Here’s the infamous story of how I came to arrive in Philadelphia, USA two months earlier than planned. The following saga is quite unbelievable.
(I began typing this out on Sunday en route) I am currently in London’s Heathrow airport awaiting a flight to the good old USA. I arrived at the Madrid airport on my flight from Casablanca, Morocco on Friday afternoon and the lady at the passport control desk saw my date of arrival in Spain and my date of departure two days earlier and noticed the difference of 6 months. She said, “This can’t be!” The law states that you can enter Spain on a tourist visa for a maximum of three months within a six month period. The fact that I had been in Spain for more than three months caused quite a problem. Coralie and Esther had made it through customs fine (A Spain resident and a resident of the European Union) and were waiting for me when I had to tell them that she noticed the 3 month problem and that I had to go sit to the side. Coralie told me not to cry and that it’ll be okay. I cried. I was terrified of what they were going to do to me! The not-nice lady had kept my passport and I was sitting shamed on the sidelines. I wasn’t alone, and pretty soon a security guard came and moved a group of us to another room. He called my name and explained the law, I explained my situation (I was working as a volunteer, I wasn’t earning money, I wasn’t seeking residency, all my money was from the States, I already had a return flight booked for April…), he shook his head in bewilderment and sent me to sit down again. Pretty soon the group of us were moved upstairs. He called me over again, I explained my situation again to another woman, she shook her head in bewilderment and sent me away again. We went upstairs to the “sala” where they patted me down, took all my baggage and sifted through it, kept the electronic stuff and toiletry stuff, and sent me into the waiting room with everyone else. They allowed me to keep my cell phone because it doesn’t take photos. This turned out to be a great blessing to have the communication with the outside. The cell battery was on near empty and registered empty for all of Saturday, but it continued to work all day long (Thank you Jesus). Me and about 75 other “illegals” trying to enter Spain were in this holding room. Luckily they fed us and sent us to bed. The food, I imagine, was a horrible cross between airplane food and jail food (what do you expect from Airport Jail?). The beds were Ikea issued bunkbeds and no one told me we could ask for sheets, so the bare mattress and a blanket that probably 1000 other people have used in the last month and sleep. I’d been on and off the phone with the faithful WECcers who were doing everything in their power to get me out. Alex and Maribel and Steve and Coralie and Esther in their brilliant Spanish minds and knowledge of the system and extensive work with immigrants, went down to the airport to coax them into letting me go. Apparently there was quite a group outside fighting for my release. Yet, I stayed and waited. They said we’d have interviews the next day. About 10:30am the next morning they called my name to go have an interview with a lawyer and a customs officer. After sitting another 3 hours they finally got to me. (Did I mention my desperate need to use the bathroom and the nice officer lady told me I had to wait because she hadn’t had the chance to go either!). The officer and lawyer explained to me the law again and I understood. They said by law they have to send me back from where I came, which would be Morocco, but because of the impressive nature of the American Passport they said they’d break the rules and let me return to the States instead. If I could secure and show proof of a plane ticket to America before my scheduled 8:45pm flight to Casablanca, I could go. And the flight itself had to be for today or tomorrow. I frantically got a hold of Steve and let him know that they needed to call WEC and have them change my plane ticket for a flight for Saturday or Sunday, have the boarding pass presented to the customs officials, and if possible, get someone into my room in Alcala to pack up all my things. It was now 2:30pm and we had until my 8:45 flight to arrange all of this (but really only until 5:30 when the officer lady in charge was going to go home for the day). I was in one of those positions where I couldn’t do anything but sit and wait and trust that everyone else was doing everything they could. WEC USA was on the ball getting my ticket, Maribel and all the other ladies in the residence were sifting through my things and throwing them in my suitcases, and Steve and Coralie were coordinating it all and communicating with me. I was a wreck! About 5pm I talked to Steve and he said he had my plane ticket, was on his way to get my bags and then would bring them all to the airport. Phew! Tonda in the WEC USA office had gotten my ticket straightened out in just over an hour! They had procured a 7am flight to the USA, my bags were securely checked (after they had initially said I could get my bags, then the other lady said absolutely no baggage could be brought, then they finally allowed it) and would meet me in Philadelphia. I spent a sleepless night, then got on a plane. I even got escorted onto the plane by the customs police, he handed the flight attendants my ticket and my passport and relinquished custody.
At first I was so scared of what they were going to do. I didn’t want to go back to Morocco, and staying in the Airport Jail for more than three days made me queasy to think about. The guards were not very nice, impatient, and obviously hated their jobs. However, once the lady gave me the option of going to the USA instead, and everyone on the outside got it coordinated, the tune changed. Not only did the police officers allow me to not go to Morocco, but they allowed them to bring me my luggage and check it in for me, they allowed me to hand carry my backpack they’d prepared with my laptop for me, and they even were super nice when they made sure I had sheets for my bed, and the nice man came to wake me up quietly to go in the morning. They even escorted me right onto the plane and I got to ride in the back end of the paddy wagon on the airport tarmac. =) One of my escorts to the plane said that he thought it was ridiculous that they were deporting an American citizen and that it had never happened before. He asked if I had done it before…like maybe it was my third time of defying the law and they finally got me. I said it was my first time in Spain. Then I told him I was a Christian Missionary and he said, “Ay! A la encima!” which kind of means something like the peak or the top or we might say “To top it all off!” They handed my passport to the flight attendant and the captain was right there and they both looked at it, realized it was a deportation, and said, “What??!!”
I’m not sure whether it’s right or wrong to offer special circumstances or special treatment just because I’m an America citizen. I don’t think it somehow makes me better or more deserving of anything that anyone else. I will admit, however, that it felt nice. There’s a respect there. Even with all the controversy and war in the world today, I felt proud of my little passport that said The United States of America on the front. The captain of the plane, British Airways, even said, “Don’t worry. You’re with us now.”
I had a hard time praying while in the little jail, but I knew that Coralie had gotten the word out. I knew there were people all over Spain, the WEC team in America, and my family and church were praying enough for me. I felt a little angry at the start because it was just so unbelievable that this was happening. I was stressed while waiting to figure out what would happen. However, I know without a doubt it was by God’s almighty grace and power that I was able to laugh a little, learn an Arabic dance from one of the girls in my room, and talk to people on the phone to say goodbye. My cell phone staying operational all day despite the fact it registered no battery...it was a miracle. I don’t know why God chose 6 months instead of our planned 8 months in Spain. I don’t know why my extraction had to be so dramatic and yes, traumatic. We definitely know that there’s got to be some great significance to it in God’s plan because of the absolute rarity of it. People walk into Spain illegally every day…why did they send me home? People were praying all over the world for my release…yet, God didn’t answer that. Instead He answered those prayers by allowing the logistics to work out in my favor. I don’t, in any way, feel like I was robbed of any time in Spain or that my time there was a failure. The things God has taught me, the things I was able to do and see and be a part of, the friendships I was able to build…they are all good and complete and I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything more. I know my tears now are half the way I had to leave Spain and not getting to hug people and say a proper goodbye to all those amazing people, and half are for the fact that I get to be home. The thought of being on American soil again makes me want to sing.
I write all this out so that I don’t have to go through the entire story to every person when I get home. I don’t want this exciting tale of how I left Spain to overshadow the amazing 6 months I spent there. The way God is working there and the ways I’ve grown through it. I’d much rather spend my time at home again talking about those things!!
See you soon!
