Worlds Apart:How Deporting ImmigrantsAfter 9/11 Tore Families Apartand Shattered Communities

Published December 2004

THE AMERICAN CIVIL LIBERTIES UNION is thenation’s premier guardian of liberty, working dailyin courts, legislatures and communities to defendand preserve the individual rights and freedomsguaranteed by the Constitution and the laws of theUnited States.

OFFICERS AND DIRECTORSNadine Strossen, PresidentAnthony D. Romero, Executive DirectorKenneth B. Clark, Chair, Executive Advisory CouncilRichard Zacks, Treasurer

NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS125 Broad Street, 18th Fl.New York, NY 10004-2400(212) 549-2500www.aclu.org

Paid for by the ACLU Foundation.

Cover: Benamar Benatta at the Buffalo FederalDetention Center, Buffalo News Photo.

Table of Contents

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1

Ahmed Abualeinen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .3

Ansar Mahmood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4

Anser Mehmood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6

Charities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .6

Benamar Benatta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .8

Shattered Communities . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10

Khaled Abu-Shabayek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13

Khaled Albitar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15

Khurram Altaf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15

Mohamed Elzaher . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17

Naeem Sheikh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .18

Noor Hussain Raza . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19

Sadek Awaed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20

Conclusion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21

WORLDS APART

Introduction

Their stories vary widely: some mendrove cabs, some delivered pizzas andstill others pumped gas. Some spoke

Urdu and others Arabic. Some came from tinyvillages, others from major, cosmopolitancities. Some had children who attended publicschools, speaking perfect English and playingbasketball with American friends. Others sup-ported their families in Pakistan or Jordan,sending money for school fees, home repairs orlife-saving medicines. Many had been here foryears, others for only a few months.

But the stories of these men are similar inimportant ways. All came to the United Statesseeking a better life for themselves and theirfamilies. All were Muslim, from South Asia orthe Middle East. After September 11, all werecaught in a government dragnet that swept uphundreds of Muslims indiscriminately. And allwere denied basic rights normally afforded tothose detained in the United States and otherdemocratic countries.

In January 2004, represented by lawyers fromthe American Civil Liberties Union and the lawfirm of Debevoise & Plimpton, a group of thir-teen men who had been detained in the United

States filed a petition with the United NationsWorking Group on Arbitrary Detention. Thepetitioners alleged that:

• The United States detained petitioners assuspected terrorists even where there wasno evidence– let alone credible evidence –that they had engaged in criminal activityof any sort.

• The United States imprisoned petitionersunder a “hold until cleared” policy thateffectively imposed a presumption ofguilt. Under the policy, detainees wereheld until the FBI decided that they wereinnocent. Compounding the injury,some petitioners were detained evenafter the FBI had affirmatively clearedthem of all charges.

• The United States’ arbitrary and haphazardarrest and detention policies were directedalmost entirely against Muslim men ofSouth Asian or Middle Eastern descent.

• The United States denied petitionersaccess to counsel, failed to inform thempromptly of the charges against them or tobring them before a judge, and categoricallydenied them release on bond.

1

WORLDS APART:How Deporting Immigrants After 9/11 ToreFamilies Apart and Shattered Communities

An ACLU Repo rt

• The United States incarcerated petitionersin degrading and inhumane conditions.Although the immigrants generally weredetained on non-criminal immigrationcharges, many were kept in cells for 23hours a day and were made to wear handand leg shackles when leaving their cells.Some were kept in solitary confinementfor extended periods with no explanation.Lights were left on 24 hours a day, immi-grants were denied the use of blankets, andmany were denied telephone calls and visitswith family members.

The UN Working Group has acknowledgedreceipt of the petition and, at the WorkingGroup’s request, the State Department hasprovided a formalresponse to someof the petitioners’allegations. Adecision from theworking group isexpected in thenext few months.

An earlier ACLUreport, America’sDisappeared, discussed the roundups anddetentions. For many, the nightmare beganwith their arrest. FBI and immigration offi-cials dragged some people out of their housesin the middle of the night in front of fright-ened wives and children. Others were pickedup for being in the wrong place — like AhmedAbualeinen, who was arrested by agents whohad come looking for his roommate but tookhim instead. Still others were arrested afterroutine traffic stops. For many, it would bedays before they could contact their familieswith their whereabouts and weeks before theycould access legal help. The governmentrefused to release the names of people it haddetained. Behind bars, many suffered fromharassment and even physical abuse.

All but one of the petitioners have now beendeported. And that is where this report comes in.

Many have been deported to countries where theyhaven’t lived in years, and where unemploymentrates are high and salaries are low. Many havebeen harassed because of their connections tothe U.S. or taunted for being deported.

None of them were found guilty of any terror-ism-related offense or connected in any waywith the September 11 attacks. But the stigmaremains. Sadek Awaed’s friends in Jersey City,New Jersey stopped speaking to him after theFBI questioned them and suggested that hewas involved with terrorists. Asylum-seekerBenamar Benatta, who is still behind bars in

New York, wor-ries that thecharges will haunthim if he ends upbeing returned toAlgeria. AnserM e h m o o d ’ syoung sons werethreatened andteased in theirNew Jersey school

for having a “terrorist” for a father. Althoughnone of the detainees were found to have aconnection to September 11, the JusticeDepartment website still boasts that hundredsof immigrants “linked to the September 11investigation” have been deported.

The petitioners are not the only ones who arestill suffering the effects of the roundup. Theirfamilies, too, have been traumatized by whathappened. Just ask Haneen, the 14-year-oldU.S.-born daughter of petitioner Khaled Abu-Shabayek. Her family moved to Jordan in 2002after her father was detained and deported. “Ican’t take it anymore, and I’m very angry,” shesaid. “Everyone [in my family], they’re alwaysangry, they’re not happy.”

2

WORLDS APART

Although none were found to have aconnection to September 11, theJustice Department still boaststhat hundreds of immigrants “linkedto the September 11 investigation”have been deported.

Or ask Anza, the nine-year-old daughter ofKhurram Altaf. For the first time this year, shewill not be able to attend the special school thataccommodates her hearing disability — suchschools don’t exist in Pakistan, where shemoved after her father was deported.

Their communities in the U.S. were nega-tively affected, too. Neighborhoods that werevibrant and full are suddenly half-empty andquiet. Merchants are struggling; many havebeen forced out of business. And people arescared that they could be the next to be awak-ened in the middle of the night by immigra-tion officials.

With the help of the Pakistan Human RightsCommission, the ACLU located some of themen who had been deported and went toPakistan to hear their stories. At a press confer-ence in Geneva when the petition was filed, themen had another opportunity to tell their storiesto the world.

This report shares the stories of their familiesand communities.

Ahmed AbualeinenA voice in Arabic tells callers that AhmedAbualeinen’s telephone has been cut off. Itdoesn’t say that it’s because he has no moneyto pay the bill. The family’s cell phone justrings endlessly. It’s been cut off, too.

