeared with my stuff for 15 or 20 minutes. When they came
back, they said, 'You're flying tomorrow,'" Issa said in a telephone
interview Friday. 

Air France spokesman Jim Faulkner would not comment on Issa's treatment.


Issa and Wexler, a Jewish congressman from south Florida, were headed to
Saudi Arabia, Bahrain and Lebanon for talks on terrorism and the Middle
East peace process. "Rob and I made a good team, showing how diverse we
are," Issa said. 

He caught up with Wexler the next day.

There have been widespread reports from Arab-Americans and Muslims that
they have been singled out for closer scrutiny and discriminatory
treatment since the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. Several incidents have
occurred on airplanes, including passengers of Middle Eastern descent
being removed from flights.

Issa said he wants Congress to look into racial profiling, "whether it's
flying while Arab or driving while black," but not while the country is
at war with terrorists, one reason he kept quiet about the episode for
three weeks. "I want us to keep our eyes on the ball, which is the war
we're fighting," Issa said.

The congressman recounted his situation with good humor.

"Rob was more frustrated than I was," Issa said. "He was facing going to
Saudi Arabia without his Arab counterpart."

=======================

Muslims try to speak out about faith
Boston Globe
Islamic families fan out in area to correct misunderstandings
By Mark Sullivan, Globe Correspondent, 10/21/2001

METHUEN - With pride, the Turkish-American congregation of Selimiye
Mosque in Methuen founded a school for 30 Muslim children in grades K-2
in a former elementary school building on Oakland Street leased from the
city. 

The Islamic Peace Academy opened its doors Sept. 10. The ideal behind
the name suffered a devastating blow the following day.

''I cried for three days after [the Sept. 11 attacks],'' said Shabam
Catalbas, Turkish immigrant owner of an Andover tailor shop and
president of the mosque, which is in his hometown and serves 50
Turkish-American families in the area.

''This is my country,'' said Catalbas. ''I couldn't find the words to
say how upset I am. [The terrorists] killed innocent people. They hurt
democracy. 

''And they hurt Islam - my religion.''

He and other members of the mosque have set out to set the record
straight on the Muslim faith, he said, accepting invitations to panel
discussions planned at the high schools in Methuen and Andover and on
cable television in Amesbury.

''They call and they ask,'' Catalbas said. ''We try the best we can to
give the answers.''

The scenario is being repeated across the communities northwest of
Boston after Sept. 11.

A region of white church steeples is studying up on minarets, as
community groups ask Muslim clerics and religious scholars to present a
more positive picture of Islam than that offered by Osama bin Laden's
self-billed holy warriors.

''At first it was 30 to 40 calls per day,'' said Yasmine Dabbous, media
relations director of the Islamic Society of Boston, a Cambridge mosque
and cultural center. ''Now it has subsided to between one and five calls
per day.'' 

She said requests for presentations on Islam have come from academic,
religious, and civic groups in Cambridge, Boston, Somerville, Lowell,
Wayland, Newton, and Revere.

''We are trying to differentiate Islam as a religion and how some people
are using Islam for political rather than religious aims,'' said
Dabbous, who came from Lebanon to pursue graduate studies in
communications at Boston University.

''Islam condemns terrorism, condemns the killing of innocent people,''
she said. ''Our religion is one of benevolence, of peace, of justice.''

Dabbous said the demand for presenters has put a strain on the
volunteers at the Cambridge mosque, which serves as many as 2000 area
Muslim families. 

''All the speakers have full-time jobs,'' she said. ''They are
overwhelmed with going and addressing people. We need more speakers.''

A daylong training seminar, ''Learning How to Speak About Islam in
Public Schools,'' is scheduled to be offered today at Boston University
by the Islamic Networks Group, which operates Islamic speakers bureaus
across the nation. 

At Tufts University in Medford, the Muslim Students Association has been
invited to participate in panels on campus and to speak with high school
students from Boston Arts Academy and Lincoln-Sudbury High.

''I think that Islam is a widely misunderstood religion,'' said the
group's president, Muzammil Mustufa, a sophomore of Indian descent from
Budd Lake, N.J. 

''We shouldn't have to defend it,'' he said. ''We should explain it.
We're trying our best to spread knowledge.''

Imam Mohamed Uzair, spiritual director of the Chelmsford-based Islamic
Society of Greater Lowell, has been active on the speaking circuit in
the Merrimack Valley. He recently addressed a community forum at Calvary
Chapel in Chelmsford and a Rotary luncheon in Dracut, and has similar
engagements upcoming in Chelmsford, North Andover, and Billerica.

