by Samira Ahmed
“Anger can’t turn off the electricity to the fence. And unless you’re planning on getting out in a body bag—” Ayesha brings her hand to her mouth, stopping the words, but I was thinking them anyway.
“No. I’m planning on getting out alive. Think about it. There’s never been a wall that people haven’t been able to get by.”
“You mean like the border wall?”
“Yeah. And the Berlin Wall. Did you learn about that in history? Some people made it over in a hot-air balloon, or by digging a tunnel under the wall.”
“We don’t have shovels, and we don’t have a hot-air balloon,” Ayesha says. I shrug and let out a little groan. “Look,” she continues, “I’m not saying that I’m not with you. I’m saying be realistic. Be smart. You’re talking about the possibility of getting killed. My parents aren’t going to go along with some escape plan. Would yours?” Ayesha’s pitch rises as she speaks.
I shake my head. “They’re too scared. But others aren’t. Soheil. Us. I know we can’t do something stupid, but I don’t want to be buried and forgotten here.”
I stand up and start pacing the tiny room, twisting the ends of my hair around my finger. I take a deep breath and puff out my cheeks, exhaling. When I turn to walk back in the other direction, I see Ayesha chewing on her bottom lip. She’s worried.
“You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t mean to sound flippant. Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s the dust. It’s the isolation. It’s the fence. It’s David. I want to talk to David. To hear his voice, or maybe—”
“David?” Ayesha interrupts, and I realize I have been trying so hard not to think about him that I haven’t told Ayesha about him, either. Saying his name out loud is a reminder of everything I’ve lost.
“My boyfriend. I guess he’s still my boyfriend.” I touch my infinity necklace. “I don’t know when I’ll see him again. And who’s he going to take to prom?”
Ayesha’s mouth drops open, and she tries to hold in a laugh. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. I love how prom is on the list right after freedom and breathing.”
“Oh my God. That’s totally ridiculous, right? There are these moments when I still think this place isn’t real—like it’s a horrible dream. And for that minute, my mind feels free to think about, like, prom.”
“I get it. We have to have those moments of remembering that we’re human and thinking of regular stuff, or else the weight of this place would crush us. Like, have you seen Footloose?”
“The movie?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s, like, one of my mom’s favorites from middle school. She made me watch it for mother-daughter bonding or something. Original only, not the remake. The entire premise is sort of ridiculous. Like, these kids stage a revolt because they’re not allowed to dance in their town—some preacher says it’s against the Bible or something.”
“Like Sharia law for Christians.” I roll my eyes, since every Muslim understands the hypocrisy of right-wing xenophobes. They’re all terrified of a word they don’t understand, scared that religious law is going to infiltrate the land, but meanwhile they support the death penalty, are anti-choice, and think creationism should be taught in schools because of… wait for it… religion.
Ayesha smirks at me. “Something like that. Anyway, they stage this dance outside the town limits to get around the law.”
I grin at Ayesha, letting my mind float back to David, imagining prom with him. Thinking of the last real smile we shared and then our final terrible, helpless moments together when he was yelling at me to run.
“David,” I say out loud. Ayesha looks at me. “David. He’s on the outside. Maybe he could help us somehow. I mean, his dad used to work at the State Department. Though it’s not like his dad has lifted a finger to help us so far. I doubt he’s suddenly grown a conscience. I don’t know. I might be grasping at straws, but that’s all I’ve got right now.”
“Can we even have visitors? You could try to put in a phone request to talk to David, but the Director’s people totally listen in.” She pauses. “Do your parents know you have a boyfriend?”
I nod, and Ayesha rises, knocking her head on the edge of the bunk as she stands up. “Dammit.”
“Are you okay? I keep doing that, too. Everything in this place is against us, even the stupid too-low bunk.”
Ayesha rubs her head. “I’m okay, but go on. I’m fascinated by this whole parental-knowledge-of-boyfriend situation.”
I grin. “I don’t give them all the details, but, yeah, they know. David comes over for dinner. He sometimes comes to the mosque with us. Last Ramadan, he even fasted a few days.”
