Internment

by Samira Ahmed

  The Director continues: “It is up to you, fellow citizens of Mobius, to out this hateful fearmonger who has so willfully disrupted the order in our peaceful community. Keep your eyes open for anything suspicious. If you see something, say something. Your minders are available day and night. Those who cooperate will find the rewards worth their while. As I announced last week, we will be hosting our friends from the Red Cross tomorrow. We will show them the pride we take in the community we’ve built here at Mobius. We will show them our gardens and recreation areas and clinic and early-childhood classes. We will show them the many benefits of our idyllic camp. They will dine with us in the Mess. And we will all abide the regulations.” The Director pauses to smile into the camera. It’s not a smile, really. It’s more of a snarl. A dare. “Never forget. Unity. Security. Prosperity.” I swear, I can see flames in his eyes.

  The media unit goes black.

  My parents’ faces are ashen.

  “Who would do something like that?” my mom wonders out loud. “And how? It’s completely foolish. They’re putting everyone in danger.” She rests her head on my dad’s shoulder.

  “Maybe we don’t know the whole story,” I say.

  My mom raises her head and stares at me, like she’s studying my face for the first time. I’m waiting for her to tell me there’s no excuse for putting the whole camp at risk. That we should all try to get along in here as well as we can, follow the rules. Since our first moment here, my parents have been painfully cognizant of the camera in the common room of our Mercury Home that captures every second of our lives. There is never a moment of ease, no relaxing. And that gnaws at you.

  “You’re right, beta.”

  I don’t believe I’m hearing this. But I am.

  Mom continues. “They have put us in danger, but we’re in danger every moment anyway. Progress in this country always carries a component of risk. Every movement has—civil rights, marriage equality, women’s rights—”

  My dad grabs my mom’s hand and squeezes it. He gives her the slightest, almost imperceptible headshake. He glances at the camera, then swivels his head back to my mom. His bloodshot eyes are wide with fear. My mom kisses him on the cheek. In many ways my parents seem so different from each other, but they possess this intimate mode of communication—a gesture, a look, a tone—that I envy. I wonder if I’ll ever share that with someone, really find a person who understands me in a way that others don’t. I love David so much, but right now there’s also the cracked earth between us.

  My mom reaches out for me so that she’s holding both our hands. She whispers, “We will be okay.”

  I so much want to believe her. I’m sure she wants to believe herself, too. Maybe she does. Maybe she has more faith than I do. My dad certainly does.

  My heart lightens a bit now, here with my parents. Even hearing my mom say those words makes this trailer feel less like solitary confinement. But I’m not willing to endanger their lives. I’ll never tell my parents that it was me—that David and I are the disrupters, that Jake is helping, that this is merely the beginning. That a bruised cheek barely even scratches the surface of what the Director could do. My parents would try to stop me. It’s their job to protect me; I get that. But I have a job to do, too—despite the fear rising from my gut and threatening to explode every cell in my body. So, no, Director, I will not abide.

  Dinner in the Mess passes quietly. No one is in much of a mood to talk after the Director’s threats this afternoon. The minders greet everyone in their usual too-cheerful-to-be-sincere tones, pretending that everything is normal. Ayesha, Soheil, and I, along with the other gardeners and plotters, nod at one another. The fast is planned for tomorrow, the same day as the Red Cross visit, to be most impactful. To raise the stakes. But with my article out in the world, I’ve made the risks a lot higher. Is it possible to feel seasick in the desert? Because I do, and it must be written all over my face. When Soheil passes me, he whispers, “Nice work. Dig in. It’s about to get real.” I nod, try to screw my courage to the sticking place. He means his words to be reassuring, but I don’t think any words could possibly sound heartening right now.

  People quietly shuffle through the dust back to their Mercury Homes. Even though we are in an open-air camp, we breathe the recycled air of dread and anxiety. Like everyone else, I wonder about tomorrow. Hope. Fear. Anticipation.