Abualeinen, 60, agreed to “voluntary” depar-ture to Jordan in May 2002, after spending fivemonths in detention. He had been living in theU.S. for nearly six years before that, supportinghis wife and their nine children by working asa carpenter.

His nephew, Hosni Abualeinen, lives inRaleigh, NC, and recently visited his uncle inAmman. He said that about a year ago, hisuncle opened a tiny grocery store next door tohis house. “He’s making a living…barely,”said his nephew. He estimates that the store

brings in less than $1000 a month, which isnot enough to support a family of five. (Oneof Abualeinen’s older sons and his wife andtwo children also share the home. The sonworks as a carpenter and sometimes helps outin the family store.) Abualeinen’s wife is alsoworking there — it is her first job outside ofthe home.

But even after two years, said the youngerAbualeinen, his uncle is “really sufferingfrom the way he has been deported. He’sthinking for the last two years about being injail for five months.”

3

An ACLU Repo rt

“If you gave him the opportunity tocome back here, he would do it.”

Ahmed Abualeinen working as a carpenter.

His uncle, he said, is a simple man. He cannotread or write, even in Arabic. He’s a familyman, who stayed in the city where he firstarrived, and held the same job for six years.

His nephew said that he is still hoping to comeback. “There is no other option whatsoever,”said Hosni Abualeinen. “If you gave him theopportunity to come back here, he would do it.”

Ansar MahmoodAfter nearly three years in detention, AnsarMahmood was deported to Pakistan on Aug.12, 2004. The ACLU visited him in the BuffaloFederal Detention Facility in July, just a fewweeks before he was deported. The report thatfollows comes from that interview.

Ansar Mahmood is surprised at just how muchpublicity his case has gotten. A neighbor in histiny Pakistani village recently visitedMahmood’s father, he recalled, bringing a localnewspaper: “Your son’s story is in the paper,”

the neighbor reportedly said. “And BillClinton’s wife said to release him.”

His story has also appeared in bigger media,closer to his adopted home, like the New YorkTimes, Los Angeles Times, Washington Postand the Associated Press. His story has alsobeen told on National Public Radio, and a doc-umentary film is in the works.

“I’m a famousc e l e b r i t y , ”M a h m o o dsaid, laughingat the irony.“That’s whythey’re goingto deport me.M o r e b a dpublicity.”

M a h m o o d ’swide eyes andbaggy orangej u m p s u i tmake him look

younger than his 28 years. Telling his story inrapid-fire, accented English — much improvedafter two years in an American prison — hesounds alternately like a world-weary old manand a lost young boy.

But if this Pakistani villager is an unlikelyinternational celebrity, he’s also an unlike-ly deportee. He arrived in New York inApril 2000, a lucky winner of the GreenCard lottery. He eventually landed a jobmaking and delivering pizzas at aPakistani-owned Domino’s franchise inHudson, New York, a small town about 40miles south of Albany. “Everything is good[in Hudson],” he said. “The money is goodtoo.” He worked fourteen-hour days to sendmoney home to his family.

Then, in October 2001, he made the mistake ofsnapping a picture of the landscape nearHudson to send back to Pakistan. Mahmooddidn’t know it then, but the view included anearby water treatment plant. Its workers alert-ed the FBI, which arrested him. He wasdetained for several days. Although he wasquickly cleared of all ties to terrorism, authori-ties discovered that he had co-signed a leaseand helped obtain car insurance for the sister of

4

WORLDS APART

Ansar Mahmood

In October 2001, he made themistake of snapping a picture ofthe landscape near Hudson tosend back to Pakistan.

an old friend from home. As it turned out, shehad overstayed her visa.

Authorities charged Mahmood with harboringan illegal alien, a charge that until September11 was usually reserved for large people-smug-gling operations. “I’m not responsible for thesepeople,” Mahmood said. “She came with avisa.” At the time, however, with poor Englishskills and misguided advice from a publicdefender, Mahmood pleaded guilty to what helater learned was a deportable offense. He hasbeen in detention since. “These are the harshrealities of …post-9/11 law, when people are asparanoid as they are,” said Mahmood’s immi-gration attorney, Rolando Velazquez. But“somebody like Ansar is not supposed to becaught up in this,” added Velazquez, a formerINS trial attorney.

Coming to America, Mahmood planned to fol-low his father’s wishes and get an education.But then, he said,“I got someadvice: ‘Do youwant to supportyour family or doyou want to sup-port yourself?’”He thought abouthis three sisters,he said, and chose the former. His pizza moneypaid for medicine after his father suffered astroke in 2000. It sent his sisters to school. Andit bought amenities, from a color television to anew refrigerator.

Phoning Pakistan is expensive, so Mahmoodspeaks infrequently with his parents. He’s notsure how the family has fared since the cashflow from Hudson stopped. They don’t reallyunderstand what it means for him to be in cus-tody. He’s sure that they “won’t close the door”on him, but he’s not sure how he’ll supporthimself, or them, when he returns. “I can work

in the field for ten hours long. I have very goodmuscle,” he said, showing off a tattooed bicep.“But people think I’m very skinny.”

Despite Mahmood’s troubles, he is luckier thanmost. Soon after he was picked up, a peacegroup in a neighboring town took up his cause.They organized rallies, garnered support frompoliticians and human rights groups and keptMahmood’s name in the news.

“In the letter [ordering Mahmood deported],[the judge] deny me because of no family ties,”Mahmood said indignantly. “But what do youcall these people who come here? They aremore than family ties — they love me.”

Mahmood said he used the prison’s law libraryto look up the statutes about harboring. He saidhe’s not sure why he’s being deported, since hiswas a first offense. But he pleaded guilty to thecharge and can’t undo it.

He said that hetries to remaincheerful, espe-cially for his sup-porters who drivefive hours eachway to visit him.And he does man-

age to be cheerfully enthusiastic, whether talk-ing about his breakfast routine — “I lovestrawberry oatmeal with bananas!” — or hisnew friends — “First I have only one family inPakistan. Now I have a whole family here.”But he often sounds discouraged, and his browneyes fill with tears.

Mahmood said that his story — of a small-town boy who comes to America, finds a com-munity and makes it — sounds like the plot ofa Hollywood movie. “But in the film, the herois going to win,” he said. “In the true story, heis going to lose.”

5

An ACLU Repo rt

He said that he tries to remaincheerful , especially for hissupporters who drive five hourseach way to visit him.

Anser Mehmood

Anser Mehmood’s sons want to go home toNew Jersey. Only one of the four — they rangein age from three to 15 — has an Americanpassport. The others were born in Pakistan.But, said their father, all are far more Americanthan Pakistani: Their English is better than

their Urdu, and they wear American clothesand love to play basketball. “They were raisedin [the] United States,” he said. “It’s theirdream to go back…to finish their studies there,joining with their old friends.”

