by Samira Ahmed
The Mess is also divided by blocks—small cardboard table tents are labeled with block numbers so we know where to go. The din rises as people find their tables and their voices, though I can’t imagine anyone is actually saying what is on their mind.
My parents and I sort of hang out by our block tables, not sure what to do next. Then our minders pass by, introducing themselves. “I’m Saleem and this is my wife, Fauzia. Glad to meet you.” They’re young—I bet they’re only in their twenties, and they don’t seem to have any kids. I saw them on our block earlier. They’re desi Americans, like us. But, you know, more backstabbing and collaborating. I wonder how they came to this, what the impetus would be to turn against your own.
I look around as people take seats in our segregated sections—South Asian, African American, Arab, Southeast Asian. East Asian and Latinx, too, though they seem to be fewer in number. Soheil was right. Everything is deliberate. Divide and conquer. We may all be Muslims, but we still have our prejudices and racism. It’s simpler to play on our internalized “-isms” if you separate us and feed our fears—easier to make us “other” ourselves and do the Director’s work for him. Today, we’re all Muslims who’ve been forced here, but maybe it wouldn’t be hard to tap into our bigotry to turn us against one another, to turn our gaze away from where our anger should really be directed. Classic colonial conquest strategy. Just ask the British.
Ayesha approaches us. She’s holding hands with a younger boy and walking next to a middle-aged man and woman; I assume they’re her family.
“Auntie, Uncle.” Ayesha addresses my parents with the automatic honorific accorded all desis of parental age. Some of us may have lost our “mother tongue,” as my nanni used to call it, but the custom of tameez—respect—for elders stays strong, despite decades of assimilation.
“These are my parents, Asfiya and Zaki, and my little brother, Zoubair,” Ayesha says. Our parents shake hands.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum. Nice to meet you,” my dad says. He pauses, then speaks again. “So much dust in this place.”
“Yes, we can’t even open the windows in our, um, Mercury Home,” my mom says.
Ayesha’s mom jumps in. “I don’t know how we’ll keep the clothes clean at all.”
I look at Ayesha, and she shakes her head a little. I guess dust is going to be like the weather, the thing you talk about when you can’t think of anything else to say.
We are allowed to get our food only when our block number is called. When it’s our turn, Ayesha and I head toward the line, and our parents follow. We file past the cafeteria workers to collect our plates of rice and some unrecognizable vegetable stew. There are milk boxes, fruit cups, and Jell-O. “I feel nauseous,” she says, looking at the food. “I don’t know if I can eat.”
“Same,” I say.
“It’s like junior high lunch all over again.” Ayesha grimaces as we walk back to our table.
“Down to the hairnets and surly looks from the cafeteria workers.” I scowl as I take my first bite. “And apparently, the only seasoning is salt. Is this supposed to be some kind of desi dish?”
“Serving this in a Pakistani home would be sufficient reason to be disowned.” Ayesha scoots closer to me and whispers, “The Director—holy shit.”
My upper body stiffens. I look around, worried that someone will hear her. But the clatter of lunch trays and cutlery is loud enough, so I let go of the tension in my shoulders. “I know. That was terrifying. It’s like he’s not even a real person. But the thing is, he is a person, which I guess makes it even more frightening. The scariest monsters are the ones who seem the most like you.”
“Where do you think they’ll take that woman?” Ayesha asks, lowering her voice to the barest whisper, even though I don’t think anyone else can hear her.
Part of me doesn’t want to think about it. “Jail, maybe? I mean, besides this open-air prison we’re all in? I guess there’s probably some kind of holding area here. I don’t know. I kind of don’t want to know what’s happening to her,” I admit. “I hope they don’t hurt her. I mean, more than they already have.”
I know I’m being naïve, but I want to hold on to some hope for the woman—for all of us. Even if it’s a false one.
“It’s not like we have civil liberties in here—or lawyers.” Ayesha puts her hand over her mouth as this dawns on her.