''Wherever I go to talk, I try my best to give a clear picture of
Islam,'' said Uzair, who came from Pakistan to pursue a master's in
business administration at the University of Massachusetts at Lowell and
stayed to direct religious affairs at the Chelmsford mosque, which
serves some 500 families in Greater Lowell.

''What these terrorists represent is not Islam at all,'' he said. ''I
consider it our job, our duty, to go out and tell people this is not the
right picture [of Islam] you're seeing.''

He noted Muslims, like Jews and Christians, trace their roots to
Abraham, and that Muslims, while followers of Muhammad, regard Jesus as
a prophet. 

''No Muslim is a Muslim until he believes in Jesus,'' he said. ''I don't
see a big difference between Islam and Christianity. Christianity,
Judaism, Islam - they're the same teachings.

''We must work together, we must fight together against hatred in
society,'' Uzair said.

Winchester invited two Boston College theologians, Qamar-ul Huda, a
Muslim, and the Rev. Raymond Helmick, a Jesuit priest, to speak Thursday
at the McCall School Auditorium on ''Islam: A Great World Religion
Misrepresented by Terrorists.'' Sponsors included the Winchester
Multicultural Network, the town's three Catholic churches, the
Interfaith Clergy Council, the Friends of the Winchester Public Library,
and Parent to Parent.

Belmont Against Racism sponsored a program at Chenery Middle School in
Belmont Oct. 9 to show support for Muslim neighbors and promote ''a real
understanding of Islam as a religion,'' said Douglas Reynolds, a member
of the antiracism group's board. ''Many people, including myself, had no
understanding of it. We need to have these dialogues - they build
community and make people feel safer.''

The president of Methuen's Turkish mosque said he and others in the
congregation were targeted after the Sept. 11 attacks - even though
Turkey is an ally of the United States.

Catalbas said a message left on his answering machine demanded he ''get
out of the country,'' a teacher from the Islamic academy was cursed at a
stop light, and another member of the mosque had a rock thrown at his
car. 

But mostly, he said, there has been an outpouring of friendly support,
with words of encouragement from customers and offers of help from
neighbors. ''A couple bad things happened, but a lot of good things
happened,'' said Catalbas. ''That's why we believe this is the best
country in the world. That's why we love this country.''

This story ran on page W1 of the Boston Globe on 10/21/2001.
© Copyright 2001 Globe Newspaper Company.

==============================

RESPONSE TO TERROR
His Sense of Duty Refused to Die
Anthony Bai, 84, volunteered to help terrorism victims and wouldn't take
no for an answer. He gave his last day to his country.
By HELEN O'NEILL
ASSOCIATED PRESS
October 28 2001

WASHINGTON -- On the last day of his life, 84-year-old Anthony Bai
dressed in his best day clothes--a brand-new gray flannel shirt and
pressed jeans--slapped Aramis on his freshly shaved face and hugged his
daughter goodbye.

Then he climbed into his gold Lincoln Town Car and drove off to serve
his country.

His family had tried its best to dissuade him. Dad, his daughters said,
what in the world can you contribute--an old man who has heart problems,
diabetes, and is deaf?

You served your country once before, they argued. Leave it to others
this time.

There are enough volunteers at the Pentagon. There won't be anything for
you to do.

But Bai had spent five days watching the horror on television, the
crumbling towers in New York, the black hole gouged out of the side of
the Pentagon, still smoldering just 15 miles from his Springfield, Va.,
home. He had driven to the site on Sept. 12, only to be sent home by
rescue workers.

This time, he was sure.

"I have to go," he told them. "There has to be something I can do to
help."

This time, his daughters knew better than to try to stop him.

Long before the terrorist attacks, Tony Bai knew pretty much all there
was to know about hardship and sacrifice and war.

His parents fled Poland during World War I before Bai was born, leaving
behind two sisters, one of whom wound up in a concentration camp.

His mother died when he was 2.

His father beat him so badly that he ran away at the age of 14, hopping
trains across the country to the magical world of Depression-era
Hollywood, where Ginger Rogers treated him to steak and eggs for lunch
and Eddie Cantor teased him that he looked like Cary Grant.

And young Bai believed in the magic and vowed he was going to create
some for himself.