The family moved from Pakistan to New Yorkin 1994. Mehmood drove a yellow cab. Hiswife, Uzma, raised the boys in the house they

6

WORLDS APART

Charities: The FalloutThe Islamic Circle of North America (ICNA),a New York-based Muslim charity that offersits clients a range of social services, used tofeed as many as 400 hungry people a week inits soup kitchens. These days, it’s lucky if itcan manage food for 150. Plans to buildanother shelter have been put on hold indef-initely, as have plans to hire new employeesfor its family counseling program. BeforeSept. 11, 2001, donations to the charity aver-aged over $4 million year. Today ICNA getsless than half of that.

At the Islamic Center of Jersey City, direc-tor Ahmed Shedeed estimates that “95 to100 percent” of its operating budgetcomes from donations. Since the 9/11attacks, he said, charitable contributionshave dropped “dramatically.”

Both organizations are part of a significant andunexpected fallout from the war on terrorism:Afraid that they may be fingered for supportingterrorist organizations, people have quit donat-ing money to legitimate Muslim charities. Theproblem is not just that charitable organiza-tions need money to continue serving theirclients. Muslims have a religious obligation togive zakat — charitable donations.

The government’s recent indictment of theHoly Land Foundation is further proof to

community members that an innocent charita-ble donation can have serious consequences.In January 2004, the Senate FinanceCommittee asked the INS to turn over confi-dential records — including donor names — of24 Muslim charities and foundations.

“I don’t think that people have doubts aboutour organization,” said ICNA’s executivedirector, Muhammad Rahman. “But they feelthat once they give to us, they are open forany questions, any investigations [by the gov-ernment]” People are so afraid, he added,that they have even quit coming to the regularfundraising meetings the organization holdsto inform donors of charitable work.

Many local mosques refer worshipers inneed of social services — from food to rentmoney to legal aid — to ICNA, Rahman said.The demand for such services spiked withthe detentions that followed the 9/11 attacksand special registration. At the same time,the drop in donations has meant that thecharity has less to give.

“In 2002, we could have paid up to $5,000 fora lawyer. We could even match that amountfor an emergency rental,” said Adem Carroll,the organization’s relief coordinator. “Now,we’re paying $400 incrementally to keep[clients] from being evicted.”

“The community has been in a great deal oflimbo, because [there is] no standard

bought in Bayonne, a New Jersey suburb ofNew York City. By the time of the September11 attacks, Mehmood was running a truckingbusiness and his older children were attendingneighborhood public schools. Then, in earlyOctober 2001, the FBI searched theMehmoods’ home — without a warrant —their suspicions raised by an unfounded allega-tion. Mehmood was arrested and detained.

After several months in solitary confinement,he pleaded guilty to using an invalid socialsecurity number and was ordered deported. InMay 2002, he was sent back to Pakistan; thefamily followed soonafter.

They moved to Karachi to live withMehmood’s father, a retiree with no income ofhis own. “It’s difficult,” acknowledges

7

An ACLU Repo rt

established for what would constitute materi-al support of terrorism,” said LaDale George,a Chicago attorney who represents Muslimcharities across the country. “The Islamiccommunity needs that standard.”

Money that used to go to large national orinternational organizations is going insteadto smaller, local projects, George said. Butrecently, government investigations havealso been focusing more closely on localmosques and imams. “As a result, [donorsare] concerned that any involvement willbring you under scrutiny,” he said. Peoplehave also stopped giving to local organiza-tions, “because they don’t want to be viewedas supporting anti-American sentiment inthe U.S.”

Some organizations, including ICNA, haveapproached the federal government aboutestablishing a seal of approval or a list ofstandards, to reassure donors that charitableorganizations are legitimate — and that con-tributions to an approved organization won’tput donors under scrutiny. So far, no suchstandards have been established; a TreasuryDepartment spokeswoman was unable to saywhether such a plan is in the works.

“That is one of the largest challenges that weface,” said the treasury official, who asked notto be identified. “[We want] to make sure thatcharitable giving continues,” she said. “But ifthere is any evidence of legitimate concern

that the funds are going to nefarious purposesto support terrorist organizations, we will doall we can to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

She points potential donors to the list of”specially designated nationals,” posted onthe Treasury Department Web site(http://www.treasury.gov/offices/eotffc/ofac/sdn/t11sdn.pdf), which includes a range ofpeople and organizations deemed by thegovernment to be bad news: “drug kingpins,money launderers, terror financiers, peoplewho are undermining the democraticprocess in Zimbabwe.” But the list only tellsdonors where not to give; it provides no guid-ance for potential donors seeking cleanorganizations. And the lists are infamous fortheir errors; many charities on the list havechallenged their designation, saying theaccusations of connections to terror organi-zations are completely false.

In any case, not all Muslim organizations agreewith the idea of government approval. AhmedShedeed of the Islamic Center of Jersey Citysaid that he did not need the government oranyone else to prove what he already knows,that is, that his charity is legitimate.

But ICNA’s Rahman hopes that some system —or at least some form of assurance — is inplace by the month of Ramadan (mid-Octoberthis year), a traditional time for Muslims tomake charitable donations.

Mehmood, referring to the financial burden heand his family have placed on his father.

More serious is the city’s tenuous security situa-tion. A series of attacks this spring left 70 peopledead and more than 200 wounded. Mehmoodsaid there are regular shootings and bombingsaround the city. He’s afraid to let the children goout alone, because their American-accentedUrdu and foreign-bought clothes mark them asAmericans. “They don’t know that they arePakistani, and they don’t speak the language ofthe country,” Mehmood said. “So they really feeldiscrimination. They are not in safe hands.”

Differences in the education system and poorUrdu skills mean that the children — excellentstudents in the U.S. — are struggling to keep upin school. They have had trouble makingfriends, and because of the dangers of the streetsthey are not even allowed to play outside.

The family would like to move into a home ofits own, but there isn’t enough money.Mehmood’s struggle to find work has beenunsuccessful. In order to get a job in the truck-

ing business, he explained, he’d have to buy atruck, something he can’t afford. And, truck orno truck, the job would not bring in enough forhim to support his whole family. Mehmood’swife, Uzma, hopes to get a job, but workingoutside the home is considered a stigma forPakistani women, Mehmood said. She worriesabout having to explain to the children thatthey can’t go back to the U.S.

Acquaintances have hassled Mehmood about hispoor fortune. How could he spend so much time

in a country and contribute so much to it, peopleask, only to be kicked out? Mehmood often won-ders the same thing, since he had always felt wel-come. “I feel the United States is a very differentcountry after September 11,” he says.

Benamar BenattaIt has been more than three years sinceBenamar Benatta has spoken to his parents inAlgeria. That’s how long the 31-year-old for-mer Algerian Air Force lieutenant has beenbehind bars — first in Canada, then inBrooklyn and, since April 2002, in upstateNew York, at the Buffalo Federal DetentionCenter. It’s not that he doesn’t miss his fami-ly or wouldn’t like to reassure them that he isokay. But he fears that his situation could puthis family in danger: He deserted the AlgerianAir Force, was accused of being a terroristand has asked for asylum in two countries. Heis concerned about his own safety, too.