  The minders assign all of us special jobs for the Red Cross visit. They remind us about the rewards the Director will bestow if the visit runs smoothly. We’ll never know what those pathetic rewards will be. Some people will be angry. Some people are willing to settle for crumbs. But the only reward we want is freedom. Though it’s not exactly a reward when you’re born with freedom and a thief sneaks into your home at night and steals it from you. It’s something that’s rightfully ours. We want it back.

  Every muscle in my body is strained, like a rubber band stretched a millimeter too far.

  When I walk through our door, I head straight to the shower. I let the water wash off the dust and the stress and the hurt of the day. I stare at the muddied water as it swirls down the drain. I take my first unencumbered breath. The timer dings. The water stops. Of course it does.

  My parents are watching one of the approved TV shows on the media unit and trying to escape into another world. I wish them a good night and step into my room, tucking myself into bed and pulling the covers up to my neck. My body sinks into the mattress, and my eyelids droop shut. My sleep is deep and dreamless, but a nightmare wakes me with a start. I almost bang my head against the bunk but duck in time. I don’t remember the dream exactly, but everything inside this place is the stuff of nightmares.

  I slide my legs off the bed and step to the small window in my room. The sky is clear and full of stars; the mountains are silhouettes in the moonlight. It is beautiful here. But that’s all on the other side of the fence, unreachable—like our freedom. So close. So far. I wonder if I’ll ever look at mountains or a starry night sky the same way once we get out of here. If. Will their beauty always be marred by memories of Mobius? Will beauty simply cease to exist for me?

  I’m scared for tomorrow. The fast—the protest. I look east, past the mountains. I hear Nanni’s voice in my head, another prayer she used to whisper over me. A prayer that her own nanni shared with her, the one she said over and over during the Partition in India, when she was terrified of the mobs and the horror the British left in their wake. “God, protect me against them, however you may wish.”

  Protect us.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. I wake to loud knocking. A voice bellows through the door, “Get up. They’re here.”

  My heart leaps out of my chest. Those bangs sounded like they came from inside my head. I look around and see the sun screaming through the blinds. My groggy brain realizes where I am.

  I bolt out of bed and proceed to bump my head on the frame of the bunk. I’m at a 50 percent rate for smacking my head when I wake up. I rub the unlucky spot on my skull and clear my throat. “Ayesha? Who’s here?”

  “I’m coming in.” Ayesha barges through the door as I stand up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. She looks annoyingly awake. “Hurry up. Here, put this on.” Ayesha hands me my worn gray Wonder Woman T-shirt and a pair of jeans. As I’m dressing, she continues. “There are people. Press. Protestors. Outside the gate.”

  “What? I thought you meant the Red Cross.”

  “Them, too.”

  I wonder if David is with the protestors. He must’ve come back. He wouldn’t stay away, not from this. I grab the toothbrush that Ayesha has prepped with toothpaste. “How many?” I speak between brushing and spitting.

  “I don’t know, but let’s go.”

  I pull on a baseball hat, tugging my hair through the loop in the back, and run out with Ayesha. My parents are already at their job assignments for the day, so for now, at least, I don’t have to worry about them trying to stop me. We run down the Midway, past the Hub, and then come to an abrupt stop. Outside the fe
nce are a couple hundred protestors. Some hold signs: FREE MOBIUS, NO H8 IN THE STATES, AMERICA ALREADY IS GREAT, AMERICA: ALL ARE WELCOME. Police officers stand in a line separating the protestors from the orange plastic barriers that sprang up outside overnight in front of the electrified fence. In case, I suppose, the protestors miss the giant white signs emblazoned with a DANGER warning. Six white news vans line the dusty road to the camp, and we see reporters prepping to go live with their camera crews. I blink back tears. I don’t dare have expectations, but I have hope. I feel dizzy, like when I haven’t eaten in a while, and being woozy reminds me that I’m hungry. Then I see David—standing, chanting with the protestors: “No justice, no peace.” I see him. Fist in the air, brown hair mussed from the wind. He’s wearing the same Wilco shirt I have. And he is beautiful.