He didn't have much to go on, just an autograph book full of famous
signatures and a dream--of a happy home, a family that cherished him,
enough money to take care of them forever.

Bai made his way back to the East Coast and made peace with his father
just in time to go to war. When the military draft took effect, Bai was
first in line to register. A faded newspaper photograph shows Bai,
sipping coffee, waiting outside the military recruitment center in the
Bronx before dawn. It was a few months before the Japanese bombed Pearl
Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941. He was 24.

But artillery training badly damaged Bai's eardrum and he never saw
combat. Years later his family wondered: Did he feel guilty at surviving
when so many others were injured or killed? Is that why he devoted the
rest of his life to helping veterans, in the Teamsters Union where he
worked as a delegate; at the American Legion; in Polish American clubs
where he helped people with language and immigration problems?

"I think he felt this burning desire to give something back," said his
youngest daughter, Deborah. "He had been so lucky in life himself."

Bai always said his luckiest break of all was the day he met Vickie
Martin.

It wasn't the most auspicious start to a romance. Hot and sweaty and
hungry, wearing dirty overalls, Bai rolled into a Howard Johnson's
restaurant in the Bronx for lunch one day. The war had just ended and he
was trying to make a go of a new trucking company.

An elegant Irish redhead served him coffee. Her name was Helen Alvera
Victoria Martin. Bai's heart melted on the spot. But "Vickie," as she
was called, laughed when he asked her out. She was already engaged to a
firefighter.

Bai went home, showered, put on a new suit, and went straight back to
the restaurant. He told Vickie Martin that he wasn't leaving until she
came too.

Thirty days later they married.

"Tony Bai never took no for an answer," said Kenneth Cripps, his friend
of 50 years. "And he was fearless when he knew he was right."

Bai knew he was right about Vickie. He knew he was right when he and
Cripps, who both worked for a cement company, were subpoenaed to testify
against Teamsters leader Jimmy Hoffa in the 1950s.

"He never talked about it much," said Margaret, the eldest, who was in
her early teens during some of the union corruption scandals, and who
remembers detectives being posted at their home in the New York borough
of Queens. "He just said it was something he had to do."

There were other things that Bai felt he had to do. He needed an
education. And so, in his 50s, he enrolled at Cornell University and
graduated with an associate's degree in industrial labor relations. In
1971, when he could finally afford it, he went to Poland and met his two
older sisters. A home video shows Bai, silver-haired and beaming,
hugging and kissing his sister Mania as if he will never let her go.

A few years later, he paid for Mania and other Polish relatives to come
to America.

He treated the rest of his family with the same boundless generosity,
showering Vickie with gifts--fine furniture and china, a gleaming yellow
Chrysler that was the talk of the neighborhood, a house in Florida with
a pool.

It was there that they spent their final years together, hosting dinner
parties for the family on a yacht named "My Vickie," traveling the
country in a motor home named "My Vickie II."

The only time the couple were apart was when Bai went to Washington for
President Clinton's inauguration in 1993. Vickie was too ill to go. Bai
himself had undergone quadruple bypass surgery a few weeks earlier.
Still, he dressed up in his veteran's uniform and hung his silver Polish
Legion of American Veterans medal around his neck. He looked as handsome
and patriotic as his family had ever seen him.

A Democrat was being inaugurated president, Bai said. He had a duty to
go.

When Vickie died in 1998, everyone thought it would just be a matter of
time before Bai followed her. But he struggled through his grief and
hurled himself into life again, with gusto.

He moved to the suburbs of Washington to be near Margaret and Cynthia.
He bought a little condo, and a little Shih Tzu, Deedee, that he adored
so much his daughters jokingly called her "My Vickie III." He signed up
for computer classes, threw himself into genealogy, began to map his
family tree.

"He was as passionate as ever about life, about living it to the full,"
Cynthia said.

And as passionate as ever about his country. A month before the
terrorist attacks, Bai drove his 27-year-old grandson, Chris, to an army
recruitment center and urged him to consider the military as a career.
Chris said he would think about it. He wasn't sure if his grandfather
was joking when Bai asked if he could join up too.

So when terrorists struck, it surprised no one that Bai wanted to help.
Or that he refused to take no for an answer.

Turned back from the Pentagon, he searched for a place where an
84-year-old veteran would be allowed to serve. He found his answer at
the Salvation Army.

