A Discourse on Being Mistaken For A Terrorist ... Thrice.

Hide yo’ wife, hide yo’ kids, there’s terrorists on the loose.

And a lot of people seem to be convinced it’s me.

I don’t mean to make light of the ‘state of red alert’ Uganda is in, but really what else can you do (other than hope that the metal detectors have seen recent maintenance)?

I have always had one of those faces people can’t quite geographically place. I’ve long joked about being ‘ethnically ambiguous’ and that I should consider a career in international intrigue. However, rather than blending into any crowd, I seem to stick out in every single one. From being treated like a Latino Cocaine Kingpin at the Thunder Bay border crossing to being indirectly accused thrice of being a member of Al-Shabab.

Here is a recount of all three occasions.

Occasion No. 1

The first time was a couple weeks after the Nairobi tragedy on Uganda’s Independence Day. There were various large-scale street festivals taking place throughout the city, which I avoided, knowing that security concerns would be at an all-time high with that many people gathered in locations hard to monitor. I decided that I was going to play a wee bit of football that day with my friend Moses, who had finally gotten an afternoon off. Moses called and told me to wait downstairs for him, saying he’d be there in a few minutes.

For those who haven’t worked, lived, or traveled in Africa, the “minute” is an amorphous concept. It can – at times – consist of the universally-set 60 seconds, or it can take on flexible definitions. It generally should be taken as “I’m not there now, but at some point in the future, there is a greater probability that I will be there too”.

I sat outside the building waiting, observing my surroundings. I was wearing shorts, which generally gets

I am so much better looking that this man.

I also have different hobbies. 

stares (anywhere in the world), so I originally didn’t think too much of it. The building was surrounded by armed police because they were launching a new police station right beside where I live and a police head honcho was present, stirring up the troops. I sat down, and waited, and waited. Shortly, I noticed that police across the street were staring at me intently and whispering to each other. I started to feel uncomfortable, so I tried to distract myself by looking around. I turn my head slightly and notice that I had sat right beside a newly placed “Wanted” poster for a German terrorist who had Al Shabab links. In the photo, the guy, Mueller, was a Caucasian dude with neatly, trimmed dark facial hair.  I glance back at the police, and notice that they are pointing to another copy of the poster and then looking at me.

Shit.

So there I was: sitting down, stroking my beard, inches away from a ‘Wanted’ poster of a Muzungu terrorist, who – to the untrained, and ignorant eye – could be perceived to look like me (using the same logic that Will Smith and Jamie Foxx could be mistaken for one another). I suddenly realized that these posters were everywhere, and that the stares were not because I was showing off my pale, hairy legs in shorts that were too-short. People were suspecting that I was Mueller, and pulling off the ultimate faux-pas: sitting next to my own ‘Wanted’ poster.

Luckily, after half an hour, Moses showed up and we hot-footed it out of there.

Occasion No. 2

This was by far the worst, and the one that was actually scary.

After watching Borussia Dortmund defeat Arsenal late into a week-day evening, Moses and I headed home. Moses – who lives close to me – walked me most of the way home, before veering off when my building was in sight.

I walked quickly, since it was after midnight and there were not too many people around (NOTE: this is stupid, don’t do this). There was a sketchy-looking guy stumbling towards me, so I walked quicker.

“Hey…” he mumbles.

“Hi.” I reply before speed-walking even quicker. I can hear him pause, and then turn and walk behind me, saying something. Shit. I walk faster, and so does he. Finally, he breaks into a jog, and grabs my arm.

“This. This is who I am.” He says, fumbling for a faded identification card from his pocket.

Seriously... I know I am "da bomb," but ...

Look at this face! This ain't no terror face. 

I keep walking, dragging him along, squinting at the faded card. I can’t make out the name or the picture, but I see “Warrant Officer”.

“Good evening, I’m just heading home.”

He stops me roughly. “This is who I am”. He repeats louder.

“Yes. Thank you.” What else do you say?

“Who … who are you?” He says tapping my chest.

I realized then that he was asking for identification, which I hadn’t brought along (NOTE: this is stupid, don’t do this).

I tell him my name, and say that I am heading to the next building, where someone can verify my identity. Luckily, he concedes and holding my arm he walks me to the building, where there are about four armed police officers (and by armed, I don’t mean the water-pistols Canadian police officers have; these guys are packing K-57s, AK-47, and assault-grade shot-guns).

He tells the other police officers in a whiny, shaking, drunken voice that he found me “wandering around” and that I don’t have ID, and that something needs to be done, because I look suspicious.

Interjection: Since I was watching Dortmund, I was wearing my BVB scarf. It was cold, so it was  tucked into my hoodie, so the only thing that was sticking out was two German flags on either end. So here I was: Caucasian, bearded, and apparently, German. The drunken police officer was like an old hound-dog, practically urinating with nervous excitement – I could tell that he thought he had caught Mueller or one of his Bavarian associates (since y’know Al Shabab is 100% Caucasian and European, or at least the way the media here seems to be increasingly describing it).

