My visit to Zagreb, Croatia last summer left me a bit shell-shocked. As always, I am mostly the only coloured person on my flight. We departed Helsinki, Finland and arrived Franjo Tudman airport, Zagreb at 23:45pm. It was the last flight to arrive and I proceeded to clear custom and border security. It got to my turn and I handed over my passport to the officer. On inspection, I was asked a barrage of questions. From my purpose of visit to my means of sustenance. I answered all the questions smoothly and I was happy to provide my flight itinerary and hotel reservations. It felt pretty much routine, till my passport was withheld and border police was called in.
I felt uneasy at first but I remained calm. I was accosted to an interrogation room by two gun wielding police officers with my passport in their hands. I smiled as I followed. When we got in, I was motioned to sit down. Next thing, seven other heavily armed officers stormed into the same room. It felt surreal. I was strip searched and my luggage was taken for forensic examination. A lot of questions came to my head. Why me? Why not others? Why was I singled out?
I was even more confused as the officers all spoke in standard Croatian language. From their body language, I decoded they suspected me of carrying drugs. My bags came back clean though and nothing was found on my body. They scanned my passport yet again and proceeded to ask many puzzling questions. This lasted for 30mins before another senior officer came in, scanned through my travel history yet again and asked they let me go. They apologized for wasting my time and offered me a glass of juice which I declined. I was the last soul to leave the airport. Every other person had long gone. The whole charade took more than 40mins. It left me scarred with the burden of being black.
In Seoul, South Korea I had a rather denigrating experience. At a restaurant around Sangsu-dong station near Hongik University, I walked in with a friend from Colombia to have traditional spicy Korean ramen for dinner. After taking a table, the owner of the restaurant walks up to me smiling and then proceeded to make an 'X' shape with his hands. I was not sure what he meant and I kindly asked that he explains in English. He motions to one of his employees to help out. The words from his mouth crushed me. It felt like a gavel slammed on a table. He said, " Sorry, we cant serve you food here". I was shocked and confused at the same time. In mild irritation, my Colombian friend asked that we leave. I however for the first time in my life wanted to make a scene. In pain, I let it slide but I stared at him for more than five minutes before leaving. Apparently, blacks were not welcome in the restaurant but other colors were. My Colombian fair complexioned friend was welcome but I wasn't.
Countless times, I have been questioned more than others at borders. I have been asked to show physical cash and more proof I could sustain myself. I have been searched and my luggage stripped apart. I have been looked at condescendingly to determine if I would be seeking assylum or running away. I have seen people refusing to sit next to me. I have witnessed a man next to me ask for his flight seat to be changed. I have been gossiped about in a room while pretending to be asleep.
There are however levels to being black. The greener your passport, the more black there is to your blackness. Black feels different when you have a strong red or blue passport.
Yet, black is black and the burden of being black can never be underestimated. A black man is usually suspect. A potential drug mule, a trafficker, an assylum seeker, or an over-stayer. The extra look at your passport sometimes says it all.
In all my experiences, I always walk tall for I know the power of being black is not in the colour but in the consciousness.
Though the world may never know what it is to be black or the experiences of a black person travelling, in my next life I will still chose to be black. For my black is beautiful.
