The Null Treaties E-Book

Harry Burger

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Fachliteratur
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 208

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

International treaties are formal, binding agreements, such as the conventions of friendship, commerce and extradition between the United States of America and innumerable nations around the world. These treaties guarantee civil rights to foreigners in the USA. The U. S. constitution holds that “Treaties are the supreme law of the land”. Reality reveals a different picture. Systematic denial of protection under the law, misleading of foreign government representatives, and statements made by public officials declaring “aliens have no rights” emphasize the meaningless nature of these solemnly concluded conventions. Pathetic revelations from the diplomatic side stating that “treaties with the USA have merely historical value” may be divulged reluctantly in private, but obsequiously withheld from the broad public to avoid political friction with a superpower. The consequences evoked by this state of affairs are unambiguously revealed by this true story, disclosing a clandestine, dark side of the new world – as experienced by a European investor in modern day America.

Leseprobe

The author states under the penalty of perjury that this is in fact a true story. Most names of persons and places have been altered for legal reasons, and the protection of those affected by this turn of events.

INHALTSVERZEICHNIS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

APTER THREE

HAPTER FOUR

HAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

APTER SEVEN

APTER EIGHT

HAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

After a while the monotonous humming of jet engines tends to get on one’s nerves. The cramped feeling in the seats of charter airplanes are not very comfortable for tall people like me, and the lukewarm airline food leaves a lot to be desired. Nevertheless I was in a good mood. My vacations had just started. My aim was not a sandy beach under the tropical sun, or the exploration of exotic cultures and customs. Those seemed to be destinations for middleaged people, not for a young man in his late twenties. After my mother returned very impressed from a trip through the USA a couple of years ago, I decided to visit the “New World” myself.

After hours of darkness over the Atlantic Ocean the dim lights of Bangor appeared on the horizon. The airliner took a wide curve to the left and landed smoothly on the runway of the north-eastern US City. Daybreak had barely arrived as I walked down the boarding stairs and continued towards the terminal. A dense fog began to engulf the region that late summer morning and all passengers had to wait for a couple of hours until the plane was able to start again. Restless and driven by unquenchable curiosity, I kept rubbing the steamed up windows in the terminal to catch a glimpse of the mysterious, foreign ambiance, but the town and its vicinity were too far beyond my view.

After finally reaching Chicago I rolled off a car rental company’s lot, behind the steering wheel of a brand new, large station wagon. I was not fully aware of all the contracts I had just signed for taking possession of the vehicle, since my English was rather marginal at the time. To make matters more complicated a heavy downpour engulfed the south-western areas of the city, as I was still becoming accustomed with American road traffic.

My good mood remained buoyant as I was cruising along to encounter this fascinating, great world ahead of me. Soon I began to suspect that all intersections in the area seemed to have a striking similarity, until I became aware of having driven in circles for about half an hour. After close examination of the road signs, the word “West” caught my eye, and taught me that compass directions were conveniently displayed along major, American highways. Now it would have been easy to find my way, but I did not even know where I intended to travel. So I perceived the word “West” on the little sign as a recommendation. West it should be, I decided. The small country road left the huge city behind. Traffic density declined and fields, woods and farmhouses passed by my car windows as I, happy beyond one’s wishes, viewed the vast American scenery for the first time in my life.

Late that afternoon the fuel gauge reminded me to stop at a gas station. The attendant realized my lack of fluency in English and offered to fill the tank with the proper type of gasoline and check the motor oil and tyre pressure. However, he refused a tip, telling me that this service was included. In appreciation of his American honesty and obligation I kindly thanked the gentleman. ‘Have a good trip,’ he replied as I started my engine. Some miles down the road the peaceful two-lane highway merged onto a two-way multilane freeway. The traffic was moderate, leaving me plenty of time to admire the landscape around me. Dusk was about to fall and a pinkish glow adorned a couple of little clouds on the western sky as I crossed the bridge over the Mississippi River. Night had laid its black shroud over Iowa. The hills and forests vanished from my view. Only an occasional, distant light of unknown origin interrupted the darkness surrounding me. Just the pavement in front of me was lit by my car’s headlights. For inexplicable reasons I was suddenly overcome by a feeling of fear and depression. I was neither frightened by America or its people, much less by the darkness. I decided that it had to be the considerable distance from home, maybe the jet lag, or perhaps the lack of sleep during the last day, so I thought. I am not superstitious, but looking back it could have been a hint of my subconscious mind. Something might have tried to warn me, not to pursue my path any further, but I kept on driving, westward towards my destiny.