“It’s like Guantanamo, except in California. I’m scared of what will happen if we get stuck here. There’s got to be something we can do.…” My voice trails off.
Ayesha’s eyes grow wide. She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut without a word. Maybe I’ve said too much.
We’re quiet for a while. I don’t think either of us can stomach any more discussion about the consequences the woman from the auditorium might be facing.
I push aside my plate of internment slop and tear open the fruit cup.
“So, which is your favorite?” Ayesha breaks the silence.
“Favorite what?”
“Star Wars film. Remember our conversation from earlier? At the train station? About Lando being the best?”
“Shit. That really was just earlier today, wasn’t it?” Ayesha nods and looks down, then shovels a little bit of rice onto her fork and raises it to her mouth. She puts it back down. And sighs. My stomach twists a little. I know what Ayesha wants: a second of normalcy. I can give her that. I take a deep breath. “Well, I haven’t seen anything before The Force Awakens, and I only went to that because my parents made me.”
“You haven’t seen the prequels or the original trilogy? The podrace? Young Luke? This is a travesty. We have to fix that.”
I grin. “My mom had this girlhood crush on Luke Skywalker,” I say. And it’s true. “She talks about waiting in line to see Star Wars when she was kid, and I swear to God there’s this reverence in her voice, like it was a religious experience. She joined Twitter to follow Mark Hamill.”
Ayesha laughs. “I totally like your mom. But, hello, Riz Ahmed is in Rogue One. A desi in Star Wars. I still haven’t recovered.”
I laugh a little. It’s nice to chuckle, to feel a moment of lightness. But I immediately silence myself because it also feels wrong. The moments of almost-normalcy hurt.
Saleem, our minder, stands. He’s got a neatly trimmed brown beard, which I think he hopes makes him look older, but it doesn’t hide his baby face. Fauzia stands up next to him and smiles at us. They’re almost the same height and build, maybe five foot six, both kind of skinny, with shoulders like swimmers. Her smile feels almost genuine. Not Saleem’s, though; apparently, he’s not a good enough actor to make his slight smile look anything but forced.
“Block Two, we will walk back to our Mercury Homes together. Remember, we operate as a team.” Saleem tries to make eye contact with as many people as possible while he speaks. He’s so rigid and rehearsed, he sounds like a talking manual.
“There are lots of things to learn about, and I’m sure everyone would like to settle in,” Fauzia adds. “A ten p.m. curfew is strictly enforced. We want our block to be perfect. The Director has promised extra privileges for the blocks that meet standards without any violations. Remember, if you have any questions, our door is always open.” She pauses and then adds with a hesitant smile, “There are cameras, and drones will be monitoring. You’ll be… safe. Unity. Security. Prosperity. Khudafis.” Fauzia leaves us with the Urdu greeting “go with God.” But I notice that Saleem grabs her hand and squeezes; she bites her lip and clears her throat. “I mean, have a good night.”
Everyone in Block 2 begins to stand. A few hours, a creepy camp motto, one violent display of authority, and we do what we’re told.
I do not like being told. Especially when what I’m being told is so clearly wrong.
Ayesha and I say good night. Her parents are in a hurry to get back to the block, so they speed-walk ahead. I don’t blame them. The trailers might have cameras in them, but outside, in the open, it feels much more like we’re animals in a pen, wai
ting to be slaughtered.
It’s completely dark. The searchlights from the watchtowers sweep the grounds with swaths of light while guards patrol on foot, guns and Tasers at the ready. Their blank faces hide any feelings or fleeting doubts. As we turn the corner to Block 2, I stumble. The dirty-blond-haired guard with the tattoo is posted between Blocks 1 and 2. And like all the others, he has a Taser and a gun.
He turns and sees me looking at him. He tilts his chin and catches my eye, then spins his head back into its rigid, proper place.
My body is wrecked, but I can’t sleep. Every time my eyes close, I see that Suit in my house drawing a gun. Stop. Breathe. Sleep. Now I see the boy, the screaming mother. Stop. Breathe. Sleep. The woman getting tased. Over and over again in my mind.
