The Conscript

En route to London, Yousef Ayad is forced to confront his identity and beliefs during an airport interrogation with a life changing conclusion.

9 min read.

My flight was due to depart at 6:20pm from Terminal Two at Jar’rad International Airport and my taxi pulled up outside departures with two hours to spare. I slapped a few notes on the taxi drivers weathered palm, took my luggage out of the boot of the beaten up Mercedes 240d and headed for the check in desk. Ja’rad International was an old and dilapidated structure in desperate need of renovation, or demolition. The interior was coated in tiles varying in shades of brown and the lighting was dull and low. There were few windows in the place so you never quite knew what time it was, and the lack of air conditioning made the air thick and hot.

I checked in my bags and passed through security with ease. All that remained was the final passport control before the heavily perfumed halls of the duty free, but it was the end of summer and the line was long and sluggish.

Forty minutes later and the family with the loud children in front had been granted safe passage, and with a lazy wave of his hand the immigration officer beckoned me forward. I picked my hand luggage off the dusty floor and approached the air conditioned box in which he was housed.

“Passport,” he barked in a voice that suggested a smoking habit of at least a pack a day.

I slid my passport across the counter and he picked it up and flicked to the back. He stared at my photo with beady eyes, before looking up to study me. I tried my best to not look shifty, a feat that we all know is easier said than done. Satisfied that I was indeed the same person as my passport, he typed something on his keyboard and pressed enter with an impatient aggression. I watched as his eyes scanned the screen, his expressionless face giving nothing away.

“Where are you travelling to?” he asked.

“London,” I replied.

“Ticket,” he ordered and I handed him my ticket which he examined with the same thoroughness as my passport.

“Where do you live?” he asked.

“London.”

“Where were you born?” he said staring down at me.

I thought it an odd question, but I indulged him. “London,” I replied.

“Do you have another passport?”

“I do.”

“Which?”

“British.”

“Show me.”

“I don’t have it with me."

"Why?" he asked accusingly.

"I didn’t want to travel with two passports," I replied.

“How long have you had this passport?” he asked, holding up my green and gold Thurisian passport and waving it in front of me.

“Two…three months. It’s new. It’s the first time I’m using it,” I replied.

He stared at me with that expressionless face of his and I worked harder at maintaining a look of innocence. He then stood, revealing a large belly straining desperately against the buttons of his uniform, and stepped out onto the airport floor.

"Wait here," he said and walked off.

“What the fuck," I whispered to myself, furrowing my brows as I desperately searched my mind for an answer. I quickly eliminated the most obvious possibility that the passport was out of date. The thing was barely two months old. Not a crease in sight. No other answers presented themselves to me and my panic soon turned to fear. The authority of a Third World country will do that to a man.

Minutes had passed with no sign of him. I scanned the airport floor for the third time and spotted him walking towards me, but he didn’t come all the way. He stopped about twenty paces and summoned me with a menacing curl of his index finger. I grabbed my hand luggage and hurried towards him but he didn’t wait. He had already turned his back on me and was on the move, so I picked up my pace, desperate to squeeze an answer out of him.

“Is something wrong?” I asked having finally caught up with him, but he didn’t respond.

He led me away from immigration. With each step the noise of the airport became more and more distant and my fear intensified. He came to a stop in front of a plain white door and opened it. With a tilt of his head he signalled for me to go in and I walked in to what seemed like an ordinary office.

“Wait here,” he said turning to leave.

“Wait! Can you please tell me whats wrong? Why am I here?”

“Someone will come and explain, ” he replied and turned his back on me and closed the door.

I listened out to see if the door would be locked, but it wasn’t, providing me with some reassurance, but not much.

I took in my new surroundings. The office was typical of those found in government buildings in this part of the world. It was a large space, most of it taken up by an unnecessarily oversized brown lacquered desk. Its bare and shiny surface reflected light from the harsh fluorescent bulb that hung above. A cheap, black, faux leather sofa was pushed up against the wall to the left, and on the wall behind the desk hung a large portrait of the King. An eerie silence lingered in the room, disturbed only by an air conditioning unit that rattled every ten seconds. I took a seat on a hard wooden chair in front of the desk and placed my hand luggage by my feet.

In the silence of the room, my thoughts grew loud. I looked up at the portrait of the King and he stared down at me with a look that suggested that he knew exactly why I was here. Beads of sweat had now formed on the corners of my forehead and they slowly crawled down my face. I let them continue their journey south, too paralysed in thought.

Minutes later and the doorknob turned. I snapped back into the present and turned to see a man enter dressed in military uniform. By the cut of his cloth, I knew he was a serious man. His uniform was clean, neat and well pressed and unlike the baggy unkept fit that most other officials in this country wore. You can always tell the type of person by the attention they give their clothes. I guessed that he was in his mid forties. He had a head of closely cropped grey hair, the length of a week old buzzcut and his skin was tanned and taut and contrasted strongly against his jet black eyebrows. In his left hand he held a tall glass of mint tea, in his right, my passport. He made his way behind the desk and took a seat. There was a steely look in his emerald green eyes that viewed the world through a pair of frameless glasses.

He opened up my passport and flicked to the back. "Mr Yousef...Ayad," he read. He looked up at me. "How are you?"

“Alhamdulilah (Praise be to God).” I replied.

“Can I get you something? Tea? Water?”

“No I’m ok. Thank you.” I didn’t want to spend anymore time in here than I had to. He picked up his tea and took a small sip. There was little urgency in his movements.

“So, Yousef. What was the nature for your visit to Thurisia?” he asked.

"I was here on holiday." I replied.

"And how long did you spend here?"

“About three weeks."

“And who did you stay with?"

“My grandmother.”

“Where does she live?”