I arrived at the city of Des Moines. Tired as can be I found a motel room on the outskirts of town. As I woke up the next day the sun was already standing high in the sky. After an extensive, hot shower I stepped outside, where a beautiful, bright day was awaiting me. The motel owner asked me if I had slept well. I smiled; this question might have been intended ironically, since it was almost noon. Slowly I backed the car out of the parking space. Once more I received a jovial ‘have a nice trip,’ before I turned onto the access road to the freeway. My despondent feeling from last night was gone and I was eager to continue my exploration of America.

The colours of the landscape changed gradually from profound green to brownish yellow. The horizon seemed to move farther away beyond the flat landscape of the Midwest. And the sky appeared wide and mighty, stretching its blue yonder over the tremendous size of this big country. I kept asking myself how it must feel to live in a place as huge as this. Nebraska’s endless cornfields were lining the freeway on its course to the adorable mountain lands of Wyoming. I just kept on rolling, restless as if I was afraid to miss something worth seeing further ahead. Driving through the awesome deserts of Utah and Nevada was indeed another astounding experience.

After a comfortable night’s rest in a motel my dependable rental car bravely climbed up the Sierra Nevada, where I was received by an enchanting alpine paradise. I had left the freeway and continued on the curvy two-lane road following the shores of Lake Tahoe. The fir tree covered mountain peaks threw their tranquil reflections over the calm surface of the clear water. A scent of mountain pine lay in the air. The quiet beauty of this area remained largely undisturbed. Only occasionally would a powerboat or a car passing by on the road interrupt the idyll.

My voyage finally brought me to the pacific coast. I was now south of Los Angeles, where I parked in a quiet, open area by the sea. Silently, almost in a state of rapt devotion, I kept gazing at the largest ocean in the world. After half a day in this region I realized that I was breathing easier, less afflicted by asthma and other chronic allergies that had dogged me since childhood. I realized that this arid climate near the sea was very favourable to my health. For that reason in particular, I would have enjoyed remaining for a few additional days in south-western California, but with a two thousand mile return trip ahead of me, it seemed prudent not to waste time.

With a touch of melancholy in my heart I kept glancing in the rear view mirror on my journey back to the Midwest, and a feeling of sadness came over me as I boarded the airplane. I did not want to depart from this country so soon. America had left a deep and lasting impression upon me and an inevitable desire to return.

After returning to my home country I developed an increasing curiosity and fascination about the USA and everything American. Back in those days the Vietnam War evoked widespread criticism of America within Europe. It almost seemed as if we Europeans had forgotten that America helped liberate us from Nazi oppression, and that they had subsequently established their military bases in our continent to keep the communist eastern block off our backs. Europe’s prosperity, the rights, freedom and security of its population were therefore, in part, America’s credit, and the American soldiers who fell in Europe during the Second World War deserved our respect and gratitude. Enhanced by my short, but impressive visit in the New World my pro-Americanism flourished to new heights, right along with my affection for that country.

One day I glanced at the Arizona license plates of an automobile, parked nearby my European home. I spotted a gentleman taking pictures with his camera. ‘Good afternoon sir,’ I started the conversation, ‘Are you from Arizona?’

‘Good afternoon,’ he replied, ‘No, my wife and I live in San Alberto, California. We just bought the car in Arizona.’ ‘Isn’t that a coincidence,’ I returned, “I just passed by your hometown a few months ago!”

Meanwhile my mother joined in on the conversation, ‘Please come on in; would you like a cup of coffee?’ Later that day we invited our American guests for supper. Phil and Dora Emerson became my first American acquaintances and I could hardly wait to visit them in California next year.