On Sunday, Sept. 16, five days after the attacks, he was put to work on
a medical detail, sorting drugs from large containers and putting them
into smaller packages. He'd rather have been driving a forklift, or
pulling bodies from the rubble. But at least he was contributing.

For hours, Bai sorted and filled and stamped dates on parcels. He didn't
say much. He just glowed.

At the end of the day, completely exhausted, he signed up for another
shift.

That night Margaret cooked her dad's favorites--London broil, potatoes
and asparagus salad. Over dinner, they sat on the deck with friends and
talked about terrorism and tragedy and patriotism and pride.

"There were tears in his eyes as he talked about the outpouring of help
and love, about being part of something so important," Margaret said.
"It was as happy as I've ever seen him."

After dinner, Bai hugged his daughter and promised he would call when he
got home.

He never made the call.

They found him the next day, in front of the television, baseball cap
perched on his head, a tiny American flag pinned to it, Deedee dozing on
his lap. He looked like he was sleeping.

In fact, he had died of a heart attack.

There were so many funerals for victims of the attacks that Bai's
daughters had to wait a week for a church that could hold a service for
their dad.


===========================

Sikhs spread word: We're peaceful
Followers shed low profile to allay fears and misunderstandings
Monday, October 29, 2001
By PHUONG CAT LE
SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER REPORTER

Before Sept. 11, Gurpreet Brar, like other Sikhs he knew, went to work,
volunteered at his temple and mostly kept to his own community circle.

But the terrorist attacks have thrust him and other Sikhs into an
unfamiliar, yet increasingly important, public relations role.
 
Brar and other Sikhs say they have been forced to become more visible
and proactive in explaining their religion to others, not only to
increase tolerance but to ensure their own safety.

After the attacks on the East Coast, Sikhs reported being attacked,
harassed and called "terrorists" by people who associated their
religious turbans and long beards with the turbans of Osama bin Laden.

"After Sept. 11, every Sikh is aware of the sensitivity," said Brar, an
information technology consultant who lives in Renton. "Now they're
going out and saying, 'Please, come, find out about us.'"

So Sikh leaders are sending speakers into schools to help explain to
students their religion, their turbans and their culture.

They're opening up temple doors and inviting groups to learn how and
what they worship.

And they're making themselves more available to the public in a way they
never considered before.

There are 30,000 Sikhs in this state, including 15,000 in the Puget
Sound region.

In California, a Sikh non-profit group hired a public relations company
to launch a national media and advertising campaign to educate people
about Sikhism.

"We try to convince people that we're not the same" as terrorists, said
Sharanjit Singh, president of the Sikh Temple Gurdwara, a massive
two-story structure in Renton where several hundred Sikhs worshiped
yesterday. 

"We are targeted by other people for nothing. People are still asking
me, 'Are you Arab?' or 'Are you Muslim?' We want people to know who
Sikhs are. We are not Muslims."

Sikh men have turbans, beards and features like terrorists shown on TV,
but he stressed that Sikhs are not connected to the Sept. 11 attacks in
any way.

Though it is the world's fifth-largest religion with about 22 million
followers in the United States, Sikhism is relatively unknown to many.
The religion is only 500 years old, founded in the Punjab region of
India, and lacks the missionary element that tends to help other faiths
spread.

Sikhism was founded by Guri Nank Dev in 1499, and Sikhs are followers of
10 such gurus, or prophets. The word "Sikh" means student or disciple.
Sikhs' holy book is called Guru Granth Sahib or Adi Granth.

Their central belief is that there is one God, and their goal is to lead
moral lives, earn their living through hard work and share with others.

Before Sept. 11, the Sikh community had been fairly insular, Brar said.

He said many Sikhs, some of whom are recent immigrants, worked hard to
make a living and often didn't venture outside their tight-knit
community. Others were hampered by their lack of English.

"With the recent events, everybody is rethinking their role. Can we stay
introverted? Do we need to become extroverted?" Brar said.
 
Continued backlash against the Sikh community, including a serious
beating of a motel owner 10 days ago, has encouraged more Sikhs to reach
out. 

"Now people are trying to convey our message and introduce to other
communities who we are," said Kail Singh, the SeaTac motel owner who
suffered head injuries when he was beaten. "Why? Because people are
scared. There's no doubt."

Karampal Singh decided to act after he learned that a teacher had
questioned a neighborhood Sikh boy about his religion.

Worried that schoolchildren would be teased or harassed, he arranged to
meet with officials at East Hill Elementary School in Kent. The
principal invited him and two other Sikhs to give lessons on culture,
dress and practices.