  “David!” I scream, and run toward the fence. I want him to see me. I want him to know I am okay. I’m ready. A row of Exclusion Guards stands between me and the electrified boundary.

  “David!” I call again, jumping up and down to catch a glimpse of him over the shoulders of the guards blocking me, and of the police holding him back. I squint against the sun and peer between the guards to see David grinning madly and waving, sweat gleaming across his brown skin. The police won’t let him move closer because they’re trying to keep the protestors far from the fence. But we see each other, and I blow him a kiss, and he mouths an I love you before being jostled back into the crowd.

  A small caravan of cars drives down the road and stops at the Mobius entrance gate so guards can check IDs and inspect the vehicles. As they do, the Director walks out among the crowd that has gathered inside the camp. He has a huge fake smile plastered on his face. I wonder if he’s ever fooled anyone with it. I wonder if he can fool himself.

  “Okay, everyone. We’ve got a busy day ahead. Time to disperse. Let’s get to work. It’s a beautiful morning.” He speaks into a bullhorn so he can be heard above the chanting protestors, but otherwise he ignores them. He’s not even looking at them. It’s like he’s looking through them, like his brain simply can’t compute their existence. The gates open and the Red Cross vehicles are allowed in. The police keep the protestors back.

  I strain to get another look at David, but I’ve lost sight of him.

  “Let’s go,” Jake says, directing me away from the line of his fellow Exclusion Guards. “We need to clear the area.”

  A lot of us are milling around, and the guards are being unusually nice as they try to nudge everyone to their work assignments or back to their trailers. This is probably the best chance I have to speak to Jake. I scoot up next to him. “How did this happen? Like, when, who, how?”

  “Cars were pulling in all night, joining the folks who were already here. Your blog posts went viral in a huge way. And that Instagram Live clip. They were on all the major news stations, and they set social media on fire. There were already people coming together to raise their voices, but your words—you—were a catalyst. Occupy Mobius—that coalition of resistance groups—organized a protest. Their hashtag is trending. They’re exploiting a flaw in the executive order. All the land inside the fence is under War Department jurisdiction, but outside that fence, it’s California. And the governor here—he’s not a fan of the president or his racist politics.”

  I hear Jake’s words; I see the protestors. I smile. Not the usual smile that I muster in here—the hollow, polite smile we all wear that says, Go along. Keep your head down. Pretend. But a real smile. The kind that makes your body light up from the inside. That makes your cheeks hurt. It’s a smile that reminds me I am alive.

  The day has been meticulously planned. I watch as the guards shoo internees away and minders usher us to our tasks. The Director does not want to take any chances during the Red Cross visit. And with the press and the protestors here, too, I imagine the burning anger behind the Director’s false grin. I hope it makes him spontaneously combust.

  The Red Cross team is easy to recognize, with their white T-shirts emblazoned with the large red symbol known the world over. A group of laughing, smiling minders ushers them into the Hub, where their official visit begins. I wonder if all traitors feel so at ease. The Red Cross will be spending the day at Mobius—visiting the clinic, the garden, the playground; watching some kind of star-spangled patriotic revue the early-childhood teachers put together; touring Block 1, where the Mercury Homes have been specially scrubbed and prepped for the visit. Then they will dine with everyone in the Mess. The Director will be with them all day, smiling, glad-handing, and pretending life in the camp is somehow enviable, exceeding humanitarian requirements.

  It’s all a cosmic joke.

  I learned about the Red Cross visit to the “model” Nazi concentration camp Theresienstadt when I visited the Holocaust museum in DC on a trip with my parents. The prisoners there received “special privileges”—they didn’t have their heads shaved; they wore regular clothes; they were even “paid” for their forced labor and could use the fake money at a café and thrift stores the Nazis set up in the camp. There were classes and parks for the children. When the Red Cross was there the kids were forced to put on a musical. It was a sick hoax, and the Red Cross bought into the Nazi propaganda. The camp passed the inspection with flying colors. Afterward, many of the prisoners at the camp were eventually sent to Auschwitz or other extermination camps. Most were killed.

