Faith-Based Security
Sep. 2nd, 2009 08:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
danalwynEveryone in the UK, I noted, lies to the airport security personnel.
Airport security slowly makes its way up the queue, proceeding from the relatively tame land of the check-in booths to the wilds of the unruly end of the line, fighting their way over mountains of carelessly placed baggage and avoiding herds of stampeding children. At each adult, or each person who looks like an adult, they stop and ask a certain set of questions, among one seems to be:
"Do you have anything in your luggage that is a weapon, or could be used as a weapon?"
A weapon, I muse, being a weird foreigner who doesn't usually have to deal with these questions at American airports, something that could be used to harm other people. For instance, something that could be used to wrap around the front of their neck and strangle them. Well, I do have two of those. On each arm. Attached at the wrist. But even not counting those weapons naturally fused to my body, I have a number of devices capable of being used to strangle someone. The garrote is, after all, among the simplest of weapons. I bet that even now on your desk you have several implements that can be used in the same way. In this era of electronics, replete with cables and cords, finding potential garrotes is like finding phallic symbols; once you start looking for them, you can't stop seeing them. Even without electronics, my bag has numerous straps, and I see people boarding the plane, openly carrying backpacks with detachable straps, wearing belts, or even openly carrying purses; any one of which can actually be used as a weapon.
Or maybe you don't like strangling people, and blunt force trauma is more your style. Then you might want something with a metal case of some sort, cunningly concealed in plastic. Like a laptop. Oh wait! I have one of those too. Or maybe an iPod in a sock; a full iPod is sufficiently brick-like to make that work. Or maybe change in a sock. It might not kill in the first hit, but that doesn't mean that it's not a weapon. I even have an electric shaver that could be a pretty convincing blunt-force object. Hell, you can make a pretty decent impression just by putting on some fancy rings with sharp pointy bits before punching someone.
Of course, nobody points this out. Nobody even acknowledges it. "Do you have any weapons?" the nice man asks us, and we always answer "No." It's ritualistic now. Even before he finishes the question, you are beginning the answer. Even before you begin the answer, he is turning to note it down on his computer. It is a play, where the parts are already known and memorized and repeated so many times that the enthusiasm has been drained out of them. It is a religious ritual. One can almost picture a priest in full ceremonial garb, looking more like the Pope then like Jesus, standing over us.
"Dost thou possess upon they person any weapon, or any device which may be used as such?"
"No holy father."
"Then pass my son, and know that thou art secure, and blessed by the Lord."
It has ascended from meaningful practice into religion, into a ritual where we may not even know or think about the meaning of the words; we just know that they have to be said. In fact if we think about them, they become ludicrous. Of course we have things that can be used as a weapon; anything can be used as a weapon. A properly trained and experienced serial killer is almost as dangerous with the contents of a random suitcase as he is inside an elaborately supplied industrial site. But this is now a matter of faith, and we are protected by the strength of long ritual and fervent belief.
Of course I didn't say anything about it. I just shook my head and said no, the same as everyone else, and went on in line, eager to get home. Back to the US, where they don't ask strange questions, undergo these peculiar rituals, and everything is normal.
At Newark:
"Has thou brought with thee a dangerous substance from a foreign land?"
"No holy father."
"Then thou art blessed in the eyes of the Lord, and no threat to his flock. Line three please."
Airport security slowly makes its way up the queue, proceeding from the relatively tame land of the check-in booths to the wilds of the unruly end of the line, fighting their way over mountains of carelessly placed baggage and avoiding herds of stampeding children. At each adult, or each person who looks like an adult, they stop and ask a certain set of questions, among one seems to be:
"Do you have anything in your luggage that is a weapon, or could be used as a weapon?"
A weapon, I muse, being a weird foreigner who doesn't usually have to deal with these questions at American airports, something that could be used to harm other people. For instance, something that could be used to wrap around the front of their neck and strangle them. Well, I do have two of those. On each arm. Attached at the wrist. But even not counting those weapons naturally fused to my body, I have a number of devices capable of being used to strangle someone. The garrote is, after all, among the simplest of weapons. I bet that even now on your desk you have several implements that can be used in the same way. In this era of electronics, replete with cables and cords, finding potential garrotes is like finding phallic symbols; once you start looking for them, you can't stop seeing them. Even without electronics, my bag has numerous straps, and I see people boarding the plane, openly carrying backpacks with detachable straps, wearing belts, or even openly carrying purses; any one of which can actually be used as a weapon.