“Jar’rad.”

“Jar’rad,” he repeated. “And it’s my understanding that you were born in London. Is that correct?"

“It is, yeah.”

“And is that where you live?”

“It is.”

“Have you always lived there?”

“I have, yes.”

“I assume then that you have a British passport?”

“I do.”

“May I see it?”

“I don’t have it with me,” I replied. “As I explained to the immigration officer, I didn’t want to travel with two passports. I didn’t think it wise so I left it at home.” His response to this was a slow nod, so I added, “Sorry sir, the immigration officer, he didn’t tell me why he brought me here. All he said is that someone would explain? I’m just conscience about my flight. I don’t want to miss it.”

He smiled. “I just have a few questions. You can relax.”

Relaxed I did not feel.

“So what do you in London Yousef? Do you work? Do you study?”

“I study. Well…I’ve just finished. I graduate next week.”

“Ahh mabrook (congratulations). In what?”

“Medicine.”

“Medicine,” he repeated with an impressed look on his face. “Well then its only right that I should address you as Dr Ayad.”

I didn’t know whether he was being genuine or if he was trying to disarm me by luring me into a false sense of ease. “Not yet,’ I replied. “My graduation’s next week,”

“But you’ve passed yes?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Well then in my books you’re a doctor,” he said. “So, Dr Ayad,’ he opened up my passport once again and flicked to the back. “You are...twenty six?”

“I am,” I replied.

He nodded to himself slowly and closed my passport, placing it gently down on the desk in front of him. He then leaned back into his chair and interlaced his fingers. “Well Yousef,” he said, his eyes locking onto mine. The room suddenly grew cold. “The reason that you are sat here, is that I have in front of me a passport. Your passport. It is a document that tells me two things. The first is that you are a Thurisian national, a citizen of Thurisia and the second, is your date of birth, which as you have just confirmed is twenty six. And as we have also just established, you are no longer in full time education, given that you have just finished studying and are due to graduate. What all of this means, is that that you owe your country a duty. An important duty. The duty to perform two years military service. Obligatory for all males under the age of thirty who are not in full time education.”

And just like that the penny dropped.

“Military service?” I stammered.

“Compulsory military service,” he corrected.

“But...” I said. “How? I don’t live here. I’ve never lived here. I live in London.”

“Where you live isn’t really of any relevance.”

“Surely it is," I said. “I mean…I’m a British citizen.”

He picked my passport off the desk and waved it in front of me. “Are you not also a citizen of Thurisia?”

“Only recently. That passport’s new. It’s not even two months old," I protested.

“Whether you got it two days ago, two months ago, or even two years ago makes no difference. The fact is, you have it, and having it makes you a Thurisian national,” he paused. “But let me ask you this. Why do you have it? If you are as you say, British, and London is your home, why did you apply for this passport?”

“I didn’t. My parents did.”

“Why?”

The reason, the real reason that my parents applied for citizenship, was so that in the event of their death, the holiday home that they had lovingly built over the years wouldn’t get tied up in red tape. Thurisia, like most countries in the Third World, was notorious for its red tape. Having citizenship meant myself and my siblings could inherit the house without any problems. However I didn’t think it wise to share this information with a state official, so I lied. “I guess…they wanted me to maintain some connection with Thurisia.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Why?”

“Yes, why?" he asked impatiently. “Why did they want you to maintain some connection with Thurisia?”

“Because…it’s their country of origin,” I replied.

“And you? What are you? Are you British or Thurisian?”

“I’m...both. I guess.”

“Both?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “What about you is British?”

“It’s the place I was born. The place I was raised.”

“And what about you is Thurisian?”

I paused. “My family…my culture…my heritage.”

“Ok, so let me ask you this. If you are as you say, both Thurisian and British, who do you owe your allegiance to?”

“My allegiance?” I asked.

“Yes, your allegiance,” he barked, his patience now wearing thin. “If Thurisia and Britain went to war, who would you fight for?”

“Who would I fight for? I wouldn’t fight.”

“You wouldn’t fight to defend your country?”

“No.”

“And why not?” he asked.

“I don’t believe in war. I am a pacifist. War begets war. And violence begets violence.”

“So you don’t believe in defending your country?”

I was growing tired of this never ending line of questioning and I was in no mood for a philosophical debate.“Sir, with all due respect, my plane will be leaving soon. If I don’t leave now I’m going to miss it.”

A look of confusion entered his face. “I’m sorry, maybe I haven’t been clear. Military service is a legal requirement. It’s not an option. You can either carry out your military service, or, you can spend two years in jail.”

“Jail?” I repeated with a light head. Jail. This was the first mention of it.

“Yes. Jail,” he asserted.

I panicked, and in my panic I blurted out something I really shouldn’t have. “Can I pay you?”

His expression went still. “Excuse me?” his said, his tone low and serious.

“Can I...can I pay you?” I said softly, hoping that I could calm a situation that was going left very quickly.

“Pay me what?”

“To not have to do military service.”

“Are you trying to bribe me?”

My body was now hot and my hands were clammy “No. No. I’m just trying trying to find a solution.”

“And you think the solution to not carrying out a duty you that owe to your country is by offering me money? Like you would a street beggar to make him go away?’

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“Enough!” he said, his voice raised. “I think it’s best that you stop talking. I’ll put down what you just said as immaturity,” he stood up, picking up my passport and his glass of tea. “A bus to Jebel Ahmar will be leaving this evening. Someone will come and take you to a place where you can make a phone call to whomever you need. Your parents I assume. Your passport will remain with me. It will be returned back to you at the end of your military service.”

I was stunned into silence. He said nothing more and walked right passed me to exit the office, closing the door behind him. And this time, the lock clicked.