“I’m worrying every day, to be honest,” he said.“Because ask any Algerian here, he will tell youwhat will happen to me if I am deported.”

He said, that if he is returned to Algeria, hecould face torture, lifelong imprisonment oreven execution.

Despite some improvements in the situationin Algeria, Benatta does indeed face a realdanger of prosecution, said Salem Salem, anAlgerian country specialist for AmnestyInternational. Applying for asylum in aWestern country could in itself be groundsfor persecution, he said, as could the factthat he deserted the armed forces. “If he issent back,” said Salem, “it’s going to bevery complicated.”

8

WORLDS APART

How could he spend so much time ina country and contribute so much toit, people ask, only to be kicked out?

This spring, a judge rejected Benatta’s secondrequest for asylum, saying it lacked credibility.The judge also expressed doubts that Benatta’sstatus as a deserter would lead to persecution inAlgeria. Eric Schultz, Benatta’s immigrationlawyer, disagrees. “Even if you say [Benatta]would face prosecution instead of persecu-tion,” he said, “there’s a pretty good chancethat he would face torture.”

He believes that the earlier asylum hearing,without legal counsel, complicated the case.

Benatta’s case now lies with the U.S. Court ofAppeals. Unfortunately, the numbers are

against him. According to Department ofJustice statistics, 101 Algerians applied forasylum in the U.S. last year. Only 15 weregranted protection.

He lives in a dorm-style room, with around 60bunk beds. It is usually filled to capacity, hesaid, although turnover is high. The commonbathroom facilities are in the same room,where the detainees also have their meals.

He reads a lot, mostly novels and law books,though he worries that he has forgotten his edu-cation. He wishes he had math and physicsbooks to read instead. (Hardcover books are

forbidden, obstensibly due to security con-cerns.) In the meantime, though, he hasbecome something of an expert in immigrationlaw, providing legal advice to other detainees,he said, and helping them prepare their habeascorpus briefs. He works out daily and some-times plays basketball with other prisoners.

Although he is well-spoken and polite, Benattais often withdrawn as he sits in an electric blueprison uniform under the harsh fluorescentlights of the attorney visitation room. He rarelylooks up when he speaks and, for the first halfof the interview, offered mostly one-wordanswers to questions. Concerned that authori-ties are monitoring his calls, he’s afraid to talkabout his case on the phone.

Benatta deserted the Algerian Air Force in late2000, while attending a training program host-ed by a Maryland defense contractor. After afew months in New York, he crossed intoCanada and applied for asylum. That was earlySeptember 2001. On the day after the 9/11attacks, Canadian authorities, who haddetained him while investigating his claim,turned him over to the Americans.

9

An ACLU Repo rt

Benamar Benatta

He said he could face torture, life-long imprisonment or even executionif he is returned to Algeria.

The FBI had cleared Benatta ofany ties to terrorism, but he spentanother five months in solitaryconfinement.

10

WORLDS APART

Shattered Communities:“Little Pakistan,” Brooklyn, New York

Mehrban Khan leaned against an empty bar-ber chair and shook his head. “Oh my God,it’s too slow,” he said. “It’s 3:30 and I’veearned forty dollars today.”

Khan, whose brush mustache is neatlytrimmed, owns a barber shop on ConeyIsland Avenue. His daily take used to becloser to 400 dollars, he said. The blackleather bench that lines one side of his shopwould always be full, and people wouldstand in the doorway next to it — he walksover to demonstrate — just to be inside.There used to be four barber chairs, he said,

gesturing to the space where now there areonly two, both empty. There were no piles oftrimmed hair on the floor, no scent of shav-ing cream or hair tonic in the air.

Like many shopkeepers in the neighborhood,Khan is still suffering the effects of theSeptember 11 attacks and the government’sspecial registration program, which causedthousands of people to leave the area ofBrooklyn’s Midwood neighborhood known asLittle Pakistan.

Exact numbers are hard to come by, butcommunity leaders estimate that beforeSeptember 11, Brooklyn was home to atleast 100,000 Pakistanis. By the time specialregistration ended in 2003, they say, as manyas 45,000 had either been deported or leftvoluntarily. (Other counts are somewhat lessdire, putting the exodus at between 15,000and 20,000 people.) And Pakistanis fromother neighborhoods quit coming, too,scared by stories of FBI agents and immigra-tion officials wandering Coney Island Avenue,Little Pakistan’s main drag.

Bobby Khan (no relation to Mehrban) is exec-utive director of the Coney Island AvenueProject, a group formed after the 9/11attacks to help community members whohad been detained. “It’s deserted now,” hesaid. “It was so crowded, a lot of restaurants,a lot of people on the street, a lot of families,kids.” People abandoned their apartmentswith the contents intact, he said. Somethought they would be coming back; otherswere too scared to take the time to move out.

According to a survey done by the Council ofPakistan Organizations, a local communitygroup, more than 30 businesses have beenforced to close down in the last three years.In some cases, their owners were part of theexodus; in others, there simply weren’tenough earnings to pay the rent. Store-owners

“People were afraid to dress in our typical cloth-ing,” said Future Fabrics owner Farooq Ahmed.“They started to dress like Americans. Theystopped wearing head scarves.”

11

An ACLU Repo rt

who remained estimate that their businessis down by 30 to 40 percent.

The first Pakistani immigrants began to settlearound Coney Island Avenue in the 1980s.The community grew quickly. By the mid-1990s, community leaders were calling forbilingual Urdu teachers for the neighbor-hood public schools.

Like other immigrant neighborhoods, storescarry names brought from home, like theUrdu Bazzar and Punjab Sweets. Businessescater to the residents’ needs: money trans-fers, calling cards, halal meat shops, Urdu-speaking doctors, immigration attorneys andtranslation services. A three-story green andwhite mosque takes up a large portion of oneblock. The neighborhood had what one resi-dent described as “hustle bustle.” (Anothercalled it congestion.)

Not any more. It started after theSeptember 11 attacks. FBI agents werequestioning Muslims. Many were detained.Some residents were attacked by people“seeking revenge.” Then, just as the neigh-borhood began getting back to business asusual, the government announced its spe-cial registration program, requiring immi-grants from 25 Muslim countries, includingPakistan, to register. Many who compliedwere subsequently arrested on technicalregistration violations. Others, afraid ofwhat might happen to their husbands, sonsor brothers, fled — to Canada, Europe andeven back to Pakistan. Today, there is anair of sleepiness about the neighborhood,even at midday. Restaurants are empty.There are empty parking spaces on bothsides of the street.

The floors, walls and even ceilings of FutureFabrics are covered in bolts of fabric, salwarkameez, head scarves, and trims. Dressed ina black and tan patterned salwar kameez,

dupatta draped across her front, FarooqAhmed remembered what happened.“People were afraid to dress in our typicalclothing,” she said, pulling at her own. “Theystarted to dress like Americans. Theystopped wearing head scarves.”