“Whoa. Is he going to convert?”
“What? No. We’ve never even discussed it. His family is Jewish, and that’s really important to him. I mean, half his dad’s family was killed in the Holocaust, and his mom’s family are Yemenite Jews who were refugees—some of them just disappeared from camps.” I pause, suck in my breath, listening to my words echo in my brain. History suddenly seems terrifyingly present. “They’ve gone through so much to hold on to their family and their faith. David feels that very deeply, a kind of gratitude that his family survived, an obligation to never forget and also to speak truth.”
Ayesha looks at me with wide eyes. “Wait. So David is brown and Jewish?”
I nod. “Honestly, when we first met in grade school, I thought he was desi. I think I just wanted to not be the only one, you know?”
“A desi Muslim girl from an immigrant family and a brown Jewish son of a refugee—you’re like a dream team for Model UN.”
I grin. “David knows his dad has white privilege, but he’s seen his mom get hit with anti-Semitism and racism, so he kind of gets it, you know? We try to be open to learning about each other’s faiths—ask questions, talk things out.”
Ayesha nods. “That’s so great.”
“And, oh my God, for Shabbat dinners his mom makes marak temani—an amazing Yemeni stew—and this flaky, fried bread called malawach that I Iove more than my mom’s parathas. Don’t tell her I said that!”
Ayesha laughs. “That would earn you a one-way ticket to a boarding school in India.”
I give her a tiny smile and then clear my throat, pretending I don’t feel a lump welling in it. “Anyway… can you imagine anyone wanting to convert now? Publicly? It would be too dangerous.”
“A woman converted at our mosque a couple of months ago. She knew the risks. And honestly, her Arabic pronunciation puts mine to shame.”
“What? Seriously? Is she in here, too?”
“Nah. I don’t think so. It was after the census. Also, she’s white, and I don’t see any white converts in here. White-looking Arabs, yes. White-white Americans? No. Maybe they’ll be brought in here soon, too. But you’ve looked around. You know.”
“There’s, like, a hierarchy for bigots, isn’t there? Like their hatred of Muslims isn’t equal. They dispense it in degrees. They hate some of us more. Like, the darker your skin or the more foreign-sounding your name. And if you’re black and wear hijab, you’re getting the brunt of it.”
“Honestly, I think some racists think Islam is a race or ethnicity and not a religion. Like we’re all brown and from Muslimistan.”
A knock interrupts us. My mom’s muffled voice comes through the door. “Honey, we need to get Ayesha home. We don’t want her parents to worry.”
“Just a sec. We’ll be right out.”
Ayesha grins. “Your parents knock and don’t immediately barge in? They’re a dream. Maybe we can get them to talk to my parents.”
I take my parents for granted sometimes. I know plenty of kids, Muslim and not, who envy the trust my parents have in me. I’ve never really had to hide who I am in front of them. I know a couple of girls at the mosque who want to date openly and not sneak around. And others who are willing to be arranged. And there’s a girl who is both hijabi and the homecoming queen. The thing is, my parents always told me never to judg
e another Muslim’s religiosity. Each of us practices in our own way, and God alone judges. “‘Let there be no compulsion in religion.’” Can’t count the number of times my parents have quoted that ayat passage to me.
Ayesha and I exchange sad, knowing looks that don’t need words. I open my door. My parents and I walk her the few steps back to her trailer. Ayesha’s mother sits on the steps to their Mercury Home in anticipation. Who can blame her? The fever pitch of anxiety and fear is the everyday current mood at this place. We’re all hyper alert, a constant rush of adrenaline coursing through our bodies. I wonder what the crash will be like when it comes.
While my parents exchange salaams with Ayesha’s mom, I give my friend a quick hug and whisper, “I’m going to see if I can get to David. Maybe there is some way he can help us.” I’m really not sure if David could do anything for us, even if I am able to reach him somehow, but I want to leave her with a little hope as we say good-bye and gaze on the melancholy, drawn faces of our parents. I swear all the parents here have only two looks anymore—terrified worry, and a mask with a fake smile trying to hide their terror so their kids don’t notice.
