Ok, let’s start by keeping in mind that what happened on September 11, 2001 was a horrific act of murder of innocent lives. It was a heinous crime against humanity. It was also a crime against the peaceful religion that it was done in the name of. There is not a religion on this earth that condones killing innocent, defenseless people.
So that being said, this story is about a little fellow who lives in Ottawa (err…me….) whose name is Osama. Osama Faris. That’s right, first name Osama, last name Faris.
Life has been “interesting” the past 7 years. My name has caused me no lack of incidents and I thought I would share a few of the more spectacular ones with you:
September, 2001: Network Security Seminar
A few weeks post 9/11, I held a seminar and workshop on network security. Present in the room were all levels of government and military. Invitations had been sent out months in advance. I was one of the keynote speakers and the host of the event. When I introduced myself to the crowd of about 70 people, quite a few dressed in military uniforms, nobody even blinked. Ahh. This is good.
September, 2001: Schipol Airport, Amsterdam
A few weeks after the travel restrictions were lifted, I went to Egypt to visit my relatives. Travelling through Amsterdam, I decided (as I always do when I transit there) to check out of the airport and do a little sightseeing, considering I had 8 hours to blow until my next flight. The immigration officer (who by the way was packin’ a Glock and looked like he knew how to use it) took my passport and opened it up to the ID page. His eyes widen and he stared at my face. He then looked at the passport again and stared at me again. Uh oh….I started to sweat. He then nudged the other Glock-toting 6ft mountain of muscle officer beside him. They both started staring at my passport and looking at me like a piece of raw herring in between two slices of moldy bread. Oh boy. All of a sudden the first officer just grabbed the stamp, smacked it on my passport and said, “Have a good day”. I stepped out of the airport, turned around and went right back in. For some reason I had lost my appetite to walk around beautiful Amsterdam and craved the safety of the KLM Business Class Lounge.
October, 2007: Ottawa Airport
Flying to Denver to setup a customer network, I walked up to the Homeland Security Agent and handed him my passport. After the customary “Whaddaya do, where ya goin’, where ya stayin’” questions, the agent started pumping away at the computer for a good 5 minutes. He then stared and frowned at my passport. “What the hell is B-R-A?”, he said to me all of a sudden with a frown on his face. Huh? I asked him to show me what he was referring to. His finger pointed to COUNTRY OF ORIGIN: BRA. “Brazil” I said, trying not to smirk or roll my eyes or show any emotion at all. I guess I’m the first Brazilian born person he has ever met in his career. Once again, he frowned and started pounding away at the keyboard. Finally, he flipped me my passport in disgust and said “I dunno how a guy like you, with a name like dat and I don’t gotta take you in duh back room and interview ya”. Silence….I was speechless. Finally I said “Sorry, but I don’t understand”. He goes, “You’re clean”. For the lack of anything better to say, I took my passport quietly and ran to catch my flight.
Seven years later, the funny looks in the department stores and the silly “are you related” questions are finally starting to die down. Ahh but wait! I walk into a local bakery to pick up some meat pies. “Mr. Obama!!!! How are you!” shouts my baker friend from behind the counter. All 10 people in line turn around and stare at me. Great. Now, I have to deal with at least 4 years of my name rhyming with Obama.
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