There were weeks, she said, when the shopbarely saw 25 or 50 dollars. She estimatedthat business was down 35 percent, andthat’s an improvement from the monthsright after special registration started. “Forthe last couple of months, we’ve been payingthe rent from our pockets,” she said. “We’rejust barely making ends meet.”

Across the street at Pak Jewelers, NaseemKhan stood over large cases filled with brightyellow gold jewelry — thin bangles, thickbracelets and dangly earrings with match-ing collar necklaces. “You see? There are nopeople,” he said, gesturing over the counters

“I’m still waiting for the good times,” saidNaseem Khan, owner of Pak Jewelers, wherebusiness has dropped significantly in the lastthree years.

U.S. authorities, including the FBI, subjectedhim to hours of interrogation and then tookhim to the Metropolitan Detention Center inBrooklyn, where he was placed in solitaryconfinement. In 2003, the MDC was the sub-ject of an investigation by the Department ofJustice’s Inspector General who criticized thefacility for its treatment of Muslim detaineesafter the attacks.

By November 2001, the FBI had clearedBenatta of any ties to terrorism.Nonetheless, he spent another five months insolitary confinement. In December, he wascharged with possession of false documents,which he had used to cross into Canada; itwould be another five months before Benatta

would learn of the charges. In September2003, two years after he was first detained, aNew York judge decided in Benatta’s favor.In a decision that offered a sweeping con-demnation of the government’s treatment ofBenatta, Magistrate Judge H. MichaelSchroeder dismissed all criminal charges.But Benatta can’t afford the $25,000 bailthat yet another judge refused to reduce —most asylum-seekers in the U.S. are detaineduntil a decision about their case is reached— and so he sits in Batavia, trying hard notto think about what will happen in the fallwhen the Board of Immigration Appealsreturns its decision. Only one thing is cer-tain: “For sure I’m not going to stay in NewYork anymore,” he said.

12

WORLDS APART

to the street. “I’m not making any moneythe last two years.”

Four of his family members used to work inthe store. Now he only needs two, he said.He had to take his children out of privateschool because he couldn’t afford thetuition. And he already sold his otherbusiness — a grocery store — because hehad no customers. “I’m still waiting for thegood times,” he said.

During a weekday lunch hour in theBukhara Restaurant on the next block,Quisar Chaudhry looks at his empty restau-rant. Business is down 50 percent. “If wedidn’t have the mosque next door, we wouldbe dead,” he said. “It’s very hard to survive.”

Even the mosque is far from the crowdedmeeting place it used to be. AsgharChoudhri is a member of the mosque’sboard, and a neighborhood accountantsometimes referred to, because of his tire-less work in the community, as the mayor ofLittle Pakistan. “On Fridays, they used to

have people on the sidewalk and in thestreet,” he said. “Now they can’t even fill it.”

Sitting in his friend Mehrban Khan’s barbershop, Choudhri watched in amazement. “Hewas never standing like that — he wasalways busy.”

The Makki Mosque on Coney Island Avenue, inthe heart of Brooklyn’s “Little Pakistan,” wasn’tbig enough for all the worshipers, said AsgharChoudri. “Now they can’t even fill it.”

When he first came to the U.S., he had hopedto continue his education, maybe get a master’sdegree. He’s not so sure anymore. “I spentthree years just lying there,” he said. “I feel likeI’m broken. I forgot what life on the outside isall about.”

He is haunted by the terrorism charges againsthim, even though they were dropped two yearsago. Among other things, he said, they cost himhis friends on the outside: “When [I was in]Brooklyn, [authorities] talked to them, toldthem that I am terrorist. They got scared. Idon’t blame them. It wasn’t their fault.” Healso suspects that the terrorism charges may bebehind the extended detention and high bond.He recently staged a 23-day hunger strike toprotest authorities’ plans to move him into adorm-style floorwith criminaldetainees becausethe governmentcalled him a ter-rorist. (He waseventually movedfrom his individual cell, but he was put on afloor with other men detained on immigrationcharges, not criminals.)

Benatta is desperately seeking a country thatwould be willing to accept him if the U.S.won’t. So far, none has shown any interest.Meanwhile, he gets discouraged watchingother detainees come and go, wondering whythey are not considered flight risks and he is.Most of all, he envies those who can sign apaper agreeing to be deported. “For me,” hesaid, “ I don’t have a choice. If I were fromanother country, I would sign right away. Idon’t want to stay another day.”

Khaled Abu-ShabayekIn Raleigh, North Carolina, Khaled Abu-Shabayek’s oldest daughter, Hanan, was an Astudent. She would walk past the campuses ofDuke and NC State and dream of studyingmedicine. “I was planning a lot,” she said. “Mygrades over there in America were really high.”

In Amman, Jordan, where she now lives, sheis a high school dropout. Hanan, 17, was bornin Jordan, but as a toddler she moved with herparents and older brother to the U.S. Until lastyear, she attended American schools.Although she spoke Arabic with her parents,she never learned to read or write it. When herfather was deported to Jordan two years ago,

she and her fami-ly followed, andshe enrolled in aJordanian school.But language dif-ficulties made itimpossible to

keep up, and, unable to bear being a failingstudent, she dropped out. Soon after, she gotengaged to a boy she met while visiting hergrandparents. They will marry when theyhave enough money.

“I’m really happy [with my fiancé],” she said,on the telephone from her parents’ apartment inAmman. “But I would have been happier if Iwas in school and finished and got my diplo-ma.” If she were still in the U.S., she sighed, “Ithink I would have been in school right nowand learning. I don’t think I would have gottenmarried at all.”

Hanan’s broken dreams are part of the manyproblems her family has faced since herfather, Khaled Abu-Shabayek, was deportedto Jordan in September 2002. Abu-Shabayek

He is haunted by the terrorismcharges against him, even thoughthey were dropped two years ago.

13

An ACLU Repo rt

applied for political asylum in 1994, based onhis status as a Palestinian in Jordan. Theapplication was denied, but Abu-Shabayekdecided to stay on with his wife and two smallchildren. He worked construction jobs in theU.S. and had a small grocery business on theside. The family rented a house in Raleigh andthe children went to American schools. (Thecouple would later have five more children,all American citizens.) Abu-Shabayek appliedfor permanent resident status for himself, hiswife and the twooldest children;the applicationwas still pendingwhen he wasarrested in April2002. He spentnearly fivemonths in severaldifferent detention centers before finallybeing deported. His wife and their childrenleft for Amman soon after.

Abu-Shabayek, who trained as an electrician,has been unable to find a job in Amman. Hespends his days looking for work, hanging outin his brothers’ electronics store or just drink-ing tea with his parents.

