I had a series of interviews with several different people
in this organization. More interviews than I’d ever done in my life. Each one
chipped away at my nerves. It was stressful. Repetitive. Clinical. But the
title they dangled in front of me—General Manager—was too good to
ignore. Too shiny to be real. I had my doubts. I felt the catch before it
revealed itself.
But what else was there? All the other doors had slammed
shut. So, I said yes. I packed my bag, boarded a five-hour flight to Sydney,
and prepared for the jump to New Zealand.
Then They came for me.
It started with a phone call. Casual tone, but off. They
asked me a few vague, seemingly harmless questions. Then one of them dropped
it:
"Have you ever been rejected a visa by any
country?"
A question loaded like a trap. Yes, I had. But I also knew
the question wasn’t theirs. They wanted me to think the Americans were behind
it. Classic misdirection. But I knew better. This entire performance—the
interviews, the delays, the offer too good to be true—had been orchestrated for
this moment.
They wanted me angry. They wanted an outburst. They wanted
me to snap mid-flight so they could wrap it all up in neat, damning paperwork.
But they’d underestimated me.
I’m the god of emotional intelligence.
I smiled. I followed them calmly to the hall. No rage. No
panic. Just clarity. And then, as I turned to face their gray, power-drunk
faces, I dropped the only word that mattered:
“Fascists.”
The kind of word that hangs in the air like smoke after a
shot. I didn’t shout it. I didn’t have to. The truth has its own volume.
Then, just as expected, the protocols of denial and
obfuscation kicked in.
No one was responsible. No one knew anything. Everyone was
just "doing their job."
In the end, the New Zealand authorities took the fall.
Quietly. Formally. I wasn’t given any clear reason for being removed from the
flight—just vague lines wrapped in polite indifference.
I wrote letters. I pressed. I dropped the F-bomb of
political language again and demanded answers.
Eventually, they responded. A soft, almost apologetic
whisper of bureaucracy: “We held information that prohibited you from
travelling.”
That was it. No details. No context. Just that.
It was weeks after they had promised to explain everything.
Weeks of silence dressed as process. And when they finally gave me that line,
something in me snapped—not in anger, but in recognition.
It reminded me of a story from my childhood. One of those
adult-world lessons dressed up as a joke, but that hits different when you grow
up.
It felt like they were saying, “You’ll find out later.”
As if truth was a luxury. As if I hadn't already seen enough
to know what game they were playing.
****************************
My father only trusted his old Mercedes Benz to two kinds of
people: Armenian and Jewish mechanics. He believed they had the right hands and
the right hearts for such a machine.
He was particularly close to the Jewish one—an older man
with a brilliant sense of humor and a sharper tongue. The kind of guy who
didn’t just fix cars but delivered punchlines while doing it.
Knowing full well that my father was a devoted Muslim, he
would call out to his son in front of him, saying:
“You drink, you gamble, you womanize, you lie and cheat…”
Then, just as the list got uncomfortable, he’d pause, fake
some righteous anger, and with a thick accent bark:
“Just come out—tell me that you are a Muslim!”
Every time my father retold this story, he’d mimic the
voice, the intonation, even the furrowed brow—like he was channeling the man
himself. And every time, he’d laugh just a little before shaking his head and
whispering something about how wisdom doesn’t always wear the same clothes.
After many years, I found myself returning to The Trial
by Kafka—perhaps to remind myself how intelligent some of the childish games I
once invented really were. One game in particular stands out. Its main
character was a small plastic gorilla that belonged to my brother. He liked
this game so much that he always handed over the poor gorilla gladly, eager to
watch what would unfold. What began as a child’s game now feels like a
rehearsal for the theater of injustice that plays out in the real world—where
the innocent are punished, and those in power never have to explain why.
In the game, the gorilla was arrested by some very rough
characters. I voiced every role. But it was the gorilla’s voice that caught my
father’s attention— My father used to laugh, pointing out that the gorilla
sounded like the Jewish mechanic friend he admired so much. Despite the
gorilla’s tough, muscular appearance, it had an innocent, childlike voice, and
it asked just one question over and over:
“What have I done?”
The responses were always delivered in deep, intimidating
tones:
“YOU’LL FIND OUT LATER.”
That was the only answer the poor gorilla received—again and
again, throughout the entire game.
Now, years later, I’m struck by the symbolic weight of it
all. The Jewish accent of the gorilla. The innocence on trial. The Kafkaesque
absurdity of asking questions in a system designed to never answer. And most
haunting of all, the final scene—just one second before the gorilla is hanged:
“What have I done?”
The responses were always delivered in deep, intimidating
tones:
“YOU’LL FIND OUT LATER.”
********************************
Today, as I revisited the many chapters of my life—the
rejections, the silence, the pain—I found myself returning to Kafka’s The
Trial. Its haunting absurdity stirred something old in me. I suddenly
remembered the little plastic gorilla from my childhood game. In the final
scene, with his soft, innocent voice, he asked once more: “What have I done?”
This time, he received an answer.
“YOU’LL FIND OUT LATER.” said the rough men.
And then, they hanged him.
Disclaimer: The Refrences to the “state of Israel” are made in early days after terrorist organisation Hamas attacking Israel on October 7, 2023. After Crimes committed in Gaza and the attack on Iran, the author does not recognise Israel as a country but as a colonial settler apartheid regime that is created by colonial powers as concentration camp (Auschwitz II) run from British Cyprus military bases. From now the author refers to it as Concentration/Occupying Regime Ruling Palestinian Territories (CORRUPT)
