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Internment

Page 18

by Samira Ahmed


  I look in Jake’s eyes and see that he means it. He believes his own words, and I’m glad he does. He has to. But even he can’t know the truth of what could happen. What he could endure, what he would confess, if things got bad enough. Human beings are capable of so many wondrous things, but there’s no limit to the horrible things we do to one another. I shudder. Honestly, torture is not an idea I want to think about. The word alone makes my stomach queasy, and if I imagine too much, I’m afraid I won’t do what needs to be done.

  “That’s great for you, man,” Soheil says. “But you’ve gone along this whole time. You were on the train that brought us here. You weren’t exactly trying to sabotage the tracks.” Soheil’s voice is tight, strained.

  “Soheil, it’s not like that—” I say.

  “No,” Jake interrupts. “He’s right. It was exactly like that.” Jake looks Soheil in the eye. “I know why you don’t trust me. And you’re smart to be suspicious. Most of my unit was absorbed into the Exclusion Guard. I followed orders. I did what I was told. Orders are what I know. But for too long I forgot my sworn duty, to America, to Americans. And I am sorry. I have new orders now that countermand the illegal orders that started this camp. I don’t answer to the Director, not anymore. But the Director trusts me. We’ve weaponized whiteness in this country. So why not use mine to your advantage now?”

  “Thank you, Corporal Reynolds,” Ayesha says.

  “You don’t need to thank me. I’m not the brave one.”

  Soheil nods at Jake. “You’re right. And I’m not thanking you.”

  I clear my throat. “I think we know where we all stand. Now, are we ready for tonight?”

  “We’re ready,” Soheil says. “Nadeem, how many people did you last count?”

  “Twenty-five,” Nadeem says. “They all know what to do. Sit at the first table with empty trays. No food. No water. It’s enough people to draw attention.”

  “What do you think, Jake? What’s the Director going to do?” I ask.

  “Hard to know. He’ll be furious, but the question is whether he will crack down with the Red Cross visitors present. There are two reporters traveling with them, and I doubt the Director will want more bad press. But after they leave, that’s when it will get ugly. He’ll know who all of you are. He’ll know you’ve been conspiring, and he will not come down easy. As long as the press and the protestors are outside, you’ll have some cover, but he’s counting on them leaving.”

  “We can’t let them leave,” Ayesha says. “But how can we make them stay?”

  “Jake, if I write another blog post, can you get it out there? Can you leave the camp with it?” I ask.

  Jake nods. “Easy enough.”

  “Let’s do this,” I say, trying to sound resolute. “I’ll see you guys at the Mess tonight. Meanwhile, keep your heads low.”

  I leave Ayesha with Soheil, Nadeem, and Nadia and hurry to my Mercury Home with Jake. Once there, we walk straight into my room and shut the door. I pull out a pad of paper and scribble a couple of paragraphs about the fast we’re planning for tonight. I write about the Red Cross and the threatening announcement and the meticulous preparation for the visit that is supposed to showcase Mobius as a camp upon which all future camps can be modeled. The writing is rough, but we’re running out of time, so it will do.

  I hand the note to Jake. “Thank you for this, and for the risks you’re taking. Sorry if it puts you in any danger. Is helping us on the inside like this part of your special orders, or whatever?”

  “Remember when I told you that when you don’t know the truth, people can’t force you to tell it? Best to keep things distant.” Jake gives me a wistful smile and tucks the note into his pocket. “I’ll get this into the right hands as soon as I can.” He opens the door and lets himself out.

  I watch him leave, then shut my bedroom door. I go to lie down on my bunk, mind racing.

  Everyone is in danger. All the time. The Director demands loyalty from those around him—what would the Director do to Jake if he were to catch him with my note? I’ve leaned on Jake. I can’t imagine going through this without him. And Ayesha and Soheil? Nadia? Nadeem? The others? Once we draw attention to ourselves, there will be nowhere to hide. The Director will know who we are, and hell will rain down.

  I nestle my cheek into my pillow and think of David. My body warms at the memory of him. He’s outside the fence, out of reach. Will that keep him safe? I might never be able to be in his arms again, but he’s here. Close. For now, that’s enough.