His oldest son, who is 18, also dropped out ofhigh school because of language problems. Hehad a job in a restaurant for a while, but it paidlittle. He’s currently looking for a new job. Forthe first year, the family lived on their savingsfrom the U.S., but now the savings are gone.The family is behind on the rent; Abu-Shabayek is looking for a cheaper apartment.The family recently sold their car because theyneeded the money. “Everybody’s worriedabout money,” said another daughter Haneen,14. “It’s really hard to get money over here.”

The children who stayed in school continue tohave problems. Haneen said she is barely passing

her classes. None of the children have madefriends. The younger boys are often teased forbeing American.

“Over there in America, you’d see us 24/7happy,” said Haneen, with a distinct NorthCarolina accent. “But over here, we’re reallyfrustrated and angry.”

She misses the trips her family used totake, and going roller skating with her

friends. Her sis-ter, Hanan, too,misses herfriends and thelife she had inNorth Carolina.

Even the parents,who grew up in

Jordan and speak little English, feel out ofplace now. “Our family, all of them, [are]American,” said Abu-Shabayek. “I lived there12 years in a row. My thinking, my feeling, mylife, my position, my everything is American.”

But while he sounds resigned, his daughterHaneen is angry: “My family right now,we’re in the middle of a crisis, because ofmoney. Because of money and because ofeverything, because of Arabic and becauseof...Oh, God...I don’t know,” she pauses.“Every time I start thinking about it, I feelsad and mad and angry.”

“I feel that Jordan right now, nothing is in it. Idon’t feel it’s a place to live,” she said. “I don’tfeel that this is a place to live for anyone. I feellike it’s a jail.”

14

WORLDS APART

“Over there in America, you’d seeus 24/7 happy,” said Haneen, with adistinct North Carolina accent. “Butover here, we’re really frustratedand angry.”

15

An ACLU Repo rt

Khaled Albitar“I visit my friends, sit at home, go to my brother’sshop, I help him there, walk down the street,”said Khalid Albitar. “He gives me money forcigarettes, and for my food. And that’s all whatI do.”

It’s been more than two years since Albitar, 34,was deported to Jordan for having an expiredvisa, and he still has no job. FBI agents ques-tioned him in October 2001, days before hisvisa was to run out. After the interrogation,

Albitar was too afraid to go to the INS office torenew the visa; immigration officials returnedsoon after and arrested him. He spent ninemonths in detention, including nearly a monthin solitary confinement.

Amin Mostapho, a close friend of Albitar formore than 20 years, said he thinks Albitar lost30 pounds while he was in jail. “He was callingme, [saying] ‘I wish I could know why I am injail,’” he remembered.

Since his deportation, Albitar has looked forwork “many, many times” but he is discour-aged by the pay in Jordan: “I work one week,two weeks, and then I leave, because thesalary is very cheap. It’s like 200 dollars amonth, and you work for 12 hours a day andthat’s very hard.”

The other hard part, he said, comes after the ini-tial excitement of seeing one’s family passes.Then, “they leave you and you’re going to have

to find a job, and to look for [an] apartment,you’re going to be alone, no one’s going to helpyou.” He’s supposed to support his father,Albitar said. “But I can’t. He supports me now.”

Albitar moved to the U.S. in April 2001 andfound work in a gas station in Muncy, NewYork. Working long days for nine dollars anhour, he managed to take home more than ahundred dollars a day. And although he workedthere less than six months before his arrest, hefelt at home, with an apartment, a job, a dri-ver’s license and a car.

“There is no one in the United States who isAmerican. Everybody is from overseas. And Iwant to be like them. I want to get the job, Iwant to get the citizen[ship.] That’s it. I heard alot about the United States. You go there, youget a job, you get money. It’s a nice life, so Iwant to be like this. I want that life.”

He dreams of coming back. “Is there anychance to go back and live there again?” heasked. “I don’t have a criminal record. I don’thave nothing…only an immigration violation.Nine days expired visa I had.”

Acquaintances in Jordan have been asking whyhe was sent home, Albitar said, and “I toldthem, ‘After September 11, everything ischanged.’” He adds that he knows at least fiveor six people who were deported to Jordan.“They destroyed our life,” he said. “That’sexactly what they did.”

Khurram AltafKhurram Altaf and his family — brother, sisterand mother — have been coming to the UnitedStates for years. The three children eventuallysettled within a few minutes’ drive of each other

He’s supposed to support hisfather, Albitar said. “But I can’t. Hesupports me now.”

in northern New Jersey. When his motherretired, she joined them, shuttling among theirhouses to spend time with her grandchildren.

But while Altaf’s brother and sister got greencards, eventually becoming citizens, Altafnever did. It wasn’t that he didn’t want one. Heapplied several times but was turned downeach time. His brother blames it on bad luckand an incompetent attorney. His most recentapplication, filed in spring 2001 and based onsponsorship by his sister, was still pendingwhen immigration officials arrested him inApril 2002.

At first, Altaf’s wife, Alia, stayed behind inNew Jersey with the children.

“The kids were going to school and everything,but how long can you do that?” said Altaf’sbrother, Asim Choudhary. “Let’s be realistic.How long can kids stay away from the par-ent...when there’s no light at the end of the tun-nel, when...it’s going to take them God knows,10, 15, 20 years [to be reunited in the U.S.]. Itmay not ever happen.”

After a year, Altaf’s wife decided to join him inPakistan, leaving their middle daughter, Anza,behind with Choudhary and his family. Anza, aU.S. citizen like her sibilings, was born deaf.As a baby, shereceived cochlearimplants, andtoday she speaksand hears normal-ly. But she hasalways attendedspecial schools for children with disabilities.Because there are no such schools in Pakistan,her family decided it would be better for her tostay in New Jersey.

But it was tough for the third grader. After hermother and siblings left, her grades fell and her

behavior worsened. She missed her ownfamily terribly.

“[When her parents called] she’d always takethe phone either in her bedroom or in the bath-room, so we wouldn’t see she’s crying,”Choudhary recalled in his brother-in-law’s NewJersey restaurant. “I mean, nine years old, you

can’t blame her.”

This summer,she moved toPakistan to bewith her family.Her father is des-

perately trying to find a school for her.Because American doctors urged Anza’sparents not to confuse her by speakingmore than one language with her, Anzaspeaks only a few words of Urdu. “She getsfrustrated a lot of times,” her father said.

16

WORLDS APART

“How long can kids stay away fromthe parent...when there’s no light atthe end of the tunnel?”

Khurram Altaf and family holding a photo ofdaughter Anza.

“She says, ‘I don’t want to live here. I wantto go back.’”

Her father hopes that someday they will. In themeantime, he’s hoping to find an English-lan-guage classroom where Anza can be made tofeel at home.

On the telephone from the home his familyshares with his in-laws in Rawalpindi, nearIslamabad, Altaf sounds weary as he describestheir lives. He is still traumatized by the timehe spent awaiting deportation in a New Jerseyjail. He has had health problems, including kid-ney stones and an infection caused by the treat-ment for them. His wife, Alia, suffered fromdepression for several months. She is lookingfor education courses that would allow her toteach elementary school. (She was a stay-at-home mother in New Jersey.) Altaf’s otherdaughter Fiza and his son, Hamza, speak Urduwell now and are beginning to make friends.But Anza can’t go out without a family mem-ber to translate for her.

