The FBI Comes to Weehawken — an excerpt
The FBI Comes to Weehawken
From Baghdad to Brooklyn: An Ordinary Journey Through Extraordinary Times by Laith Yousif
New Jersey, 2003. His contract gone, his visa expired, his asylum application sitting in a drawer somewhere in the Department of Homeland Security.
While waiting for my asylum application to process, I relentlessly applied for jobs, clinging to the hope that a company might sponsor my expired H1B visa. A few calls trickled in, but nothing materialized. Then, a single phone call changed everything. The man on the other end introduced himself, but his name evaporated from my mind the second he said, “We would like to meet with you next week.”
Excitement surged through me. This was a lifeline, a chance to work and make money while I waited. My savings were dwindling rapidly, a terrifying reality while living in one of the world’s most expensive cities.
He was incredibly vague about the role, but I just kept listening, desperate for the opportunity. When he set a time for the interview, I said, “Sure, send me the information so I can find the office.”
“No worries,” he replied. “I will stop by.”
“Great. Thank you, see you next week.”
I hung up. It took a few seconds for his words to actually register. Did he say he would stop by?
Suddenly, the fog of my desperation cleared, and I noticed the red flags I should have picked up on immediately. He hadn’t asked for my location, nor did he have my email address. Realizing I had no idea who I was actually meeting, I dialed the number back, praying he would answer.
“Hello, my name is Laith Yousif. I just received a call from you a few minutes ago.”
“Yes, Hi Laith, this is Michael. Did I miss something?”
“Thank you for picking up, Michael. Did you say that you will stop by, or am I misremembering?”
He chuckled. “Yes, I did.”
“That’s strange,” I said, confusion creeping in. “Why do you want to interview me in my neighborhood? Plus, I never gave you my address. Is this actually a job interview?”
“I’m from the FBI,” he said flatly. “This is a routine interview for foreign nationals from countries like Iraq.”
My heart sank. “Does this have to do with my asylum application?”
“Nope. I’m sorry to confuse you.”
I managed a dry smile, masking my disappointment. “Well, the FBI can ask whatever they want. You just gave me hope that I had a proper job lined up.”
He laughed. “I’m sorry, that’s not what we’re doing. See you next week.”
“I guess since you’re from the FBI, I don’t need to give you my address.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
The following week, Michael arrived right on time at my cramped Weehawken basement. The apartment was entirely filled with leftover furniture from the building’s owner, a stroke of luck that had kept me from buying my own.
He asked about my move to the States, wanting to know the story of why and how I got here. I laid it all out for him, explaining the purgatory of waiting for Department of Homeland Security approval just to get a work permit.
During a lull in the questioning, his eyes drifted to a framed print I’d hung on the wall a few months prior, a portrait of a stunning model.
He looked puzzled. “Is this your girlfriend?”
“Do you honestly think she would be the girlfriend of someone living in a Weehawken basement with no visa?”
Michael roared with laughter. The interview wrapped up in about thirty minutes. As he headed for the door, he looked back and said, “Thank you. You know, you should join the FBI.”
“Would that fast-track my citizenship?”
“No,” he said. “Apply after you become a citizen.”
I nodded, keeping my thoughts entirely to myself: We won’t help you when you’re in need, but we expect you to step up the moment we want something. It was a staggering realization. This was the exact same brand of institutional nonsense I thought I had left behind when I escaped to America.
Baghdad to Brooklyn: An Ordinary Journey Through Extraordinary Times is available now.