I drag myself out of the lower bunk and splash cool water on my face.
We can’t stay here. We can’t be here.
But how the hell do we get out?
There has to be a way out. No wall is impenetrable.
I slip into my clothes and dusty sneakers and tiptoe out of my room. My parents’ door is shut. I walk on cat feet through the tiny kitchen and living area, grabbing a key card off the table. I slink out of our trailer, making sure the lock clicks as quietly as possible. My parents will go ballistic if they catch me sneaking out after curfew.
There’s a chill in the air, so I pull my hoodie up over my head. The same hoodie I wore when I snuck out to see David. I’ve been trying so hard not to let my mind rest on him. How I wish I’d been able to call him, see him, before I was taken away. How heart-shattering it is not to have said good-bye. I have to push him out of my mind, at least for now. If I actually allow myself to think about—to feel—how desperately I miss him, I won’t be able to get out of bed.
There are fewer guards posted. The two closest ones are up a block, chatting. One smokes, the orange embers of his cigarette wafting to the dusty ground. Searchlights sweep the camp. I stay close to the trailers, hoping to hide in the shadows. I count the time between sweeps of the beams of light from the guard towers and sneak from trailer to trailer, trying to avoid detection and the consequences that come from breaking curfew. I flatten myself against the aluminum siding of a Mercury Home when a searchlight passes. Too close. My heart thuds in my ears. My breathing quickens.
I pause because I’m suddenly and stupidly aware that I don’t exactly know where I’m going. And that I’m utterly alone out here in the dark. We’re so far from anywhere that Mobius might as well be the moon. But I see the garden in the distance. And I remember that hole, or whatever it was, I saw at the fence before Soheil got in that scuffle with the guard. If an animal dug its way in, I wonder if maybe there’s a way out.
The wind is still, and for that I’m thankful. I could do without another lungful of dust. The calm in the camp is eerie. In the distance, a high-pitched bark echoes in the foothills. It feels like the sound of loneliness. Goose bumps rise on my skin. There are no dogs at Mobius. Pets are forbidden. So maybe it’s a coyote or a wolf or a fox. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I don’t know the differences among any of those animals. What I do know is that for this one little moment, I’m glad an electrified fence exists between me and those sounds.
The mobile units are pretty close together, but a wide-open space stands between the last trailer and the garden. I hold my breath and wait for the searchlight to pass, then run across to the garden. I crouch down in the dirt against one of the big boulders as the light sweeps by again, but the edges of the bright beam fall short of me. I breathe.
I inch my way up to the boulder Ayesha and I came to earlier; that’s where I was when I spied that burrow, that hole by the fence. I run my hand against the surface of the rock, feeling for the grooves of the initials we found before. When I find them, I rub my hand over the letters. They have a story. In some other time, two people came here willingly. They were probably young and in love. Who knows where they are now. Whether their love survived. So I’m pretending they are together somewhere, happy. It’s make-believe, but it gives me a little hope. It reminds me that once there was a normal.
I flatten myself against the ground and creep forward so I’m facing the mountains, peering through openings between the orange plastic barriers. I squint into the darkness, searching for that hole. But it’s impossible to see. I don’t have a phone to illuminate my way. There is only the brilliance of the wandering searchlights, and I don’t plan on getting caught in their beams. Still, I scan for that hole or, I don’t know, some other way to get through the fence. An electrified fence. Maybe it’s not really electrified. Maybe it’s only a threat, a scare tactic. Maybe that’s how an animal got through. That imaginary animal through that hole I can’t see. And even if it wasn’t totally stupid and risky, how could I possibly dig my way through? I look up at the razor wire. Even if the fence isn’t electrified, even if I could scale it, how would I get over the top without being slashed to ribbons? And how would I even test it to find out if it is electrified?
What the hell am I even thinking?
I take a deep, shuddering breath and cry. I lay my cheek against the ground, and my tears mingle with the dirt. I feel jagged streaks of mud caking onto my face. I clench my hands into fists. Crying only makes me angry with myself. There’s no use for tears here. But my rage—that I’ll hold on to.
