The Travails of Being Stateless
in the United States

	In April 1996, about a dozen armed men from the F.B.I., the 
Department of State, and the District of Columbia police force broke down the 
doors of my office, the American Kurdish Information Network (AKIN), an 
advocacy group for Kurdish rights based in Washington, DC.  They thrust me 
against the wall and arrested me on charges of using a false name on a U.S. 
passport application in the spring of 1986.  I was kept in custody for the next 40 
days.  Though I was never tortured, the common fate of my fellow political 
activists in occupied Kurdistan, I left the prison four pounds lighter and laden 
with an experience I shall never forget.
	I am a Kurd from Turkey, and, in 1980, I fled the cultural and political 
oppression facing my people for a better future in Canada.  After several years, 
I managed to attain a visitorıs visa to come to the United States.  Fearing 
deportation and desperately wishing to remain here, I falsely assumed the 
identity of an American citizen on a U.S. passport application form.  At the 
time, I was young and impetuous, and my only other alternative was to 
return to Turkey, serve in the military, and fight against my people in their 
struggle for political rights.
	By assuming the name of an American no longer living and changing 
his name to a Kurdish one, I, in effect, created and lived a dream.  I had the 
name of a Kurd -- very few Turkish Kurds could claim such a privilege since 
Kurdish names have been outlawed in Turkey for the last 70 years -- and the 
civil liberties of an American.  I might still be living a variation of that dream 
today had it not been for Saddam Hussein.
	In March 1988, Hussein subjected the Kurdish city of Halapja in 
northern Iraq to an indiscriminate gas attack by Iraqi fighter planes.  
Approximately 5,000 Kurds perished in a matter of seconds.  Video footage 
broadcast on CNN showed Kurds lifeless, strewn in all kinds of places.  The 
freedom I thought I had secured for myself in America proved to be a mirage.  
I realized I could not run from my history or my identity.  
	Husseinıs abominable action compelled me to come to terms with my 
own cowardice; I decided to move back to my homeland, Turkish Kurdistan, 
and become an activist for the Kurdish cause.  However, I soon discovered 
publicly criticizing the Turkish governmentıs oppressive measures would 
endanger my own life.  So, I returned to the U.S. and connected with the 
diaspora Kurds and settled in Washington, DC.  We had hopes of becoming a 
voice for peace and moderation, educating our oppressors about the virtues of 
tolerance, and informing Americans of the Kurdish struggle for basic human 
rights.
	Because of my outspoken criticism of human rights abuses committed 
by the Turkish government, I was not welcomed in Washington.  Because I 
was airing the dirty laundry of a strategically vital U.S. ally, in effect, placing a 
wedge between Turkey and the U.S., I was branded a spoiler, a rebel, and a 
terrorist by Turkish representatives and their sympathizers in Washington.  	
	When we began receiving unfriendly, even threatening phone calls in 
our office, I realized the significance of our work and the need on our part to 
solicit the help of federal authorities to keep a watchful eye on our office.  
(Little did I know federal agents would soon be carrying out this initiative all 
on their own.)  At this time, I also was starting to come to terms with my past 
and considered surrendering to the authorities.
	In the summer of 1995, I sought legal advice in an effort to put to rest 
my haunting past.  I was told I faced the serious prospect of deportation to 
Turkey.  Though AKINıs efforts to publicize the existing atrocities in 
Kurdistan had resulted in increased ties on Capitol Hill and with the human 
rights community in Washington, our work had also incensed powerful 
officials in the Turkish and American diplomatic communities, many of 
whom want nothing more than to silence AKIN once and for all by deporting 
me back to Turkey.
	So, when federal agents stormed into my office after what I would 
learn later had been a two-month investigation, I was not overly surprised.  I 
cooperated fully with them despite my indignation over their unnecessary 
show of force; in fact, I felt relieved, knowing the dark cloud hovering over 
my head had been lifted.  In Los Angeles, where I filed the original 
application for the U.S. passport, I pleaded guilty to the charge of 
impersonating an American citizen.  I was sentenced to perform 400 hours of 
community service work at AKIN, the organization I had founded and have 
maintained with the financial and moral support of fellow Kurds.
	Today, I continue to face the very real prospect of deportation.  
	Thanks to the tireless efforts of my colleague, Sister Patricia Krommer, 
20 members of Congress, including Rep. Maurice Hinchey (D - 26th Dist.) 
appealed to the Immigration and Naturalization Service last July supporting 
my request for political asylum and citing the imminent danger I would face 
should I be deported to Turkey.  Nevertheless, I continue to wait for the INS 
to pass judgment on my future.
	For now, I am free, and I am at work continuing with the unfinished 
task of achieving a peaceful solution to the ³Kurdish Question².  It is a 
daunting chore as greed and racism, the twin cancers of humanity, remain 
formidable obstacles.
	Still, 13 months after my arrest, I am delighted to be free.  Precarious as 
my freedom is, I cherish it deeply.  I am even considering visiting the District 
of Columbia Detention Center, my former residence for two weeks, to reflect 
on the Roman maxim, ³Fortune is fleeting.²

Xulam is director of the American Kurdish Information Network.