Or maybe you don't like strangling people, and blunt force trauma is more your style. Then you might want something with a metal case of some sort, cunningly concealed in plastic. Like a laptop. Oh wait! I have one of those too. Or maybe an iPod in a sock; a full iPod is sufficiently brick-like to make that work. Or maybe change in a sock. It might not kill in the first hit, but that doesn't mean that it's not a weapon. I even have an electric shaver that could be a pretty convincing blunt-force object. Hell, you can make a pretty decent impression just by putting on some fancy rings with sharp pointy bits before punching someone.
Of course, nobody points this out. Nobody even acknowledges it. "Do you have any weapons?" the nice man asks us, and we always answer "No." It's ritualistic now. Even before he finishes the question, you are beginning the answer. Even before you begin the answer, he is turning to note it down on his computer. It is a play, where the parts are already known and memorized and repeated so many times that the enthusiasm has been drained out of them. It is a religious ritual. One can almost picture a priest in full ceremonial garb, looking more like the Pope then like Jesus, standing over us.
"Dost thou possess upon they person any weapon, or any device which may be used as such?"
"No holy father."
"Then pass my son, and know that thou art secure, and blessed by the Lord."
It has ascended from meaningful practice into religion, into a ritual where we may not even know or think about the meaning of the words; we just know that they have to be said. In fact if we think about them, they become ludicrous. Of course we have things that can be used as a weapon; anything can be used as a weapon. A properly trained and experienced serial killer is almost as dangerous with the contents of a random suitcase as he is inside an elaborately supplied industrial site. But this is now a matter of faith, and we are protected by the strength of long ritual and fervent belief.
Of course I didn't say anything about it. I just shook my head and said no, the same as everyone else, and went on in line, eager to get home. Back to the US, where they don't ask strange questions, undergo these peculiar rituals, and everything is normal.
At Newark:
"Has thou brought with thee a dangerous substance from a foreign land?"
"No holy father."
"Then thou art blessed in the eyes of the Lord, and no threat to his flock. Line three please."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 04:18 pm (UTC)"That's not a war fan," I said blithly, "War fans would have metal spokes, sometimes sharpened, or be thick clubs that only looked like folded fans. That fan is made of plastic and paper."
The TSA official glared at me, and as I was dragged off by my comrades before I could get myself into any more trouble, I heard him saying "Ah s'ppose ah kin let y'all off with a warnin' this time."
For lo, the spell of smalldicked authoritarianism is easily broken by common sense, and the fact that my testicles were clearly bigger than his despite the fact that I was a woman.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 04:51 pm (UTC)I've met one or two people like that, but most of the TSA people just don't seem to care enough to check all your stuff. I'm surprised that he even knew there was such a thing as a war fan; it doesn't seem like something he would know. But Jeez they must be obsessed in your local airport; I would probably have gotten pretty sarcastic myself.
I'm fairly sure a modern laptop is more dangerous then any war fan you can probably get without paying thousands of dollars, and they let me through all the time. I guess you just have to look like what they're expecting.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 07:09 pm (UTC)The amusing thing is at the time it was his ignorance that was outraging me more than his dickery. I only realized I had interfered in the holy display of his mighty authority-penis of manly manhood later on.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 05:04 pm (UTC)Of course, if they did, we wouldn't be allowed to bring ANYTHING aboard planes and would all have to sit strapped to our chairs.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 05:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 07:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 05:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-02 05:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-03 09:15 am (UTC)So. They were adamant he either toss it, or store it somewhere else, because he couldn't enter the terrain otherwise. The terrain, where there would be a huge BBQ for, oh, over a 1.000 people and an individual BBQ-set for each of about 200 groups. These BBQ's ran on gas. Let alone the implications of that, I figured that if I really wanted to do some damage, I could just stuff someone's face on a BBQ-grate and be done with it. But no, no, the pump could. Not. Enter.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-09-03 01:29 pm (UTC)Or maybe they were just pump inflated pompous windbags, and were afraid that too much pumping would cause them to explode.