Altaf, who managed a truck stop on the NewJersey Turnpike, works “twelve, thirteen, four-teen hours, seven days” running a small gro-cery business his brother helped him set up.Even so, he thinks it will be at least severalmore months before the business is really on itsfeet, and he still depends on help from his fam-ily in the United States for financial support.

Part of the problem, common to many of thedeportees, is that Altaf spent his entire adultlife in the United States. “He doesn’t knowanything [of Pakistan],” said his brother,Choudhary. “He doesn’t even know how tosurvive there.”

But the Altafs are not the only ones who wereaffected by their deportation. Supportinganother family, his brother said, has been astrain. “Our lives, you can’t believe how much

has been affected,” Choudhary said. “Mymom, I mean, she has aged 10 years in the lasttwo years. It’s too much for an old woman.”

And the anxiety and fear caused by Altaf’s dis-appearance has lasted. Although Altaf’s chil-dren were told only that he had gone toPakistan, they were terrified and devastated

when their father was detained. Choudhary’schildren worry that their father might disap-pear, too. “Daddy, are you going to leave likethat?” they ask.

Choudhary knows “lots of people,” includingsome who had legal immigration status, whodecided to leave before they could get kickedout. He said that although he and his family areAmerican citizens, he, too, considered going.“When you’re angry and you can’t do any-thing, you feel helpless. I went through thatprocess: Let’s leave before we get hit by some-thing that will ruin our lives. It’s better that weleave voluntarily.” He said he changed hismind, because “Why should I run? I didn’t doanything wrong.” Besides, he said, “I’m betteroff here. At least I can support them.”

Mohamed ElzaherMohamed Elzaher sees a psychologist and aphysiotherapist, to help him deal with the trau-mas — physical and mental — of his impris-onment. “I lost my health when I was in jail inAmerica and in Egypt,” he said. He is relievedto have health insurance while he waits forSwiss authorities to decide his case.

17

An ACLU Repo rt

“Why should I run? I didn’t doanything wrong.”

18

WORLDS APART

Elzaher came to the United States in 1999. Hejumped ship in Portland, Oregon, from theEgyptian cargo freighter he worked on as asailor. He made his way to New York City,where he found a lawyer and filed an asylumclaim. In early 2001, he married an Americancitizen. In fall 2001, the INS arrested him,when he appeared at its offices in New Yorkfor a hearing related to his asylum claim. InSeptember 2002, after Elzaher had spent ayear in prison, ani m m i g r a t i o njudge denied hisrequest for bondand refused toreopen his asylumcase. He wasdeported to Egypt later that month.

“After that, I was in jail in Egypt,” he recalled.He was imprisoned briefly after Americandeportation officers handed him over toEgyptian authorities. “After I [was] releasedfrom jail, I stay[ed] in the hospital two months,and after that when my health [was] better, Iask for visa to Switzerland.”

Elzaher has been living in Geneva since askingfor asylum there just over a year ago. (AlthoughSwitzerland is notorious for its tough asylumlaws — only a small percentage of those whoactually apply are successful — asylum-seekersdo receive public assistance, including housing,health care and language training during the pro-ceedings.) Elzaher is taking French languageclasses and has a job in a restaurant.

Naeem SheikhNaeem Sheikh says his wife constantly urgeshim to contact the American Embassy inPakistan. She still hopes that the family can

return to the United States. “Right now, livingis so much trouble,” he explained.

Sheikh came to the U.S. in 1994, where hereceived a work permit and found a job as a cabdriver. He didn’t renew his work permit whenit expired a year later — he didn’t realize heneeded to — but he continued working foryears without a problem. Then, in March 2002,he was picked up for immigration violations.

His wife wase i g h t - m o n t h spregnant withtheir first child;she gave birthwhile he was indetention. Sheikh

was not allowed out to see his new son. (Thecouple had another son this year in Pakistan.)When Sheikh was deported to Pakistan amonth later, his wife fled with the baby toCanada, to live with Sheikh’s sister inMontreal. Their money ran out less than a yearlater, and she and the baby joined Sheikh inLahore, where they now live with his parents.

Sheikh has been working in his father’s gar-ment business, a company that deals in sequinsand beads. There isn’t much for him to do, andhe doesn’t like the work, but he doesn’t knowwhere else to go. “I’m just wasting my timehere because I have no other business,” he said.“That’s why I come around every morning, topass my time.” He has looked for other jobs butso far has been unable to find one.

In spite of his ordeal, Sheikh says he lovesAmerica and is eager to return. “It’s my dreamto go back to the States,” he said. “I would pre-fer to be driving a cab in New York.”

His views have gotten him into trouble inPakistan. People often ask him about how badAmerica is, but he refuses to answer the waythey expect. “When I went to America, I have

“It’s my dream to go back to theStates,” he said. “I would prefer tobe driving a cab in New York.”

a nice job, I have a nice living, I have nice foodand I make good money,” he said. “So whyshould I tell you that America is bad? That’swhy nobody talks to me.” More recently, hesaid, a neighbor, angry at Sheikh for his pro-American beliefs, attacked him. After that,Sheikh decided that he would not go out in thestreets anymore.

Except for his immediate family, Sheikh hastold nobody about being picked up, detainedand deported. “I just told them that I am livinghere for maybe two months or four months,[then] I’ll go back,” he said. He is afraid thatpeople would talk if they knew the truth. “Ireally came legally to the States. My record isvery clean. I just lived there and I made moneyto take care of my family and send money tomy sister and money to help [the family.]”

Noor Hussain RazaDesperation is evident in Noor Hussain Raza’svoice when he talks about returning to theUnited States. “I didn’t do anything wrongover there,” the 64-year-old said. “I did all therequirements. I paid taxes for ten years, hadwork authorization. I’m supposed to get jus-tice. I hope I will get justice.”

Raza, an engineer, left his native Pakistan in1979. Fleeing martial law, he went to the UnitedArab Emirates, where he spent years workingfor the Dubai police. He came to the U.S. on avisitor’s visa in 1992. He applied for asylumand was given temporary work authorization.

He was ordered deported after his immigrationattorney failed to file the application correctly.With the help of a new attorney, he reapplied forasylum in 1994. His request for a new work per-mit was denied, but the motion to reopen his

asylum case was still pending when he wasarrested in 2001. At the time, he was workingtwo jobs — one as a baggage handler at Newark

International Airport and the other as a securityguard at the welfare office in Newark — to sup-port himself and his wife, who is also Pakistani.

In mid-January 2002, while still in detention,he met with a deportation officer, and decidedto reapply for asylum. But at the end of themonth, before he could submit the papers, hewas deported to Karachi.