When we leave Ayesha’s trailer, there’s still an hour before curfew, so I convince my parents to take a short walk with me. Every time I’m outside now, I’m always watching. Looking for a way out. Paying attention to the guards who seem a little bored. In the dark, the searchlights and watchtowers are a menacing reminder that we’re locked away. And I know the drones hover somewhere above our heads; I can feel the hum in my bones. The three of us quietly find our way back to our Mercury Home. Corporal Reynolds is stationed at the top of our block. He catches my eye but then quickly turns away.
“Honey, get up. Your dad and I are heading to the community-planning meeting at the Hub. Then we’re going to prayers—a few people are gathering for namaz in a trailer in Block Eight. Eat something.”
I roll over and try to rub the exhaustion from my eyes. I never seem to sleep deeply here. It’s like I’m asleep, but always on the edge of waking up. On the edge, period. “Okay, Mom. Got it.” I stick my hand out from under the blanket and give my mom a thumbs-up, since she’s popped her head inside the door. Once she leaves, I get out of bed and stare into the mirror above the sink. Dark circles have taken up residence under my eyes.
My parents seem to be settling in. Everyone is. Meeting people, organizing a school, scheduling regular prayers, divvying up work. My mom’s actually seeing chiropractic patients at the clinic that some of the doctors have set up in a partitioned section of the Hub. Every day for the past couple of weeks, my parents have been dropping hints that I should make friends, find something useful to do, form a book club. But the so-called library here is pathetic—there are barely any books, and it seems like all the internment-approved titles are by long-dead white dudes. I don’t want to settle in. I don’t want to adjust to the constant surveillance and the threatening gaze of white guards with weapons, and the permanent smile of death from the Director’s purple lips. I don’t want anyone to get used to it.
And I need to see David. For no reason. For all the reasons.
I swing my legs over the side of the bottom bunk, making sure not to hit my head as I get up. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way during the first few days here at Mobius. I brush my teeth and scrub my face, being careful not to use too much water. Everything is rationed. There is food and water for everyone, but no extra. The worst is the shower timer. I miss taking long showers and washing and conditioning my hair. We all get five minutes a day. There is no luxuriating. No luxury, period. You can’t even cheat, because the shower turns off automatically. Another valuable first-week-of-internment lesson: Take a shower at night so you don’t feel like you’re sleeping in a sandstorm. The most important lesson I’ve learned, though? Don’t count all the things that existed for you Then that you don’t have Now. Don’t make that list. It will drive you mad.
There’s a knock at the door. I let Ayesha in. We’ve been hanging out, doing our best to escape the claustrophobia of living behind a guarded electric fence—gabbing, taking circuitous walks around the camp, meeting other kids who have nothing to do.
And plotting how the hell we can get out of this place. Trying to reach David and get him to help feels both childish and impossible. But there’s no other solution we’ve come up with that doesn’t involve death—or at least the chance of it. We’re starting to realize that maybe it’s a risk we have to be willing to accept if we really want to get out of here and aren’t just pretending at escape. I haven’t shared this with Ayesha yet, but I’m giving myself two more weeks to figure it out. I work best with a deadline.
“Is David swoon-worthy?” Her question totally comes out of left field.
“I’m sure he thinks he is.” I laugh. “But I never tell him that, since I don’t want him to get a big head. And is there anyone you find swoon-worthy? Someone in this camp, perhaps? Someone you’ve been talking to in the dinner line? Someone named Soheil?”
Ayesha grins. “Maybe. He seems to go out of his way to talk to me. And I am definitely encouraging him to do so. He’s cute. He’s smart. He’s funny. But what can flirting be in this place besides an exercise in futility? I mean, it’s not like we’re going to go out on a date and then to prom.”
I grab Ayesha’s hand and squeeze. I’m glad she has a little distraction.
I take a long, deep breath while David’s smiling face fixes itself in my mind. “I miss David. A lot. I know it’s only been a couple of weeks since I last saw him, but it feels like I haven’t seen him in years. It’s this place. It messes with time.”
