No doubt some of you, my American co-residents, are moaning because it’s that time of year again, when the Tax Man (hey, I’ll get out my old vinyl copy of Revolver, maybe George Harrison can cheer me up) crooks and wiggles his ugly gnarled finger at you. He wants your miserable dollars, worthless compared to a Euro or a Swiss franc, but they still add up, however many donations you make to the Gates foundation.

But if you think April 15 is a rough date, listen to this one. And call it February 20. And don’t complain.
I have the dubious privilege of working for the consulate of a prestigious European nation. It sounds glamorous; the glamour remains largely in the imagination of others. Still, never mind that the furniture is run-down and that we envy the modern fixtures in the offices of our European neighbor, the Goethe Institute; never mind that we have a cold water sink that frequently clogs and we have to buy our own coffee at the Starbuck’s across the street—there are frequent little perks, such as champagne and cookies to welcome new employees or bid old ones adieu, and no one looks at you askance if you’ve had a glass of wine at lunch, or if you tell a slightly sexist joke, as long as it’s clear you love sex. And above all we have six weeks paid vacation from year one, no questions asked.

However, the dubiousness has recently become extremely loaded: l’Oncle Sam is watching us. Already he doesn’t like us, sitting here as we did throughout the buildup to the war in Iraq with the smug satisfaction that we represented dissenters the world over. I was insulted for working here , quite obscenely, several times during that period—but on Valentine’s day, anti-war protesters brought us roses. On balance, it’s a relaxed and pleasant place to work. But still, Uncle Sam is watching us—and not just us, but our consular colleagues from every country all over the US, to see how we pay our taxes. Obviously, this doesn’t apply to the diplomats, or employees on special visas, but only us poor schmucks who are Yanks to begin with, or dual nationals, or those who have obtained the (dubious) privilege of a green card, hoorah.

Rumors have it that it all started with the Argentines. It seems they were too busy dancing the tango or playing soccer to pay taxes to Uncle Sam. Embassies don’t declare their employees to the feds: we don’t get W-2s, we get a “self-employed” status without the right to take self-employment deductions. (Hey, all those déjeuners d’affaires…forget it!) So Uncle Sam saw there were no tax returns from the tango dancers, and he saw red–bullish bully that he is–and said, Let’s go after all them ‘ferners and those ‘ferner-lovers that ain’t good Amurcans. I bet they ain’t paid their taxes. But just to show ‘em we’re real democratic in this country, they can volunteer three years worth of them amended tax returns, with a few penalties, an’ fines, an’ interest just so’s they know we’re talkin’ business.

I love the euphemistic title they’ve given this fiscal round-up: a “settlement initiative.” Yes, I’d be only too happy to settle—as far away as possible. Sakhalin island even sounds alluring, and tax evasion is a national sport in Russia, so I hear—though I am not talking about evasion, let me make that clear from the start. No, this is about injustice.
After the announcement of this settlement initiative there have followed, in good IRS style, reams and reams of documents covering every possible income, deduction, contribution (to fern governments), retirement plan—basically any instance which might allow a shifty ferner or ferner-lover to skimp, even unwittingly, inadvertently, undeliberately, on sending money to Uncle Sam. Contributions to old-age pensions. Health care. Retirement funds. Money contributed by the embassy to defray the cost of our very own self-employment tax. And for some of my green card and dual-national colleagues who have, always unwittingly, underdeclared or erroneously reported their income, the tab is now running into the tens of thousands. C’est dramatique, and I’m not talking about Molière.

But our embassies are not innocent either. They did not keep us informed, failed miserably to tell us how to file our taxes, and now wash their hands of any responsibility. Nemo censetur legem ignorare, they imply. You don’t know Latin? Tough. We are the lowest employees on the totem pole—no diplomatic plates, no housing allowances or family allowances (and diplomats get longer vacations, are paid in Euros, and are tax-exempt). Our salaries are laughable compared even to an entry-level admin at UCSF. I for one have to be truly self-employed as an independent translator just to make ends meet.

I like to do things properly, to be honest and above-board. I pay my taxes as best I can—I’m known to be late, and to use the credit card to pay them, but they get their money, with penalties and interest, in the end. I have been audited by the IRS in the past and know what a traumatic experience it can be; I was very lucky and my auditor was understanding, gentle, and helpful. While I still had a whopping bill (again because I had been “misinformed i.e. not informed at all” by my employer), it could have been far worse without his sympathy.

Now I feel like there is something wrong. I feel there is something extremely dirty about this monster breathing down our necks for our money, and he has bad breath. I have been informed that the amount of money I might potentially owe, depending on how the IRS decides to interpret its own flexible tax laws, could be astronomique—talking five digits, already. I am thinking how many uniforms, or boots, or body bags, my unwilling contribution to an extremely dirty war is going to buy. If I thought for a minute that our money was going to improve education, health care, or roads, let alone to fund such frivolous concerns as culture, retirement or the environment, the settlement initiative might have some moral value. But half of every tax dollar goes to the military, and recently Bush announced his intention to slash social services even further.

I had my audit a few weeks before the invasion of Iraq. But since that time things have gotten worse for us little folk, because we are vulnerable, and have some cash, and cannot hide behind clever corporate lawyers. Of course we will organize, write letters, speak to tax lawyers and labor lawyers and union leaders and colleagues in other consulates (the Brits, it would seem, have gotten off lightly––but then Tony Blair is, well, we know what he is. And it’s not a berger allemand.) If we settle, it is an admission of guilt, and we have done nothing wrong. And there is no appeal, once we settle. And the IRS could still reject our honest admissions of guilt, and go back as far as they like, ferreting in our personal lives like a burglar in a chest of drawers. I suspect they will rewrite the rules, case by case, as they go. You’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Oh, and the deadline for this “initiative” is February 20. The Germans, in the name of the entire European Union, have protested and pleaded for an extension, but even they have about as much influence with the IRS as a jellyfish with a whale. The administration of this country––in every aspect, be it war or the environment or trade or the international criminal court or the fiscal contributions of its own citizens and resident aliens––is monolithic, heavy-handed, and willfully blind. And not because it is trying to weigh the scales of justice––although that’s what they’d have you believe.

I console myself with the fact that, when I retire, there will be cheese, champagne and the environment of a country that has a long history of trying to take care of its people–and I mean le petit peuple, too (even if they don’t make the world’s most scrupulous employer—I’ll forgive them for that). I’m even looking forward to some Molière; I’ll be more than ready for some comic—and tax—relief.