Internment

by Samira Ahmed

  “What?”

  “It’s something my dad told me once, when I was in the district spelling bee. He said that my fear made me more alert. That I could channel my fear into focus.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Nah, second place. But, you know, I was up against another desi; he won state.” Ayesha grins a little. “Desis kill at the spelling bee. And my dad was right: When I’m scared, I always feel like I can fight a little harder.”

  I nod at Ayesha and smile. I stand and reach out a hand to help her up. As we’re dusting off our clothes, I notice a small depression past the orange barriers, at the fence line. I squint. It looks like something has burrowed underneath. A small animal, maybe, or—?

  We hear a shout. Then more shouting. We step away from the garden and see a young man yelling at a guard. His friends are holding him back. We move closer to hear. Two other guards rush over.

  “You Islamophobic asshole!” the young man yells. “We were in middle school together. What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s our age, maybe a little older, tall and wiry. Two friends pull at his arms. One is speaking to him, too low for us to hear.

  “Back off, Soheil,” the guard barks. “I could have you taken away. Trust me—you don’t want that.” He motions to the other guards to keep their guns away, moving his palms down, like he’s pressing the air.

  My chest tightens. The guards could do anything to Soheil in here, and who could we turn to? There’s no police for us to call. No one to protect us. We should do something. They could hurt him. I start walking closer, but Ayesha grabs my arm and pulls me back, shaking her head.

  “Don’t be stupid,” she says. “They have guns.”

  I want to bark at her. But I look into her wide, terrified eyes and take a breath. She’s right. I glance down at my hands; they’re trembling. I curl the right one into a fist and pound it against my thigh. I grit my teeth and nod at her.

  Soheil puts his hands up, shaking his friends off him and retreating a few steps.

  I can only glimpse part of the guard’s face, but I see his shoulders relax. “It’s going to be fine, Soheil. Chill. Everyone is doing their jobs here. You need to do yours.”

  “What the hell is my job?” Soheil asks, and then spits on the ground in front of his feet.

  “To do what you’re told,” the guard says, then joins the other guards to help them disperse the small crowd that has gathered.

  Soheil shakes his head and walks away. Toward the garden. Toward us. Every moment in the short time we’ve been behind this fence has been a revelation. And in this moment, I realize that Soheil was lucky that guard did nothing but brush him off.

  “Are you okay?” Ayesha asks as Soheil nears. He looks up, startled. Clearly, he hadn’t noticed us.

  Soheil lets out a noise somewhere between a harrumph and a loud exhale. He looks over his shoulder. Neither the guards nor the small crowd are there anymore. No one wants to linger.

  “I’m fine.” He pauses. “Actually, no. I’m not fine. Not at all. This is some next-level fascist bullshit.”

  Ayesha and I simply nod. I kick a small stone, and we all watch it skitter away. We stare like it’s the most riveting thing in the world, which, in the absence of our phones, it basically is. Then we all look at one another.

  “I’m Soheil,” he says, breaking the silence. “Soheil Saeed,” he adds rather formally.

  “We heard,” I say. “I’m Layla.”

  “Ayesha.” Ayesha grins at him. He smiles back, and it seems to release the tension he was holding in his shoulders.

  “My teita would know the perfect ancient Egyptian curse to put on these assholes.”

  “Like the curse of King Tut?” Ayesha asks.

  Soheil chuckles a little. “He wasn’t the only pharaoh, you know. She, my grandmother, didn’t really believe in curses, but I loved hearing about them, and about all the coincidental deaths that surrounded excavations. Teita was an archaeologist and a storyteller, and, believe me, ancient curses and mummies made the best ghost stories.”

  “Share,” I urge. “One of the curses, at least.”

  Soheil runs his hand through his wavy dark hair. His light-brown eyes look off into the distance, then snap back to us. “The curse inscribed on a statue of a High Priest of Amun says any transgressor will ‘die from hunger and thirst.’”

  “It’s a little on the nose for a desert, don’t you think?” Ayesha says.

  He gives her a little side-eye grin. “How about ‘He shall be cooked together with the condemned.’”