What made me suspicious was the amount of time the sober police officers took verifying the drunken one’s ID – they seemed to not know what it was.

Thankfully, I was able to maintain my gift for gab during this, and I was very chipper and friendly with the new – sober – police officers. They asked me every detail they could think of (which proved to be quite a bit).

However, despite knowing my life story, they still wanted ID, largely by the urging of the Drunken Hound-Dog. I knew that it was my right to present my identity at a later time, and I even suggested bringing it immediately. They said they couldn’t let me walk away without seeing something, so they would walk with me up to my floor to get my ID (NOTE: this is stupid, don’t do this). Tired, and thinking I would run into some of my security guard friends along the way to help escort me, I gave in, not having many other options.

So there I was: in a small, tight elevator, with three armed guards heading up to my room. When we got out onto my floor, I talked louder than normal, hoping that everybody on the floor would be aware of the fact that I was there with some “officers”. The Drunken Hound-Dog wanted to enter my room, but I told them that I wouldn’t enter until they agreed to let me do it myself. They – thankfully – complied, and I went in, grabbed my passport and work permit and came out.

The sober police officers were satisfied immediately … although I had to explain why the only other stamp on my passport was from GERMANY.

The Hound-Dog was almost in tears, pleading: “how can we know this is real, they fake IDs all the time. You know immigration they’ll just stamp, stamp, stamp anything” (anyone who has read my older entries, knows this is ANYTHING but true). The other officers tell him to back-off, thanked me for my cooperation, and left me alone.

When I closed the door I just flopped on the couch.

The next day I shaved my beard.

Side-note: The sober police officers I have seen frequently since, and they have become ‘friends’ waving to me across the street, and asking about how my work has been, and making sure I have been taking safety precautions. The silver-lining is that I now have two gentlemen who recognize me in the neighbourhood, and even get ‘worried’ when they don’t see me for a few evenings.

Occasion No. 3

Having shaved my beard, I figured I was in the clear. I still got favored for frisking when entering buildings (sometimes ten locals walk by, while my bag is being looked through … which doesn't decrease my concerns about security), but I went three weeks without major incidents.

And then yesterday, by far the most ridiculous one happened.

It was early morning and I had just stepped out of the shower, and was putting on my jeans when I heard a sound from out the window. I look out and I see a security guard climbing up to my window. He sees me and takes off at a run.

What the hell?

I think this was some odd misunderstanding. I have my morning cigarette leaning out the window. Suddenly

There he is! He's hijacking that guy's
face!!

one of the employees and the security guard run out, see me and shriek and start screaming “get the police, call the police!”

Again: what the hell?

Three heads pop from the doorway on the floor below me and begin shouting  confusing questions at me:

“How’d you get in there?”

“Did you open the door?!”

“We’ve called the police!”

“How do you have a key?”

I am so confused. I thought they were talking about the window and say it’s always open.

After a minute I just head back in, confused and worried. Luckily, the police didn't kick in my door.

Here’s what had happened:

The building staff had lost the key to the room next to mine and hadn’t seen the occupant for a few days. They were worried about his health, so they wanted to peek in … however, they got the wrong window, so when they peeped in they saw – a possibly naked – white dude walking around. This caused a panic, and so they called the other staff to come to see … and then my white head popped out smoking. They were convinced (and I quote) that I was a member of Al Shabab who had broken into the room.

Here I thought this was a hug ... it was a citizens' arrest.

The perplexing – and slightly upsetting – part of this story is that I knew all the staff who were shouting at me. Apparently, from a mere 10 metres away all white people look the same, even if you have seen them every day for 4 ½ months. Oh, and then there is the fact that people were peeking into my bathroom, when I was in the shower.  

The police were contacted before they could kick in the door next to mine, but I’m still scratching my head over this one.

---

On a serious note: while somewhat amusing, I admit at the back of my mind this has me worried. Firstly, in a country where police shoot first, shoot second, ask questions, and shoot again … it is a little nerve-wracking that any light-skinned person, with dark-hair, and facial hair is seen as being a member of an organization that is 95% [not]. I recognize the parallels this has with many other parts of the world, and the often-reverse scenario, but that doesn’t really put my mind at ease anymore. What if the police had kicked in my door yesterday morning? Additionally, if security is busy searching the bags of Caucasians looking for that <5% of Al Shabab … what about all the individuals who hurry by, because security is occupied rifling through my belongings?

The truth is: terror alerts increase fear of those that look the most different. It happens in North America, and it happens here. In many cases, it’s one of the reasons why terrorism is allowed to happen, because individuals are more concerned with red herrings – and looking for an excuse to act on their own suspicion of the foreign.