  My feelings bang around in the bell jar of this imprisonment, this camp. I clutch my stomach and close my eyes and wish it all away. Stop the automatic thinking. The spontaneous overflow of worst-case scenarios. There’s no time for that, and neither my feelings for David nor my sympathies for Jake are important right now. I need to keep telling our story to the world until everyone listens. I can’t afford to be distracted.

  The fast is tonight.

  People can get hurt.

  One of those people could be me.

  Since my parents arrived back at the trailer this afternoon from their “jobs,” they’ve been in unsettlingly good spirits. The visit from the Red Cross has buoyed them. I don’t want to be the one to burst their bubble. Not yet.

  “I talked to one of the aid workers for a few minutes at the clinic,” my mom says as she tucks a few stray hairs into her otherwise neat bun. We’re sitting on the vinyl sofa in the common area of the trailer while Dad washes the mugs that were in the sink. “She told me folks are thinking of us—they know we’re not the enemy of America. Know that we’re not an Other, that we’re the Us, too.”

  “That’s great, Mom,” I say, happy that my mother seems brighter than she has these past few weeks; it’s been so hard to see her spirit being stripped away. But I fear her joy will be very short-lived. I imagine the terror my parents will feel when I sit with the others at dinner, refusing to eat, silently protesting in front of the Director and the Red Cross.

  “Yes, and I believe the Red Cross staff will be joining our tables this evening. It will be nice to hear some news from the outside,” my dad adds as he finishes the dishes and dries his hands.

  “I’m going to sit with Ayesha and some of the others, since the Director is letting us choose tables tonight.”

  “That’s wonderful, honey.” My mom strokes my hair. “So glad you’ve been making friends here. It’s good to make the best of any situation.”

  I don’t want to make the best of it. And I hate that my parents and I have to put on an act in this trailer—a space that should be private. It’s all a reality show, plotted to make the Director happy. But tonight some of us are going off script.

  My parents and I walk out of our trailer and join the scores of other internees who are heading for the Mess. When we enter, I see some Red Cross observers chatting with small groups of internees, and others with the Director. Soheil and Nadeem are already seated with Ayesha at the first table. I kiss my parents on the cheeks and join my friends.

  Ayesha squeezes my hand under the table when I take the seat next to her. “Ready?”

  “Probably not, but we’re doing this.” I press her hand in return.

  In minutes, the tables are full and the Director stomps to the front of the room in the same dark suit he wore at the orientation. I wonder if his face hurts because the same smile has been plastered on it since this morning. The grin may be fake, but in his eyes there’s nothing but confidence and the belief that his cruelty is justified. The Director clears his throat. Then waits. He always waits for absolute silence before he begins. “On behalf of the Mobius community, I want to thank the Red Cross and the journalists who’ve joined us for a wonderful visit today. They can see what a peaceful, vibrant community we’ve built here. We embody Unity. Security. Prosperity. Now, enjoy your dinner; you’re among friends. The minders will call out tables starting from the back.”

  We wait patiently for our number to be called. Others file past the f
ood stations, filling their plates and chatting with Red Cross team members who join them at the tables. When a minder calls Table 1 to head to the food line, none of us moves. My mouth is dry as sawdust and tastes like it, too. I rub the back of my neck.

  The minder sticks his chicken neck out, staring at us. “Table One,” he calls again, louder this time. When none of us moves, he takes long strides over to us, bends his head, and says in an angry whisper, “I called your table; now stand up and get your food.” We glance at one another uneasily but stay seated. We don’t acknowledge him. I feel twin surges of pride and panic as no one budges.

  The minder walks over to the Director, who is speaking with the Red Cross team leader. The Director excuses himself and walks to our table. He’s still grinning, but telltale angry red blotches have traveled from his neck to his face. “Table One, take your meals.” He speaks slowly and enunciates each word. By now everyone has put down their forks to watch the scene unfold. I’m glad I’m not facing my parents, but even with my back to them, I can imagine the wild panic in their hearts. And I’m sorry, but not sorry enough to stop.

  The Director turns his face away for a moment and smirks. It’s not the fake smile he’s worn all day. I’ve seen this look before, when he confronted David and me. It’s the grin that precedes his rage. He thinks he’s in control, but he’s not clever and self-aware enough to stop himself from exploding.

