WASHINGTON -- I was out of the country when I learned that he didn’t want me to come back.
At 4:35 p.m. on Monday, as I worked out of my aunt's home in the suburbs of Ottawa, Canada, I got an email: My just-issued U.S. visa was in my Pakistani passport and ready to be picked up. I began planning when I could go to the post office the next day. I wanted to see that literal stamp of approval in person -- to touch it, to know I could return to the people I love, the work I love. To actually hold the document would be a moment of triumph, a brief respite from the knowledge that my life in the U.S. exists solely at the pleasure of bureaucrats. I had a flight booked for Tuesday night. My suitcase -- which I'd crammed full before leaving D.C., since it wasn't clear how long the visa process might take -- was ready to go.
