At an ungodly hour in the dubiously furnished terminal 1 of Dubai’s dubiously overdecorated international airport, a simultaneously pained and irritated cry rang out: “Sir!”

Before I go any further, I must warn you that this post is merely the whim of a passing hour spent waiting for my flight to board. What follows is markedly deficient in intellectual fibre, not something your doctor would recommend. If you have pithy things to read, I suggest giving this a miss. If not, then perch your attractive chin on one hand and continue scrolling with the other.

Now where was I…oh yes: “Sir!” The shrill shriek managed to negotiate the back-slits of my lambswool coat, penetrated my lumbar spine and muscled its way up to my neck. I shivered. Despite the considerable weight of all my travel paraphernalia, I whirled around desirous of identifying the source of an outrage. The surprisingly terrifying cry had originated from an Emirates official. She was a tiny Filipino woman who ran up to me and decided to address my chest instead of my eyes (ladies, I now know how demeaning it is). She informed my chest with considerable consternation that I wasn’t supposed to exit the area using a particular gate. I informed her that I wasn’t planning to pursue that course of action at all. This seemed to deflate her a tad; perhaps, she felt embarrassed about her recent eruption. As revenge, she asked to see my travel documents and then sent me on my way a little bit rattled.

A few minutes later, as I prepared to walk through the metal frame of the security check, a man’s deep baritone thundered from somewhere behind me: “Excuse me, sir!” I thought it was Lord Yama, the Hindu god of death, here to cut short my existence. Fearing the worst, I turned around and I was conscious of my adrenal glands informing me that this night had had its fair share of blood-curdling screams and that it was filing for overtime work.

Apparently, the chappie manning the conveyor belt—a decidedly uncelestial being-- had spotted a piece of paper in my pocket and feared that I’d threaten the very foundations of the free world with it. He insisted on carefully placing the 2”x4” paper in a 2’x1’ tray as if it may detonate at the slightest provocation.

Now, all things considered, I am quite tolerant of authority. I allow them to poke, prod, and provoke me to their heart’s content. I suppose it makes them feel useful. God alone knows how they’d fritter away their hours if they couldn’t resort to the making people mildly miserable. However, I am most decidedly against the misappropriation of the word “sir.” If I’m not mistaken, it’s a term of respectful address. But the way the officials use it, you’d think they meant to use a considerably coarser and more colourful means of address.  There’s always this accusatory ring to “Sir” when pronounced by a member of a security force. And, much as I am fond of the happy-sounding American accent, American security officers have a penchant for adding a piratesque quality to the “r” in “sir,” making the word sound even more odious and derogatory.

 Shouldn’t these chaps use unequivocal terms such as “possible scoundrel” or “potential ruffian” to hail those they suspect of mischief? This would make their feelings perfectly clear, don’t you think? I do concede that my suggestions are a mouthful. Worse, they might just shorten and mutate into something new and frightening such as  “Posco” or “Poruff” in the hands of the TCA.  Therefore, it might make more sense to substitute “Sir” with “Citizen.” I think that would work marvelously. Not only does it retard the erosion of the respectful connotation of “sir,” but it also allows airport security officers to create the 1984-esque Orwellian ambiance that they all secretly yearn for. In case countries like the UK want to be different (which is always) they may substitute “sir” with “subject,” which would perfectly compliment the imperiousness with which their officers beckon suspects after having bellowed at them.

For similar reasons, I think “excuse me” ought to be replaced with “Halt” since that’s precisely what “excuse me” means in the airport. I think “Halt” is a superlative replacement. It makes me think of leather trenchcoats, shiny handcuffs, and the gratuitous use of the truncheon. If you happen to be an airport security officer reading this piece, the next time you suspect a thin brown man in a grey lambswool blazer and a black hat of potential troublemaking, please roar the following words: “Halt citizen!”

You will see him smile and perhaps even wipe away a tear or two at having saved a word and a phrase from repeated, remorseless, and needless violence.

P.S: If you are actually a security officer, know that I do appreciate the modicum of security you create for us and I know it must be tough to do such a thankless job. I just couldn’t resist poking some fun at you.