THE ESSENTIAL INJUSTICE OF TERRORISM
by David Rowland


[  David Rowland is a sophomore in History and Humanities at Kansas State
University.  He is studying Russian and serves on the Eclectic
Entertainment Committee.  He hopes to spend his junior year abroad as an
exchange student.  During the summer, he works as a database coordinator at
a company whose motto is, "Nepotism is okay as long as you keep it in the
family."  His father got him the job.  ]


(c)1990 David Rowland


    It's 7:15 in the morning.  My alarm is buzzing.  My head is
comfortably tucked under a pillow.  I don't want to get up.  I want to
stay in bed and skip today entirely.  The alarm continues to buzz, so,
after a moment of intense introspection, I hit it.
    It's not that I'm particularly sleepy this morning.  Or even hung
over.  It's not even that my mother died Saturday and I have to go to
the funeral today.  It's that the funeral is in Albuquerque and I have
to fly there.
    Actually, it's not the flying that bothers me.  It's the
hijacking.  Every plane I've ever boarded has been hijacked.  The
first two or three times I figured it was a fluke.  The next ten or
fifteen I just relaxed and enjoyed it.  I'd buy one of those super
saver $49 tickets to Cleveland and trust the hijackers to take me
somewhere exciting like Havana, Mecca, or Tripoli.  After awhile
though, the typical terrorist destinations began to bore me.  I wanted
to go somewhere nice.  Maybe even Paris.  Ever hear of a plane being
hijacked to Paris? Me neither.
    Actually, I started to dislike the hijackings even before I tired
of the destinations.  I mean, you can only endure so many F.B.I.
investigations.  And of course, every time you're interviewed it's by
some young turk who thinks he's found the key to the whole terrorist
scene.  His report always says something like, "having discovered that
subject TTZ had also been a passenger on several other hijacked planes
I proceeded to..."  You can probably imagine the rest.
    And I haven't even mentioned the danger.  I mean, let's face it,
hijackers are not the most stable people on earth.  They can get
pretty violent.  They even kill people.  The killing doesn't really
bother me though, after all, it is part of their job.  I just don't
want them to kill me.  Of course, I don't really have much to worry
about since most of the hijackers know me.  Frequent travel does have
its advantages.
    I wonder what the chances are that the guy who hijacks my plane
today will want to go to Albuquerque?

    As I stow my luggage in the overhead compartment, I scan the cabin
for a familiar face.  If I'm lucky, the hijacker will be someone I
know.  So far, I haven't spotted any acquaintances.
    I take my seat and watch the door, hoping to spot the hijacker as
soon as he boards.  Passengers stream by, maneuvering their bags down
the narrow walkway.  The elderly woman next to me explains that she's
on her way to visit her wonderful grandchildren.  I nod a lot, partly
so she won't think I'm rude, and partly as an effort to see the door
through the confused throng of passengers trying to stow their
baggage, find their seats, and remember where the handy card showing
all emergency exits is kept.
    Finally, a dark haired man with a vaguely arabic look about him
enters and takes an aisle seat near the front.  He doesn't have any
luggage, so I figure he must be the terrorist.  He looks kind of
familiar, but I can't really identify him from this distance.  I
decide to go and talk to him.
    The seat next to him is open, so I slip into it.  As I do, I place
the face.  It's Malcolm Abdul Noyabi, one of my favorite terrorists.
I turn to him and cheerily say, "Malcolm!  Long time no hijack."
    He almost jumps out of his skin.  His jaw drops.  He looks at me.
His jaw closes.  He says, "Oh, it's you."  He passes out.  I slap him
a few times.  Eventually, he's ready to resume our conversation.
    "So, uh, Malcolm, could you do me a favor?"
    "What kind of favor?"
    "Well, you are going to hijack this plane right?"
    "Yeah."
    "Could you maybe make them fly to Albuquerque?"
    "Albuquerque?"
    "Albuquerque."
    He hits me with a blank stare.  "Why Albuquerque?" he asks.
    "Malcolm!"
    "You realize, of course, that the plane is already heading for
Albuquerque.  If I get up, wave a gun, and demand to be taken to
Albuquerque I'll come off looking pretty damn silly!"
    "What's a little embarrassment to help a friend in need?"
    "A little embarrassment?  Are you kidding?  That would ruin my
reputation.  I'd lose the respect of my colleagues.  I'd never be able
to show my face in public again!"
    "What's the big deal about never showing your face in public?  It
never bothered your wife."
    "I AM NOT A WOMAN.  I AM A TERRORIST!"
    Belatedly, I realize that comparing Malcolm to his wife had been a
bad move.  All hell breaks loose on the plane.  Everyone is screaming.
The stewardesses throw themselves down to the floor.  The pilot and
crew emerge from the cockpit with their hands raised.  Malcolm looks
confused.
    "Malcolm," I say helpfully, "You probably shouldn't have yelled."
    Slowly, Malcolm realizes what is happening.  He has hijacked the
plane.  Once he understands the situation, he needs only a few moments
to calculate his next move.  He stands, reaches into his jacket, and
draws his gun.  It is a very large gun.
    People continue to scream.
    "Silence!"
    Malcolm really has a very loud voice.  But that shouldn't come as
a surprise.  Most terrorists have extremely loud voices.  It's sort of
a job requirement.  You need to be able to make yourself heard over
the panicked screams of others.  The passengers were able to hear
Malcolm.  Within a few seconds the cabin is silent except for a few
scattered whimpers.
    "I demand," Malcolm continues, "that this plane be flown to
Albuquerque."
    I smile inwardly.  The pilot and crew return to the cockpit and
prepare to taxi onto the runway.  A stewardess explains that the seat
cushions can be used as personal flotation devices.  A man in a grey
suit rises, yells, "F.B.I.!" and shoots Malcolm twice.
    Malcolm falls to the floor with a surprised look on his face.  The
F.B.I. agent rushes forward, handcuffs Malcolm's corpse, looks at me
and says, with a puzzled look on his face, "You again?"
    I shrug.  The cabin door bursts open, and five special agents
bound in.  They quickly read Malcolm's body its rights, bag it, and
take it away.
    The plane taxis onto the runway, takes off, and begins to climb.
The captain's voice can be heard over to intercom.
    "Ladies and gentlemen.  Thank you for joining us this morning.
Sorry about that bit of unpleasantness.  The suspect has been
identified as one Malcolm Abdul Noyabi and he has been taken into
custody by the F.B.I.  As you probably know, Noyabi demanded that this
plane fly to Albuquerque.  As you also know, this plane was originally
bound for Albuquerque.  Unfortunately, federal law prohibits
compliance with terrorist demands.  Therefore, our destination is now
Cleveland.  Thank you again for your cooperation."

---
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