  “Succinct,” I say. “I think I like that one. May our enemies be cooked with the condemned.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re the ones most likely to die from hunger and thirst, not the guards or any of those fascist bureaucrats in the Hub. And definitely not the president,” Soheil says.

  “You think they’re going to starve us?” Ayesha asks.

  “This is a prison camp. Have you seen pictures of the concentration camps in World War Two?” Soheil asks.

  I see Ayesha take a step back, like she’s been hit in the chest.

  Then it occurs to me that she hasn’t imagined anything worse than this. Probably a lot of people haven’t. Everyone is scared in a deep way—like, in our bones. And maybe thinking of what more they might do to us is too much to bear.

  “This isn’t a concentration camp,” I say. Part of me feels like I need to shield Ayesha, because she’s not ready to consider the nightmare scenarios. “And it’s not going to help anyone if you talk like that. It’s too scary.”

  “Good. I want to scare people. We should be scared. Then maybe people will rise up and do something.”

  “I get it. Some fear is good, but not if it makes you draw so much into yourself that you’re petrified. That’s not good for anyone. Take a look around. Don’t be stupid.”

  Soheil’s jaw tightens. He looks like he’s about to say something but stops himself. Then he glances at Ayesha, and his face softens. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

  “It’s okay. We’re all on edge.”

  “Where’s your block?” I ask, trying to ease the tension.

  Soheil points across the Midway. “I’m on Block Six, with a hodgepodge of other Arab Americans.”

  It’s only when Soheil phrases it that way that I realize we’ve been segregated by ethnic group.

  Ayesha realizes it, too. “Damn. Our whole block is desi,” Ayesha says, then looks at me. “I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that they separated us?”

  Soheil rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “I don’t think the Authority leaves anything to coincidence.”

  “Divide and conquer,” I say. But I don’t think either Soheil or Ayesha hears me; they’re looking at each other with awkward half smiles.

  “Oh my God,” Ayesha says, glancing at her watch. “We’re going to be late for the orientation. My mom is gonna freak.”

  “I’ll catch up with you guys later, after we’ve been properly oriented, or whatever the hell they want to tell us about this fucking place,” Soheil says.

  Ayesha and I turn and walk toward our block as Soheil heads to his. With each step, another muscle in my body tenses. Ayesha clutches her stomach.

  I see others walking back to their trailers, many already making their way to the Hub in small family groups. And it’s so quiet. Too quiet. We’re all different people, but each of us, to a person, has the same look: abject fear.

  As we near our trailers, I turn to look back toward the mountains, the stunning granite peaks off in the distance. They’re beautiful and stark against the sky, and I imagine how stunning the moonrise will be if we can see it this evening, a silver crescent hanging above the summit. But then I look again, and I see only fences and razor wire and guns.

  I shiver as a desert chill sweeps through me.

  “Where were you?” my dad asks the moment I step back in the trailer. “The orientation is in fifteen minutes. Hurry. We can’t be late.�
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  “I’m sorry. I ran into Ayesha—the girl I met at the train station. We were walking around and didn’t realize how big this place is, and we got a little lost.”

  “And you’re covered in dirt!” My mom looks at me, wide-eyed. “What were you doing?”

  “Nothing. It’s the dust. I’ll go clean up.” I hurry to my room. I guess I’m calling it my room now. Funny how our minds cling to normalcy—desperately searching for the familiar in an environment that’s totally foreign. No. That’s wrong. It’s not like being in another country, where you feel a weird sort of thrill when you find a piece of home, a person from your city, say, or even a vintage Coke sign. This place isn’t foreign; it’s forced. It’s poison being shoved down our throats.

  I quickly wash my face and scrub the dirt from my hands. I change into a gray Wilco T-shirt I got when David and I saw them in concert last summer. It seems like a million years ago now, and David a million miles away. I can’t get all the dust out of my hair, so I opt for a ponytail and a green Wimbledon baseball cap. I think of the tennis team. A few of us agreed to help the coach run a clinic during the upcoming summer for the new varsity potentials to prep for the fall season. There will be drills and running lines and scrimmage matches and laughter and gossip. But not for me. My racket and tennis skirts are in my closet, awaiting cobwebs. Seems impossible that the entire world could lose all sense and decency in an instant.