“I know. And I swear if I hear the Director’s word vomit of Unity, Security, Prosperity again, I’m going to scream. People are so scared of getting tased and disappearing that they’re all keeping quiet. My parents are at the meeting, too, and my little brother is playing soccer with a bunch of kids from this block and a couple of others. Some of the minders are the coaches. It’s fucked up.”
The disappearances started last week. At first I didn’t notice, but there’s been talk. The whisper network, Soheil called it. Someone goes missing, taken in the night or ordered to report to the Hub for questioning for some reason, and that person never comes back. I guess they—the Director, his private security detail, the guards—try to keep their actions quiet. Except when they don’t.
Three days ago, I heard that two guards caught a man leaving the Hub after curfew. Apparently, he’d snuck in and attempted to access a computer. They stopped him as he was trying to get back to his trailer undetected, and he slashed one of them in the arm with a knife he’d stolen from the Mess. When his partner tried to find him, the guards said he was gone. Not taken to a hospital, not in the brig. Gone. That’s all they told him. I saw that man, the partner of the one who’d gone missing. I was walking toward the Hub, and there was a crowd watching him run from guard to guard, frantic, asking questions about his boyfriend—where he was, when he’d return. The guards ignored him for a couple of minutes. Then one of them lost his patience with the man. The guard butted the man in the shoulder with his rifle. The man fell to the ground. The guards handcuffed him and took him away, too. The thing is, he didn’t even fight back. And the rest of us who saw it happen just stood there. Doing nothing. Saying nothing. And then we dispersed. Two men, vanished.
That’s why I have to figure some way to get out of here—to escape. When people lose hope, that’s when the Authority knows they’ve broken you.
“Soheil is in, right?” I ask.
“What?”
“He’ll help us?”
“I don’t know. I think so, but I haven’t asked him directly. We mostly talk about, like, our favorite fandoms and the crappy food here.”
“I saw him arguing with his parents when they were walking out of the Mess last night. His mom tried to shut him down, but I heard him say he wasn’t going to play dead when our rights were being trampled.”
Ayesha whisper-sin
gs, “‘You say you want a revolution—’”
“What’s up with you and the golden oldies? It’s like an affliction.”
“It’s my parents. They skipped the lullabies and started us with the Beatles, and then worked their way up to Nirvana, which is where their extensive knowledge of music comes to a screeching halt.”
I’m not paying full attention; I’m staring out my little window as an idea forms. Corporal Reynolds is talking to the guards posted at my block. This place inspires secrets. I have mine, but so do others.
“Follow me.” I get up from the floor.
“Oooh, are we hitting the mall? Maybe a movie?”
“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”
“Are we speaking in code now?”
I shake my head. “I keep thinking about how I can get to David. We’re allowed phone calls, right? I’m going to ask.”
“But they’re totally listening in on the calls. And you have to submit a requisition.”
“Yup. I know. But I’m going to roll the dice on a hunch.” I walk out of my room. Ayesha follows. When we step out of my trailer, I turn to her and say, “Go along with it, okay? And then go back to your trailer. Now look concerned, like you’re trying to console me. I’m going to start crying.”
Ayesha knits her eyebrows together. “Well, that won’t be hard, because I am concerned that you’re about to do something stupid.”
I stop and turn to Ayesha and take her hand. “Listen. You don’t have to go along with this. I know there are risks, but we’ve been talking for days. I’m tired of talking.”
Ayesha nods. I wait for her to head toward her trailer, but she squeezes my hand and smiles.
We turn back toward the guards, toward Corporal Reynolds. Fake crying isn’t hard. It’s stopping yourself from crying that is more challenging in this place.
As we near the head of the block, I clear my throat loudly and wipe away my tears. Corporal Reynolds looks at me; so do the other guards. He takes a step toward us. I haven’t spoken to him since he caught me outside after curfew. I wipe my clammy hands on my jeans. Ayesha puts her arm around my back and squeezes. She also steadies me, because my knees buckle a little.