Raza and his wife live with her sister inLahore. He has given up hope of finding work.In Pakistan, after 60 years [of age], nobody willgive you a job. The people, those who are likeme, who’s going to give them a job?” he said.He said that his wife can’t find work either,because she has only a fifth-grade education.

“Nobody is supporting us,” he said. “They say,‘You left everything in the United States. Whatdid you bring for us? You should survive your-self.’” Meanwhile, said Raza, “I am penniless.They kept everything over there.”

Raza also suffers from a heart condition.Although he has seen a cardiologist inPakistan, he has not managed to get his recordstransferred from the United States.

With no job, and no hope of finding one, hisonly thought is of returning to the U.S. “I’mnot doing anything. [Every day] I just leave myhome, sit with my friend, make my prayer andpass my time.”

19

An ACLU Repo rt

“Nobody is supporting us,” he said.“I am penniless. They kept everythingover there.”

Sadek Awaed“Never, never, never go back,” said SadekAwaed. The 32-year-old Egyptian is talkingabout the United States, where he lived formore than a decade and where he hoped tospend the rest of his life. He has changed hismind after being detained in a U.S. jail formore than two years on an immigration viola-tion and then deported. “Somebody’s bestyears of his life spent there, never had a prob-lem with anybody, treat people good there, thenall of a suddenbeing thrown injail and beingtreated like a crim-inal. I mean 25months [in jail],they erased all theyears I spent in theUnited States before.”

Awaed entered the U.S. on a tourist visa in1991. Two years later, he applied for asylum.As a young man, he had belonged briefly toMuslim Brotherhood, an oft-banned politicalopposition group in Egypt. (The U.S. considersthe Muslim Brotherhood a terrorist organiza-tion.) His asylum claim was based on fear ofretribution for leaving the group. Due to anenormous case backlog, though, it was severalyears before the government scheduled his asy-lum hearing. When immigration officials final-ly sent Awaed the notice to appear, in 1997,they sent it to an incorrect address. Awaedmissed the hearing, an offense punishable bydeportation. Of course, Awaed knew nothing ofthe missed hearing or the subsequent deporta-tion order. He continued working low-payingjobs, first in Florida and later in New Jersey.

He was working as a cab driver in Jersey City,New Jersey at the time of the September 11

attacks. Soon after, he was approached by FBIagents, who questioned him several times, hop-ing for information about the Muslim commu-nity in northern New Jersey. “They realizedthat he was just another Joe Schmoe,” said hisimmigration attorney, Sin Yen Ling, of theAsian American Legal Defense and EducationFund (AALDEF). “Then the FBI was no longerinterested in talking to him.”

In May 2002, however, shortly after his lastmeeting with the FBI, he was pulled over for aroutine traffic violation. Instead of writing hima ticket, the police called immigration officials,

who detained him.He spent more thana year in prisonwithout beinginformed why.When AALDEF’sLing took his case,

Awaed learned that he was being held becauseof the asylum hearing he had missed nearly adecade earlier. He was finally deported toEgypt this summer.

“It was like a nightmare,” Awaed recalled in aphone conversation from his brother’s home inAlexandria, Egypt. “You are in jail, you don’tknow why you are in jail, [there’s] nobody tohelp you. You feel like ‘I’m not going to be out,that this is going to be it...’”

“The question is: Could he have litigated [hisasylum claim] further?” asked Ling. “I thinkso. The problem was that would have meantlonger incarceration and that wasn’t somethingthat he was willing to do. It came to a pointwhere he [decided], ‘I’m just better off takinga chance with my life going back.’ And thoseare the sort of options that people are left withgiven the immigration laws that exist.”

Thirteen years had passed since he had been inEgypt, and he had no idea how he would be

20

WORLDS APART

“It was like a nightmare. You are injail, you don’t know why you are injail, [there’s] nobody to help you.“

treated or whether he could find work. So far,he has not suffered persecution for cutting hisearlier ties to the Muslim Brotherhood, but heis lying low at his brother’s house and has notyet begun looking for a job.

Nonetheless, Awaed still suffers from night-mares about his time in American detention,particularly because of a beating he suffered atthe hands of several guards. “All my brothers,my sister, my friends try to make me comfort-able,” he said. “But inside of me, I feel like I’mbreaking down after what happened.”

ConclusionIn the weeks and months after September 11, thepeople whose stories are told in this report didnot count. The United States government arrest-ed them without suspicion, imprisoned themwithout charge, and abused them without conse-quence. All of this took place in secret. To thisday, the government still refuses to release thenames of the people who were imprisoned.

The aim of our earlier report, America’sDisappeared, was to tell the story that thegovernment wanted to suppress. In a demo-cratic society, the government should not bepermitted to sweep human beings under therug, to pretend that they don’t count. Thegovernment should not be permitted to makepeople disappear.

As this report explains, the government’sunlawful policies had profound effects not onlyon the people who were unlawfully imprisonedbut also on their families and communities.Families were torn apart. Communities wereshattered. And the stories told in this report arejust a sample. For each of the stories told inthis report, there are hundreds of similar stories

that haven’t been told. Children separatedfrom fathers, wives separated from husbands,parents separated from sons.

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights,like the United States Declaration ofIndependence, recognizes that every humanbeing has rights, that every person counts. TheUnited States government correctly condemnsother countries when they violate the rightsenshrined in the Universal Declaration. Wehave to be equally vigilant, however, in mak-ing sure that those rights are not violated hereat home.

21

An ACLU Repo rt

OTHER SAFE AND FREE REPORTS

The Surveillance-Industrial Complex: How theAmerican Government Is Conscripting Businessesand Individuals in the Construction of a SurveillanceSociety (August 2004)

Conduct Unbecoming: Pitfalls In The President’sMilitary Commissions (March 2004)

Sanctioned Bias: Racial Profiling Since 9/11(February 2004)

America’s Disappeared: Seeking InternationalJustice For Immigrants Detained After September11 (January 2004)

A New Era of Discrimination? Why AfricanAmericans Should Be Alarmed About the AshcroftTerrorism Laws (September 2003)

Unpatriotic Acts: The FBI’s Power to Rifle ThroughYour Records and Personal Belongings WithoutTelling You (July 2003)

Seeking Truth From Justice: PATRIOTPropaganda—The Justice Department’s Campaignto Mislead The Public About the USA PATRIOT Act(July 2003)

Independence Day 2003: Main Street America Fightsthe Federal Government’s Insatiable Appetite forNew Powers in the Post 9/11 Era (July 2003)

Freedom Under Fire: Dissent in Post-9/11 America(May 2003)

Bigger Monster, Weaker Chains: The Growth of anAmerican Surveillance Society (January 2003)

Insatiable Appetite: The Government’s Demandfor Unnecessary Powers After September 11(October 2002)

Civil Liberties After 9/11: The ACLU DefendsFreedom (September 2002)

National Headquarters125 Broad Street, 18th Fl.New York, NY 10004-2400

(212) 549-2500www.aclu.org