  And yet here we are.

  We walk toward the Hub with hundreds of other families. An alarm blaring over the speakers silences everyone and signals the meeting. Again, I’m struck by the Americanness of the throngs of people. Every race, dozens of ethnicities, different ways of dressing, and, certainly, widely varying opinions about politics and life and Islam. But I guess that’s the old America. Now we all have one thing in common—a religion that makes us enemies of the state. The state all of us are citizens of, the one most of us were born into. As we approach the Hub, I’m gutted by another realization: The armed guards, the ones looking down on us—they’re all American, too. I scan the Midway for the face of the guard with the compass tattoo, the one who seemed—I stop that thought. It doesn’t matter what I see in his face or in his eyes. To him, I’m the enemy. And to me, he is my jailer.

  We walk into the vast Hub auditorium. UNITY. SECURITY. PROSPERITY. The words fill a giant screen at the back of the stage.

  Even with the hundreds of people filing in, the space feels cavernous. I shudder when I think of the many internees who might be forced to join us here or be taken to the other camps, as yet unnamed and unpopulated. Muslims make up only about 1 percent of the total US population. But that’s still almost three and a half million people. How can they imprison all of us? That would be like arresting 90 percent of Los Angeles. Besides the logistics, the very thought of it should be impossible to imagine here in America.

  A large man wearing a black suit walks to the center of the stage—it’s the same blotchy-faced man who watched the guards take down that kid. The loud echo of his footfalls quiets the buzz of voices in the hall. His face still looks like his tie cuts off the circulation to his head. He’s flanked by what seems to be his own security detail. They don’t wear military uniforms but suits, like the Secret Service, and with their fashy haircuts and vicious grins, they’d fit right in at a Unite the Right rally. The man stares at us as we enter, his eyes like daggers and his blubbery purple lips drawn into a plastic smile. If he were to add a polo shirt with a whistle around his neck, he’d look suspiciously like Mr. Connors, the thick-necked football coach at my high school. His voice thunders through the crowd. “Welcome to Mobius. I’m the Director of our camp, which takes its name from the Mobius Arch Loop Trail nearby.”

  “Welcome?” I whisper in Mom’s ear. “He makes it seem like we had a choice to come here.” My mom squeezes my hand and gives me her be quiet look—lips in shushing gesture, eyebrows drawn together.

  “Now, we want to make life here as peaceful and enjoyable as possible. Take a little time to familiarize yourself with the camp and its layout. It’s a big place, and there are a lot of opportunities here. There are recreation areas for the children as well as for adults. We’re planning a vegetable garden. There’s the warehouse where you can collect your rations and, of course, the Mess, where we’ll take our dinners together as a community.”

  I stare at the Director, almost in awe of how he is able to twist the idea of imprisonment to make it seem like sleepaway camp. Community. Opportunity. Recreation. Garden. He speaks like he’s the entertainment director on a cruise ship, not the warden of a prison camp. Looking around, I see people staring ahead, wide eyes brimming with fear, with tears, seething with anger. Some of them hush their babies, gently bouncing them so they don’t cry out, trying to give them some comfort.

  Watching this simple act of love destroys me. A prison camp isn’t a place for children; it isn’t a place for anyone. I lock eyes with a toddler. A little girl who can’t be more than two or three. Her green eyes are bright, but dark circles under them betray her lack of sleep. Like the rest of us, she’s tired. She stares at me, and in that heart-shaped face I see something familiar. Something I’ve seen before. I rack my brain.

  Refugees.

  Syrian refugees. That’s who she reminds me of: a photo of a little girl, probably her age, staring through a chain-link fence into a photographer’s lens. But that girl—the photographer caught her in the moment when the light in her eyes was extinguished. Stamped out not merely by fear but by being forgotten, by the complacency of the world around her. I first saw that picture in the daily digital news feed our history teacher made us subscribe to, and I think it might be the loneliest picture I’ve ever seen. This little girl, the one with the heart-shaped face—God, I don’t want that light taken from her.

