I like imagining the scene at the airport in Saudi Arabia when Sami Omar Al-Hussayen arrives home. Met by his father, mother, wife, children, brothers and sisters, Sami wonders who to hug first. As he ponders this, I see his children running to him, making the decision for him. I would love to be there to share that moment with him.

Until February 2003, my relationship with Sami was just teacher-student. As his Ph.D. adviser, I met with Sami weekly to discuss his research and plan his progress toward his degree, expected by early summer 2003. Since his arrest 16 months ago, I’ve visited Sami in jail three times. We first discussed his Ph.D. research and then our discussions wandered across our entire lives – our families, our mothers and fathers, books we read, plans for the future, and many other topics. Through these conversations, I now know Sami as a warm, kind, caring, strong person. I marvel at how close I feel to him, how three visits, perhaps 10 hours of conversation, brought the two of us together as great friends. Never inconsequential, our conversations were full of the important aspects of human existence – honesty, loved ones, relationships, groundedness, trust.

On one of my visits, I am led to Sami’s cell, his home. We talk briefly in the stark, metallic room with natural light but no window. Sami rinses out his only Styrofoam cup and fills it with water, then opens a small package of tiny pretzel snacks and puts them into a plastic container that once held a few small cookies. These gifts he presents to me as his guest.

Locked in his cell 23 hours of each day since his arrest, Sami remains, even after his acquittal, in solitary confinement. He has not hugged his wife or children since his arrest. Nevertheless, during his entire ordeal, Sami never lost his sense of humor. During a visit, we were left together for a long time and he told me, “If you stay too long, you’ll be counted as one of the inmates.” When people would visit him on a Sunday, Sami would tell them, “I’m not sure what life is like on the outside, but in jail we work really hard during the week so we can rest on the weekends.”

Recently our government built a case against Brandon Mayfield, a Portland attorney, who was arrested and charged with terrorism because his fingerprint was identified on a plastic bag after the bombings in Madrid. Mayfield, a Muslim, once had a client that had been involved with an organization the government was investigating; furthermore, “Spanish documents” were found in his home. Mayfield, an American, was held in custody for two weeks until it was discovered that the misidentified fingerprint belonged to a Moroccan. The government had simply decided on Mayfield’s guilt and then proceeded to build a case against him. The “Spanish documents” turned out to be his son’s Spanish homework. How easily it could have been you or I.

On the day of Sami’s arrest, the FBI told me that what I knew about Sami was only the tip of the iceberg, that the hidden portion of the iceberg of information would come out. Since then, I’ve sat through hearings and read newspaper reports and have never seen the iceberg. I am convinced it simply does not exist. Just as in the case of the Portland attorney, the government focused on an individual, building a case around that person by twisting facts to appear suspicious and incriminating.

I am surprised at how all of this has changed me. It has driven me to become part of government, to make government better, more respected. I ran successfully for the Moscow City Council in November 2003. I am a more social person, who demands deep, meaningful conversations. It has made me want to be more like my friend Sami.