The airport officer opened my passport on his desk and looked at my photo. He put the boarding pass on top of it and held his pen. But he didn’t mark it right away. Instead, he stared at my eyes. I tried to act normal, just being myself. Four and a half seconds passed, and I started to worry. Had I doubted myself? He finally took his eyes off me and drew a half circle on the boarding pass. Then he handed me my passport, and I took it back. I started walking toward the airport inspection point which was crowded. One of the officers was guiding people forward. Behind me, people were waiting. I just wanted to pass through quickly. My passport had been issued less than a year ago. Have I changed so much?

For as long as I can remember, I have always liked the photo on my passport; but that was never true for my driver’s license and ID photo. The picture on my very first driver’s license was a little black-and-white photo attached to a corner of an opaque white card – imagine a guy with black hair and thick brows staring out into the world from a low-res photo wrapped in plastic, featuring a small hole. There is nothing in his eyes that I could say is attractive. He doesn’t seem bold or smart. And why is he so low-spirited? Why does it seem he doesn’t have anything to offer? No, it’s not like me. I don’t like it. I have never liked it.

As the airport officer stared into my eyes, I wanted to help him out. I wanted to say, “Come on, don’t bother, man. I pinky promise that it’s me!”

Like everyone else, I like some of my photos better than others. Perhaps the ones that were taken at a specific angle. Those taken from down and a bit to the left or maybe kitty-cornered or from some special angle! I don’t know. Those photos that reflect Ali. Those that are similar to me. In those moments when you want to be yourself in a photograph, which self do you refer to exactly?

In the photo of my very first passport, I wore a green T-shirt. I was a young pal with a pair of glossy eyes staring out of the frame. It’s like I wanted to get out of that two-by-three quadrangle. You can see the fearlessness, the soul in my eyes. “I want to go . . .” “I fear nothing . . .” It’s like I was whispering something like that to myself. Why not wear more formal clothes? Who takes his passport picture with a T-shirt on? The funny thing is, I used the same picture for my l-20 letter and also for the American Embassy. I didn’t care if the officer asked what kind of picture it was. Maybe that was the reason I could take my visa sooner than others. The photo was taken ten years ago. It’s Ali during those years, those days when I wanted to prove the freedom in life, with that round neck and green T-shirt! With that uncombed gelled hair! Could all of this be compressed into just a few thousand pixels? In those few inches of paper? Maybe that’s what photographs are made for — an attempt to fit all of life into a color or black-and-white image.

I put my shoes, bag, and coat in a plastic basket and left it on the conveyor to pass through the X-ray device. In front of me, there was a huge cylindrical scanner. There was a person before me, standing in the middle of it with his hands up, staring straight, waiting for it to take his nude photo!

I have never taken a nude photo before. A full-body nude picture! Well, I have seen myself in the steamy mirror of my bathroom, of course. Or when I change my clothes at home. But even those images are half-naked in my head. Not fully. Fully naked photos are frightening. Being naked is frightening. It was my turn. I took a few steps forward. I stood inside the big cylinder and put my hands up. The device turned, and a light passed through my eyes rapidly. Electromagnetic waves record your naked picture, whether you have your clothes on or not. It doesn’t matter if you’re smiling or not. If you’re beautiful or . . . I never heard that anyone would ever want to know how his photo in the airport inspection device would actually look.

The officer pointed with his hand, meaning that I could pass. I came out of the big cylinder and stood aside. I was standing with my arms folded, looking as the conveyor was pushing the plastic baskets forward one by one. My coat, bag, passport, and shoes were closing in, inside a big plastic basket.

Why did it take so long? Was it me that had changed so much, or was it the photo that was so different from me? I reasoned that if airport officers worked eight hours a day, and took ten seconds to match a person’s face with their passport photo, it would be three thousand people a day, sixty thousand a month, and more than six hundred thousand people a year. What in the world do they see in people’s faces? Fear of going, doubt of coming. Hope of getting back? If she won’t let me go. If he won’t let me come. Hope she doesn’t notice that I have changed. Is it actually possible to put all of these in a single photo? How much can a photo tell about someone anyway? They say you should not use a photo taken more than six months ago. Six months? No, not even that long, let’s assume six weeks, six days, or even just six minutes ago! Am I the same me, even right after the photographer pushed the shutter button?

I’m thinking about the airport’s scanners. Maybe those huge cylinders might be able to take a beautiful photo of you without even trying to do so. Even without your favorite clothes. Even without a smile on your face. Without shadows and highlights and without fear. That flawless art of nudity.

I like my passport photos best. My ID card and driver’s license are nothing to me but official certificates of identification. But my passports are permits. Permits for leaving! I know this by experience that any permit to leave is a blessing to me. Its photo is closer to the Ali that I know. Whether or not it’s colorful or black-and-white, it’s bright. It’s alive. It has color! And I don’t mean “color” literally, as in a “color photograph.” I mean that it is the perception of the world I create and give in my photos. I have seen black-and-white photos of myself that had more color than the colorful ones and vice versa. My passports have always been colorful, but my certificates of identification . . . not so much.

I took my things from the basket, put on my shoes, and walked to the gate. The hallway was crowded. People were carrying their suitcases. The airport-speaker was announcing the flights one by one. On the way, I was constantly looking around. I wanted to find a mirror.