  But I also see a few people nodding mechanically, probably thinking we should go along, maybe believing that will get them out of here sooner. I can’t figure out if they’re utterly clueless or genuinely hopeful that justice will prevail.

  “You’ll notice we’ve divided the blocks by your ethnic and cultural backgrounds. The Authority believes you’ll be more comfortable among your own people.”

  My people are Americans. All of them.

  The Director continues in his upbeat vocal swagger. “To help ease your transition, each block has its own minders. And the minders speak your language, for the most part. So they can understand everything.” The Director pauses and then repeats himself. “Everything.”

  What an asshole. Each of his words bulges with threats. We’re watching you. We’re listening. We’re everywhere.

  He continues. “They’re available night or day to assist you.” He points to a row of a couple dozen people seated behind him. They are us: some in hijab, some in topis, some in jeans and T-shirts. Every race and ethnicity represented at the camp. Who needs your government to bring you down when your own people will do it for them?

  The Director motions for the minders to rise. “These fine people share your background, understand your concerns. They come from your community, and they have kindly volunteered their time to help ease your transition into life at Mobius—”

  “Traitors! Fascists!” A woman with her light-brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail stands up in the middle of the auditorium and shouts at the minders onstage. A wave of murmurs pulses through the crowd, and some people at the back join her spontaneous protest. “Traitors!”

  The Director’s face reddens, but he keeps his voice calm. He motions to the guards to remove the woman who began the chants. “We won’t have disruptions at Mobius. We are the first camp, and we will set the standard. And there will be consequences for anyone straying from the regulations.”

  As he speaks, two Exclusion Guards yank the woman from her seat and drag her to the aisle. The first guard pulls out handcuffs. The woman spits in the face of the second guard, who responds with a slap so hard that she falls to the floor. I feel sick to my stomach
watching. The second guard moves to pull her up, but she flails at him and kicks him in the shin with the heel of her shoe. Then he tases her. A buzz fills the air, along with a piercing scream. He tases her again. The guards grab her arms, hoist her up, and drag her limp body out of the auditorium. All eyes in the room watch the door as it slams shut.

  A silence descends. People are either too scared or too stunned to speak. No one seems sure where to look—at the floor, at one another. Some people cover their faces and mouths with their hands. I shake my head at my parents, tears stinging my eyes; I have no words. What use are my words in the face of this? My mom pulls me closer and grasps my hand tighter.

  Eventually, our heads return to the stage and the Director, who has been standing there, unfazed, watching the scene unfold, not saying a word. It’s a terrifying kind of quiet. The kind in a horror movie that tells you something unspeakable is about to happen and you’re helpless to stop it.

  The Director clears his throat. “Remember our motto.” He points to the screen behind him. “Unity. Security. Prosperity. Now, dinner. Minders, call out your block number and walk them to the Mess.”

  When the minders call their blocks and march the short distance from the Hub to the Mess, hundreds of us follow in stunned silence. I think we’re all shaken—not only at the cruelty of what we witnessed, but at the everydayness of it. How the Director didn’t flinch; how the guards delivered those volts with such ease. I wonder where the woman was taken—if that display was merely the tip of the iceberg. A drone hums overhead, recording our silent procession.

  The Mess is a giant characterless cafeteria, like you’d find in a public high school or a prison. Long tables with blue plastic chairs lining the sides. My Converse squeak against the gray-and-white checkerboard vinyl floor as I follow the masses inside. I guess it’s vinyl? Some kind of epoxy coating, maybe? It actually feels a little squishy, soft underfoot. It’s a large hall with a kitchen and a food line at one end, and stone-colored walls with colorful posters about handwashing and hygiene. Like I said, school or prison. There’s a whiff of the bleach that is in our Mercury Home, but mixed with fried oil and what I used to call eau de cafeteria when I still ate lunch at school.