  If the Red Cross thought Nazi concentration camps were fine, they’re going to think this place is a fucking utopia.

  I scan the protestors for another glimpse of David, but I can barely see past the fence. Between the line of Exclusion Guards on the inside and the cops in formation on the outside, I can’t see a thing. But I hear the protestors: “The people united will never be defeated.”

  Jake catches up with Ayesha and me to escort us back to our block, but Ayesha and I are not returning to our Mercury Homes. We’re meeting up with Soheil, Nadia, and Nadeem at the rock garden. With the Director’s attention elsewhere and the drones quiet for the day to make the Red Cross visitors more comfortable, this is a rare moment we need to take advantage of.

  “We’re good from here, Jake,” I say, expecting him to walk back to his post.

  “You’re meeting the others, right? I’m coming along,” he says.

  Ayesha looks at him. “How could you know that? We only decided that among ourselves, like, thirty minutes ago.”

  “I heard Soheil talking about it to one of his friends as the crowd scattered. You’re not being cautious enough. Not by a long shot. That won’t end well. Trust me.”

  We look at each other. Ayesha shrugs. “I guess he knows pretty much everything anyway.”

  When Soheil sees the three of us arriving at the garden, he taps Nadeem on the shoulder and says something to Nadia. They turn to face us.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “He’s cool.”

  Soheil looks at us. “I don’t know what you mean. I thought we were going to hang out. I didn’t realize we had to do it under armed guard.”

  Ayesha puts her hand on Soheil’s arm. “It’s fine. He knows.”

  Soheil turns and kicks a rock, then watches it sail toward the Midway and roll to a stop, dust rising and settling in its wake. “What are you two thinking? He’s the enemy. He’s a guard, and don’t think for one second he won’t shoot us if he is ordered to.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. I won’t. Not even if I’m ordered to. You have my word. And I’m not turning you in. I’m here to help you,” Jake says.

  “And why should we believe that?” Soheil is incredulous. He should be. He’s being smart.

  “Because he’s telling the truth,” I say. “He saved David and me. He took another story I wrote and hid it before the Director could find it on us, and he gave it to that blog. He put himself on the line for us. So, yeah, I’m saying we can trust him.”

  “The Inside Mobius blog posts have gone viral, and the clip of Layla with the Director, too,” Jake says. “Every media outlet is covering
them, and Anonymous put out a warning to the administration, threatening to dox them all if they don’t close the camp down. There’s even an Occupy Mobius website that’s covering the protest and putting out daily calls to action, and they’re starting a podcast on-site—Voice of Dissent.”

  Ayesha hugs me. “You did this,” she whispers.

  “It wasn’t me,” I say. “It was all of us.”

  Ayesha winks at me. “It takes a village to raze a camp.” She gets a grin from Soheil.

  “Fine,” Soheil says. “I’ll go along, but I don’t like it.”

  Nadia adds, “But if his ass is on the line, what’s to prevent him from turning us all in to save himself?”

  “What’s to prevent any one of us from doing that?” I ask. “It’s not like we’re trained to withstand torture.”

  “I wouldn’t give anyone up,” Soheil says, “no matter what they do to me.”

  Nadeem, who is maybe a couple of years older than Soheil and also plays soccer with the little kids on the Midway, puts his hand on Soheil’s shoulder and says, “Listen, man. You’re my brother, and I believe you mean that. But torture? No. None of us can hold up to anything serious. Didn’t you read about what they did to those guys at Guantanamo?”

  “I won’t turn you in. Any of you. And I have SERE training,” Jake says.

  We all look at him. I shrug and raise my palms. “I don’t think any of us know what that means,” I say.

  “Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape.” Jake speaks in short clips. I can imagine him barking those words in response to an order.

  “So that means you won’t give in to torture?” Nadia asks, and crosses her arms.

  “There’s no guarantee. SERE is only training. I’m sure I could sustain some level of duress. Every human being has a breaking point, but you have my word that I will resist.”