I felt at home as I drove down the US east coast the following summer. This time I had chosen the southern route to California, where I met Phil and Dora again. I was almost embarrassed over the warm welcome and hospitality I received upon my unannounced arrival. After I expressed my interest to immigrate to the USA in the future, the friendly couple seemed eager to become my immigration sponsors.

The subsequent day I travelled with Phil to San Francisco to meet Paul Stoller, his son in law. Again, I was cordially invited into an American home like a member of the family by people I barely even knew. A couple of days later I rolled across the country again from its south-western border all the way to north-eastern Maine. I talked to Americans from almost every walk of life; I looked around, observed, and gathered information. I only came upon interesting experiences. Nothing I saw or heard left a negative impression upon me. Yet, it was always around me, the dark side of America, which I never saw, because it was hidden where I least expected it.

After having found a region where I could live without chronic allergies, I decided to inquire about options regarding my immigration to the United States of America. ‘I am sorry to tell you that Americans may only sponsor family members for immigration into our country,’ the US Consul responded to my enquiry. ‘Under the old laws, US citizens were permitted to sponsor any foreigner to come to America, but the rules have changed. Nowadays only certain professionals, family members of US citizens and those of lawful residents in the USA are readily admitted for immigration.’

‘In other words it has become nearly impossible for average Europeans to live and work in America?’ I replied.

‘No, I would not say that, it has just become more difficult,’ the diplomat answered politely. ‘Nothing is impossible!’ he added with a broad smile.

CHAPTER TWO

To cope with the death of one’s mother may be the most difficult moment in a man’s life. It was around Easter, when my mom lost her battle with cancer. Her life had not been a bed of roses, but she was always there for me as a little child in need of love and comfort. She was there for me as an adolescent seeking guidance, and as a teacher and friend in my early adulthood. So this was her last goodbye. I sold our family home and quit my job. I just felt like taking a break for a while. And the most suitable place for doing that seemed obvious to me. Once more the big silver bird lifted off the runway, heading westward as always, to the land of my dreams. But the term “Nightmare” would have been a mild understatement for what America had in store for me this time.

The climatic wonderland of coastal southern California was awaiting me with sunshine, pleasant temperatures, endless sandy beaches and its soothing air from the Pacific Ocean. My tourist visa was valid for an entire year. This was plenty of time to relax for a while and continue my immigration efforts. I worked on my English, got to know my way around San Alberto and learned about customs and daily life in America. I became acquainted with Americans and began to read American newspapers and magazines. Occasionally I relaxed at the beach and went for a swim in the ocean. Still I could not always interpret the menu selection in restaurants. After the waitress brought the food, accompanied by the friendly words ‘enjoy you meal,’ I felt tempted to say, ‘that’s not what I ordered,’ but obviously I did. Also the occasional reply ‘I am sorry, I did not get that,’ was an indicator that my English needed improving. Years of training lay ahead of me to achieve fluency in this language.

Meanwhile a few months had passed since my latest arrival in the country and it was time to examine my options for immigration into America. Accompanied by Phil Emerson I visited the regional office of the US Immigration and Naturalization Service in San Alberto. Together with Paul Stoller I consulted a lawyer specialized in immigration matters in San Francisco. Thereafter I sought advice from an attorney in San Alberto, but the answers were always the same: ‘Sorry, but no.’ Meanwhile my American friends provided me with a little official folder from the US Government, containing all the rules and regulations for foreigners to immigrate into the USA. Its contents were discouraging. Only certain skilled professionals, refugees from communist nations, close relatives of US citizens and very close relatives of lawful immigrants were admitted for permanent residency in this nation.

Among my circle of American friends was John Sullivan, a sales manager of a sizeable, regional company selling transportation equipment like trucks, trailers, forklifts and the like. The born and raised Anglo American was a friendly, jovial gentleman in his late thirties, stocky, with a bushy moustache and receding hairline. He seemed always in the mood for a spontaneous, ironic remark, or a joke and a good laugh, which was rather untypical for most US Americans I had met so far. John accompanied me to one more meeting with an attorney. We were told that not even a waiting list for prospective immigrants existed, and my chances for being granted an immigration permit to America were basically zero.