"The kids had some good questions," said East Hill principal Sandra
Hart-Moore. "And the teachers were really interested in visiting the
temple."

Tarlochan Singh explained to the students that Sikh men take the name
"Singh" and women take the name "Kaur" as their middle or last name. The
practice began with the 10th prophet, Guru Gobind Singh, who asked men
and women to take the names to break down caste barriers.

Sikhs must refrain from drinking alcohol, smoking tobacco and eating
meat. They forbid idol worship and promote egalitarianism.

Turbans worn by Sikh men are a requirement of the religion. For many
men, and some women, a turban is as essential to their personal dress
uniform as undergarments.

"It's not a fashion statement," said A.J. Singh, a business owner,
gesturing to his own black peaked turban. He explained that Sikh turbans
differ from other turbans, and that very few Muslims wear them in the
West.

Singh produces a half-hour cable TV program called "Dedicated Punjab"
that debuted in Washington in June, though it has been broadcasting in
Canada for eight years. His goal now, he said, is to expand the
programming so that more people, and not just Sikhs, can watch and learn
about the religion.

As dozens of worshipers lined up for lunch yesterday, Singh, who owns a
furniture store at Southcenter Mall, pointed to a wall of pictures in
the temple stairwell telling stories of Sikh men who would rather die
than cut their hair.

Uncut hair, or kesh, which is held with a comb and wrapped with the
turban, is one of 5 "k's" that Sikhs are expected to follow.

The other k's are: kanga, a small comb holding the hair in place, and a
reminder of the importance of cleanliness; kara, a steel bracelet that
reminds of the link to godly ideals; the kacha, or shorts, representing
moral strength and readiness; and the kirpan, a three-inch sword for
self-defense and protection of the weak.

================== 

Kids recognize immigrants are Americans too
Tucson Citizen

O. RICARDO PIMENTEL
Citizen Staff Writer
Oct. 29, 2001

Richard Trujillo's creative speaking class is concerned. Yes, we all
are, but they've got something extra on their plates.

His 12- and 13-year-old students at Silvestre S. Herrera School for the
Fine Arts in Phoenix have read and heard about the anger vented at
Arab-Americans. They also understand the temptation to place all
immigrants under the same umbrella of suspicion.

Close the border. Round them up. Send them away. Be suspicious.

Much of Trujillo's class is Mexican-American, not too far removed from
their immigrant roots. They put their concerns in writing and shared
them with me.

"This makes me very mad and sad all at the same time. Because the way
other people try to compare immigrants and terrorists," Kimberly Marquez
wrote. "They risk their lives by coming to get what we got. And that is
to be free."

She titled her paper "Differences." It was a theme.

"My mom and I were driving around. It happened to be in Ahwatukee,"
Debbie Camargo wrote. "The people gave us a hard glare. I want to let
people know, 'Don't look at me different, but look at me the same
because whether you like me or not, my skin color, it will NEVER
CHANGE.' "

She asked her mother why the people were staring. "She said it was
because of how we looked."

Kate Moodey's piece was poetic in its simplicity.

"People have turned into cops all around America," she wrote. "People
keep a sharp eye on anybody who looks Muslim or Arabic. Just because you
have a grocer down the street who wears a turban, or you have a neighbor
who is from the Middle East, does not mean they are related to any of
these terrorists attacks."

These kids were not asking for special treatment for Arab-Americans,
Muslims or Latinos. They were simply making the case that these people,
too, are Americans.

"I think we should not just be the U.S., U.S.A. or America, but we
should be the UNITED States of America," Kate wrote.

Corina Guevara wrote her piece with attitude.

"I've had people talk behind my back and say I should go back to my own
country and etc. They don't think I know English. Heh. Stupid fools,"
she wrote. "Don't judge people by the way they look, seem, act, cause
everyone's the same inside."

This backlash is palpable, according to the kids.

Marma Araujo asked plaintively, "Why? What did we do wrong?"

Like many of the other kids, she wants folks to know that most
Arab-Americans and immigrants have done nothing wrong. In the case of
Mexican immigrants, many have risked their lives to get here, the
students wanted us to know.

"You know that if every immigrant goes back to wherever they came from,
there wouldn't be any precious America," Marma wrote. "Let's really
build a free country. I know you're mad because of what happened on
September 11, but just don't take this out of control."

*****************************************************
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National Immigration Forum
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