The Right to Do What They Wish

George was recently helping his wife fill out a travel form that requested passport information. George holds both a Canadian and a US passport, the latter due to his American birth. The form, however, included an unusual question: was he born in Canada or elsewhere? This struck George as peculiar, as he had never encountered such a query on a travel document before.

Curious, George mentioned to his wife that he thought this was an unusual question. She glanced up with a puzzled expression and asked, “Why do you find that strange?” George didn’t elaborate, simply noting that it was a first for him. His wife pressed further, questioning why it mattered. To avoid an argument, George mumbled something vague and changed the subject, but the exchange left him uneasy.

What troubled George most was his wife’s apparent indifference to the form’s intrusion into his personal details. Her tone carried a hint of defiance, as if to say, “They can ask whatever they want—we’re the ones seeking permission to travel.” This attitude didn’t sit well with George. His imagination spiraled into unsettling scenarios: standing at an immigration checkpoint, an officer pulling him aside with a curt, “Follow me, sir.” In a dimly lit room, the questions would come: “Why do you travel on a Canadian passport when you were born in the US? What’s your issue with your country of origin? Why did you apply for Canadian citizenship?” George couldn’t fathom why such a question about where he was born was even on the form. The ambiguity gnawed at him—did the question hint at some deeper scrutiny, a profiling mechanism to flag dual nationals?

His mind wandered further, to a dystopian future where uniformed officers knocked on his door. “There’s an issue with your Canadian citizenship,” they’d say. “Your name was flagged in a routine search.” George envisioned a sterile government office, where a stern official rifled through his file, questioning his loyalty, his motives, even his personal beliefs. In these fantasies, George pictured his wife in the background, her expression like that of a parent disappointed in her child caught misbehaving. “What did you do this time?” her look would imply. To her, it seemed, governments owned the world’s borders, granting or denying passage at their whim. They controlled who could live where, who could travel where, or where a person could call a place home. Her unspoken assumption was that compliance was the price of freedom—a bargain George found increasingly hard to stomach.

This disconnect between them wasn’t new. George recalled another incident, a few months prior, when a routine airport security check had escalated. The agent had asked George to explain the purpose of his trip, his recent travel history, and even the contents of his carry-on. His wife had stood by, unfazed, as if such probing was par for the course. When George later vented his frustration, she had shrugged and said, “They’re just doing their job.” To George, it felt like more than that—like a power play, a reminder that his autonomy was conditional.

Undoubtedly, she’s partly correct. We’ve grown accustomed to passports as prerequisites for international travel—a requirement that didn’t always exist. Countries do have to protect their borders from undesirables and criminals, don’t they? Decades ago, crossing borders was simpler, often requiring little more than a driver’s license or a handshake. Now, we comply with demands for proof of nationality, residency, birth dates, and document expiration dates. We endure the scrutinizing glares of immigration officers when leaving, entering, or returning to a country. We submit to biometric scans, random searches, and questions that feel more like interrogations.

But is this scrutiny truly in our best interest? And where does it end? George’s unease stemmed from the novelty of the original question he was curious about—it felt like a tightening of control. I, myself, recall a recent drive across the US border, where an officer asked about my father’s military service (a career Navy officer in WWII, Korea, and Vietnam). Why ask that? Another first, and another red flag. I couldn’t shake the feeling that these questions were less about security and more about asserting dominance, testing compliance.

George’s wife seemed to believe authorities are entitled to any information they demand. Worse, if they choose to make life difficult—or even detain someone—it’s justified. “You must have done something wrong,” she might say, or perhaps, “They must not like something about you.” This latter notion chilled George the most. “Doing something wrong” implies a clear violation, but laws can shift, bypassing constitutional protections. History is littered with examples—internment camps, blacklists, arbitrary detentions—where legality served power, not justice. Being disliked, however, is arbitrary, subjective, and unchecked. It could stem from a misinterpreted comment, an unusual travel pattern, or simply the wrong officer on the wrong day. Yet, to people like George’s wife, that’s acceptable—a shrug and a dismissive, “Tough luck, they don’t like you.” It’s their prerogative.