‘Why don’t you find yourself an American wife,’ John said ‘you will get an immigrant green card right away and US citizenship three years later?’ was his simple recipe for my problem. However I’d had a recent conversation with an American lady who married a Latin American immigrant not long ago and her matrimony was subjected to undue scrutiny with her husband being arbitrarily deported from the country. In the face of restrictive immigration laws, the federal government appeared very eager to deport anybody suspected of living here illegally. For these reasons, a quickly arranged marriage did not appear to be an option for me.

My American Dream seemed to be terminating in a cul-desac. Obviously it was time for me to pack my bags and make provisions for my departure. But I’d noticed that improvements to my health were quite significant during the past half year in coastal southern California, which made me even more reluctant to accept a no for an answer regarding my desire to live in this country.

The rainy season had set in. The sky was often cloudy in this area, a place usually spoiled by sunshine most of the year. But wintertime in San Alberto had a charm of its own; principally marked by mild temperatures that rarely fell to freezing point at night. The weather in this arid region appeared relatively calm all year round. Thunderstorms were rare and hail and snow were practically unknown. Protected by two bays, the city of San Alberto extends right to the waterfront with its centre barely one hundred feet above sea level. The mostly flat, sandy beaches of San Alberto County ascend moderately into the hillsides of the adjoining landscape, leaving ample space for sports and leisure by the sea. Further inland, the grounds become more rugged and often divided by little canyons. Although the surroundings appear rather bare compared to the lush, green vegetation of Western Europe, I perceived coastal Southern California as a wonderful place to be.

It was within the first months of the New Year when I responded to a TV commercial of a nationwide group of immigration attorneys, and asked for an appointment. I was expecting another one of those ‘we are so sorry but we are unable to help you,’ replies, but I was in for a delightful surprise. ‘You may not be able to immigrate into the USA at this time or in the foreseeable future,’ the lawyer’s assistant advised me, ‘but in order to live here, an actual immigration is not always necessary. Just about every Western European Nation, as well as innumerable countries around the entire world maintains friendship, commerce, and extradition conventions with the USA. These treaties entitle citizens from these commonwealths to establish themselves here, and US citizens to live in those cosignatory states. Principal immigration laws are unaffected by these provisos.

‘Aliens admitted in nations under these reciprocal agreements must not be subjected to any condition whatsoever to which a citizen of the country where they reside shall not be subjected. The only two exceptions being political rights and participation in the properties of communities, corporations or institutions explicitly reserved for citizens of that country.’

After listening silently to this new information and reading some of the accompanying text presented to me, the legal assistant showed me an excerpt from the US Constitution: Treaties are the Supreme Law of the Land. ‘However,’ she added, ‘an investment within the USA is required to qualify under this proviso. Previously the minimum amount necessary was forty thousand dollars; nowadays one hundred thousand dollars is about the bottom line.’

What I just heard had really made my day. After this heartening legal advice I needed some business advice as well. The first whom I informed about the good news was John Sullivan. He agreed to accompany me to the lawyer’s office the subsequent day. Most of the lawyer’s eloquent explanations went clearly over my head, so I attended the meeting as a silent listener. John gave me a briefing afterwards.

‘The way I understand this treaty arrangement, it does not seem that a foreigner may merely acquire tools to make a living over here, or place his funds into a bank account. Investments must be made into an ongoing bona fide enterprise, preferably providing employment for US citizens. After those investments have been made into an existing business or the foundation of a new enterprise, the application for a treaty investor visa may be presented to our government for approval. Within this timeframe of approximately three months the applicant must remain in the USA and is not permitted to leave and re-enter the country.’ Somewhat confused by John’s recount of the meeting, I asked, ‘But my permit to live here will be issued, right?’ ‘According to the lawyer; yes!’ I have always been a cautious man by nature. There was no reason for me to doubt the attorney’s words. Additionally, I felt more comfortable having all this information confirmed by qualified, backed up opinions. The results were positive; two lawyers attested the validity of the convention at issue and all stipulations and particulars thereof as stated. I was also assured full protection by the US Constitution, including the bill of rights and its amendment XIV, guaranteeing civil rights to the population of this country, citizens and noncitizens alike.

