I’ve crossed many borders in my life: I’ve been heldup for 12 hours at the Bulgarian-Turkish borderwhile my travelling companions, home-coming Turks, negotiated the size of the bribe to be paid to theborder officials; I’ve had my car inspected atCheckpoint Charlie in Berlin by suspicious East Germanpolice; and once, when I’d lost my passport and had togo to Germany from Italy to get it replaced, I drovearound Switzerland because that non-European Communitymember would have required the missing document,whereas member state Austria didn’t.

But the border I’ve crossed the most is the Americanone, usually by car between St. Stephen, NewBrunswick and Calais, Maine, on my way to visit mysister in Boston. Normally it’s a quick drive-through— a couple of questions about destination and durationof stay, and you’re off. Over the holidays, however, ourtravelling companion, a friend from Italy, was calledinto the customs building for questioning and then,for good measure, we too were subjected to the drill.

It wasn’t pretty.

No one, of course, minds security measures meant to rootout terrorists, and it’s good to see border officialstaking the task seriously. But the questioning we wereput through crossed its own lines: we were badgered,patronized, treated like disobedient children — andlong after it had to be apparent to everyone that weweren’t terrorists and had nothing to hide. After anhour of this unnecessary treatment we left thebuilding humiliated and angry and cursing George W.Bush, who presided over the whole ritual in the formof a huge grinning photograph.

It was particularly disturbing that the guy who wentafter us did so with gusto, even glee, obviouslyenjoying his job. He clearly got off on ourhelplessness, and expected absolute obsequiousness.Realizing that any hint of amusement or anger isenough to trigger an arbitrary and dismissivejudgment, I’m pretty good at stifling my feelings, soafter a series of questions, one of which loonilyconcerned my “status” as a child living in WashingtonD.C. in the 1960s, I was patronizingly pronounced “anice person.” But our friend from Italy, her hacklesup, made the mistake of asking if the questioningwould take long, and, branded rude and disrespectful,was whisked off into another room for interrogation.

While she was out of our sight, another woman, alreadyon the verge of tears, was separated from her bus tourcompanions, led out, and badgered for all to hearabout being unemployed.

“Who do you think you are,going on vacation when you don’t have a job? Whyshould we let you into our country?” etc, etc. Shereappeared crying, was given a final talking-to, thenallowed to get back on the waiting bus, but I’m sureher vacation to the land of the free, home of thebrave, was irrevocably coloured by her humiliation atthe border.

What was so unsettling about the whole experience wasthe realization that as a white professional with nocriminal record, I got off easily. But what of people,not terrorists, but of another race and class, withoutthe verbal skills to defend themselves against thissort of arbitrary but official abuse? They’re sittingducks for the kind of sadist now apparently beinggiven free rein all over the world. From Iraq toGuantanamo to Calais, Maine, Bush’s bullies aredetaining and interrogating in the name of homelandsecurity, and people less lucky than myself have beenheld in military prisons on mere suspicions, withouttrial, without recourse.

Something unpleasant and darkhas been let out of the bag by post-9-11 hysteria, andit won’t be going back in for the foreseeable future.

Fortunately a U.S. court recently informed the WhiteHouse that detention without trial isunconstitutional, and it will be interesting to seehow that case makes it way through the courts.

In the meantime, be forewarned: they’re waiting foryou at the border. Make sure you’re rich and white andrespectful, just the way the president wants you tobe. But be prepared to be treated like a disobedientfive-year old anyway.