Why have governments been granted such authority? Why do officials act as gatekeepers of a private estate, permitting entry only to those they deem worthy, based on actions, beliefs, or even arbitrary traits like appearance or faith? This strikes me as profoundly odd. Odder still are the citizens who accept this without question. I’ve seen it in small ways—neighbours reporting “suspicious” behaviour, coworkers policing each other’s compliance with vague regulations. It’s as if the system rewards those who align with it, who nod along and say, “That’s just how it is.”

This dynamic evokes memories of Soviet Russia or Nazi Germany, as depicted in films and books. In those totalitarian regimes, ordinary people wielded petty authority over others with relish, obsessed with bureaucracy and personal data. “Papers, please” was a constant refrain, a symbol of control. Every checkpoint, every form, every stamp was a reminder of the state’s omnipotence. Citizens became complicit, turning on each other to prove their loyalty. Why do some embrace this? The Stanford Prison Experiment offers insight. Conducted in 1971, the experiment divided students into “guards” and “prisoners” in a simulated prison. Within days, the guards—given arbitrary power—became abusive, while prisoners grew submissive or rebellious. The study revealed how quickly those in authority—aligned with the “winning team” of power, wealth, or status—justify mistreating others. It’s not just about power; it’s about identity. Humans often gravitate toward such dominance, a trait seen in high school hall monitors, crossing guards, or members of the popular crowd. They were the ones who thrived on rules, who felt validated by enforcing them.

Conversely, others reject it, embracing defiance. I wasn’t a “Greaser” from The Outsiders, nor a “Soc¹,” but I was a misfit, skeptical of authority. In high school, I paid dearly for it—detentions for questioning teachers, ostracism for not fitting in. I saw the same in George’s story. His wife’s exasperation likely stems from his refusal to play along. She knows the cost of defiance: scrutiny, suspicion, maybe worse. George’s wife believes he has an issue with authority. He didn’t always—until it began encroaching on his life. Now, he’s openly defiant. She likely finds this exasperating, knowing that stepping out of line risks drawing the ire of those in charge. And we all know where that leads.

This tension isn’t just personal; it’s societal. The more we normalize intrusive questions, the more we cede control. Each new form, each new checkpoint, tightens the noose. I think of dystopian novels like 1984 or The Handmaid’s Tale, where surveillance creeps in under the guise of safety. Today’s reality isn’t far off—facial recognition at airports, data tracking through apps, algorithms flagging “anomalies.” George’s fear isn’t irrational; it’s a response to a world where privacy is eroding. His wife’s acceptance, though, is the real puzzle. It’s not just her—it’s millions who shrug and say, “If you’ve got nothing to hide, what’s the problem?” The problem is the precedent. The problem is the power imbalance. The problem is that “nothing to hide” assumes trust in a system that historically abused it.

Reflecting on this, I wonder if the issue lies in our conditioning. From childhood, we’re taught to respect authority—teachers, police, government. Questioning it feels like rebellion, and rebellion is risky. Yet, history’s heroes—civil rights activists, dissidents, whistleblowers—were rebels. They saw the noose tightening and refused to comply. George might not be a hero, but his unease is a spark of that same instinct. His wife’s indifference, though, mirrors a broader complacency. It’s easier to go along, to trust the system, than to face the discomfort of doubt.

In the end, George’s story is a microcosm of a larger struggle: individual autonomy versus collective control. The travel form was just a trigger, a reminder that every question, every checkpoint, chips away at freedom. I don’t have answers, but I share George’s unease. The right to do what they wish shouldn’t mean the right to own us.

---

If you can’t subscribe at this time, a few bucks would still be helpful! Click the link above to go to my “donate” page and donate whatever you feel like donating!

1. “Soc” was the label given in S.E. Hinton’s novel The Outsiders to the “social kids”…the rich kids, the ones who do well in school, popular, cheerleaders, quarterbacks, etc. The other group, the “greasers” were the antagonists to the “Soc’s” The word is pronounced “só-sh.

BUY at www.books.by/toddhayen

---