‘There are always plenty of opportunities in this country,’ John assured me. ‘From what you have told me you have many years of experience in the armoured car, as well as the transportation trade. If you are contemplating, as you have indicated to me, to set up a freight forwarding business in the area, then you can definitely count on my help. The most crucial aspect is to start an enterprise from scratch, but I have plenty of business connections in every aspect of commerce surrounding this line of work.’

The following week, John and I travelled to San Francisco where we obtained professional advice from Paul Stoller. He was after all a renowned certified public accountant, tax specialist and lecturer at a university. ‘I’m glad you’ve found a way to stay in America!’ Paul greeted me cordially. ‘I always anticipated that there must be a provision for you to establish yourself here.’ Paul’s professional input was essential for my starting up a company in California. Once more I had to be a bystander to the discussions and leave the subject up to John. I was making progress in my English, but I was not yet ready for all the technical jargon surrounding tax regulations and business law.

Paul accepted my offer to become an honorary member on the board of directors in my company. I needed competent people on my side and in my business in order to be successful and Paul’s input was very essential. All details of my new American livelihood needed to be well conceived, and every aspect well covered. Being protected under this treaty gave me additional confidence that my future as a treaty investor in the United States would be built upon rock solid grounds. My American future began to materialize at last. My faith in the United States of America was unbroken. After an entire year in this country I had not yet sensed the remotest indication to doubt this Nation’s hallmark status as a place of impeccable integrity and undeniable justice and equality. And I was about to become a patriot of my new, chosen homeland.

I needed to inform my home country regarding my taking up residency in the USA. John accompanied me on my trip to Los Angeles. ‘Do you like it here?’ the consular secretary asked me politely as he typed my name on a document. ‘Yes Sir,’ I replied adamantly, ‘the climate here is very favourable to my health.’

‘You’re not the first who has told me so. It is indeed very pleasant in this region. – All right, now we have you registered here with us.’ He said as he turned back to my direction. ‘I have an E – Visa application pending Sir, as a treaty investor, I am starting a business over here,’ I explained.

‘Oh, we are not concerned about the visas of our people, we only like to know where they are within the US,’ the secretary answered politely. I did not receive any further comments from the diplomat, no recommendations or much less an unambiguous warning, which should have been mandatory under the circumstances.

Based upon John and Paul’s recommendation, my American business became a corporation. I had already acquired equipment and signed a rental contract for an office in Escondera, a north-eastern suburb of San Alberto. After my change of status from a visitor to a resident and entrepreneur in the USA, I became aware of remarkable distinctions between the New World and the country where I was born and raised. Most notable were begging letters arriving at our office. These were not drawn up by charity organizations, but by law enforcement associations from various US States. Their monetary demands ranged from three to four digit amounts.

Fred, the operations manager of my business, a born and raised US Citizen in his mid thirties with many years experience in the trade, seemed pretty much at a loss to answer my questions regarding this practice. In Europe I had never heard about the police collecting funds from businesses or private individuals. John’s office at the equipment dealership was fortunately just across the parking lot; so that’s where I went, somewhat perturbed, with this correspondence. ‘I simply would throw away that kind of bogus,’ was John’s answer. ‘The term law enforcement is clearly defined from a literary aspect, but not necessarily reserved by law for exclusive use by government. Almost everybody may use these words for himself. As a matter of fact, our government agencies are terribly embarrassed over these schemes.’ ‘So this is undoubtedly the work of impostures and in no way connected with any public officials?’ John’s expression became pensive as I awaited his reply. ‘I wish I could give you a definitive answer, but I can’t. There is always a remote possibility that some black sheep in our system are participating in these types of activities.’

‘Why isn’t the government doing anything about it?’ I asked surprised.

‘They do, but the perpetrators must be apprehended, charged and convicted. Most crooks over here are shrewd and quick in circumventing the laws.’