I hear the crunch of a footstep and then a small spray of pebbles hitting a rock. I gasp, then immediately cover my mouth with my hands.
A low male voice speaks from the other side of the rock: “You shouldn’t be here.”
My heart races. I turn and push myself off the ground. My knees wobble, but I stand. My eyes dart around, then land on the face of the guard from the train. Compass Tattoo.
There’s nowhere to run.
I take a deep breath. Then another.
Think.
Don’t be stupid.
Smile.
The guard’s eyes soften, but his jaw is tight. “What’re you doing out here?”
“I… um, lost my necklace earlier, but I found it.” I finger the silver infinity charm at my neck, my last link to David. “It was a gift from my boyfriend.” I choke out the words. Don’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him.
“You’re breaking curfew. You realize that? You understand the consequences of breaking the rules here?”
“Are you going to report me?” My voice falters. I clear my throat. “To the Director?”
The guard takes a step closer to me. He blinks. I’m suddenly aware of the muddy trail of tears on my face. I brush away the dirt with the back of my hand. In the dark it’s hard to read his face clearly, but he seems to grimace, like he’s been hurt. Then he clenches his jaw. He takes me by the elbow, and I swear his fingers shake a little. He looks past me toward the mountains, then around us. We’re alone.
“Please,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
He rubs his forehead with his free hand. “We need to get you back. Now.”
He hurries me through the camp, dodging the searchlights, weaving in and out of the trailer homes to avoid unwanted attention.
The entire camp is asleep. I look up at the sky and see stars. Everywhere. I keep having the same sensation over and over: If this place weren’t a prison, it would be beautiful. But as it is, I feel like the sky will light on fire any second now, and all the stars will crash into one another and burn away to ash. I slow down as we approach my Mercury Home. I probably shouldn’t ask, but my curiosity too often gets the better of me. “Why aren’t you turning me in?”
“Because I’m not—” He cuts himself off.
“Not an Exclusion Guard at an internment camp?”
He stops and looks me in the eyes. “Things aren’t always as they seem, Layla.”
He knows my name. I don’t think it’s good to be known in this place. We walk the last few steps in silence. But if he knows my name, it’s only right that I know his. “What’s your name?” I ask as we stop in front of my door.
He nar
rows his eyes at me, like he’s trying to read something but the print is too small. He bends down and whispers, “I’m Corporal Reynolds. Don’t do this again. There are snakes. And men who will shoot you.”
When I was walking out to the Mess the other night, I overheard two girls, probably from seventh or eighth grade, from Block 3—another desi block. One of them was talking about making a small curtain for the tiny window in her bedroom out of an extra pillowcase she’d decorated with markers. She seemed really happy to have something pretty to look at so her room “felt more homey,” she said. My gut twisted when she said those words. That she was happy with something so small, so simple. People need to do what they can to manage the day-to-day in this place, but making Mobius feel like home is the last thing I want. To me it would feel like giving up. Still, I followed the girls back to their block after dinner and gave them the washi tape I’d brought along for some reason but hadn’t bothered unpacking. Sometimes it’s the small things that give us hope and make life bearable.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of my little nondescript, white-walled prison room. Ayesha’s on my bottom bunk. This room, this unit, it’s claustrophobic, but Ayesha shares hers with her brother, so the small space of my room gives her a sibling-free refuge. Privacy. A tiny bubble where the cameras and guards and drones aren’t looking at us.
I sigh. “We have no idea how long we’re going to be in here, do we? We elected this guy who sees all of us as a threat. He doesn’t have to let us out. We’re like netted fish, struggling to find water, but we don’t realize we’re drowning on dry land. We have to get out.”
Ayesha whispers, “What do you mean? How do you propose to get out?”
“I don’t know. But we have to figure out something. There have to be others who feel the same way. I know there are. There’s not just fear in the camp; there’s anger, too.”