  He spins around in a fury and slams both of his thick fists down on the table. “I said, get up now!” The table rattles. My brain rattles. His yell rings through the Mess. There are audible gasps. Some people rise from their chairs, and I see two reporters standing by the wall with their phones out, recording.

  Soheil speaks loudly and clearly, directing his comments to the reporters. “We’re protesting the illegality of Mobius. We’re protesting the violation of the civil rights of the Muslim community. We want the world to know that there are internees who have been tortured and disappeared. Here. On American soil. We are being held without cause or trial.”

  A sheen of sweat appears on the Director’s face. His lips curl up over his teeth. I can almost see him struggling, trying to control himself in front of the reporters and the Red Cross, but it’s too late. He’s lost.

  He curls his right hand into a fist and lands a vicious punch across Soheil’s face. I hear a crack; blood spurts from Soheil’s nose and mouth as he falls to the ground with a thud. There’s a single piercing shriek—I have no idea from where—then pandemonium. Ayesha screams. She and I rush to Soheil’s side, snatching napkins to wipe away the blood. The reporters leap forward into the crowd that surrounds Soheil, their phone cameras capturing the chaos.

  I look up and see that the members of the Red Cross form a cordon between us and the Director, who is raging at them, his face nearly crimson. His own security guards hold him back as he screams at them. The Red Cross team leader, a middle-aged man with deep wrinkles on his forehead, is shouting, trying to be heard above the commotion. All I can hear is “violation of the Geneva Convention” and “prisoners of war.”

  Dr. Mahar, from the clinic, pushes his way through the crowd. We’ve gotten Soheil up and seated on the floor, clutching napkins to his nose, trying to stop the stream of blood pouring out. Dr. Mahar bends down to examine him. Ayesha stays at Soheil’s side, holding his hand, whispering to him. I stand up to scan the room. The minders work with the guards to get people out of the Mess. I catch sight of my parents, who look at me, disbelief and confusion in their eyes. My mom extends her hand toward me, but she is caught up in the crowd pushing toward the exit.

  The Director is now in a corner talking with some of his security guards. The Red Cross team leader is on his phone. The doors burst open and what seems like an entire army of Exclusion Guards marches in, roughly pushing through the crowd. People scream as they are thrown to the ground or shoved out of the way. The members of the Director’s security detail trudge up to the two journalists and seize their phones. The reporters object, loudly. One of them yells something about Article 79 and wartime protection for journalists. But it doesn’t matter. We all watch helplessly as their phones clatter to the floor. One of the private security guys shatters both with the butt of his rifle.

  I was scared before, but as I watch the guards pull apart the wall of Red Cross members in front of us, I’m powerless to move. The team leader protests to the Director, who brushes him off and barks orders to the guards. Dr. Mahar and another man help Soheil up and move toward the team leader, who reaches his arm out toward them as he yells into his phone. A fire alarm goes off and the sprinklers switch on, drenching everyone. The crowd surges forward. I search for my parents, but I can’t find them anywhere. My head spins, my stomach lurches; I don’t know where to go.

  “Come on.” Ayesha takes my hand and pulls me out of the crowd; she drags me against the stream of people heading toward the main exit, and we reach a side door. She shoves it open, and Jake takes her by the shoulders.

  “You’ve got to get back to your trailers now! Follow me!” he shouts. Nadeem and some of the others flee toward their blocks. Ayesha and I hurry to keep up, following Jake toward Block 2. He takes a circuitous route around the Hub, away from the mass of Exclusion Guards and internees who are still pouring out of the Mess and toward the Midway. As we pass the Hub, I see the lights blazing outside the camp. Other internees are running, screaming. The protestors are standing up, peering around the police, trying to catch a glimpse of the uproar. Camera crews rush toward the fence and are stopped by police, but they still seem to be filming. The dust kicks up around us, swirling in eddies, and the air trembles with a thwip thwip thwip as a helicopter flies overhead. I guess we’ve succeeding in getting some attention.

  Lights from the watchtowers illuminate the camp. People rush toward their Mercury Homes. I stand frozen, watching as a man is pushed to the ground by a guard and then kicked in the stomach and head. I scream, but I’m only one of hundreds of voices that bleed into the madness.

  Somewhere in the chaos, I realize I’m not holding Ayesha’s hand anymore. Jake’s not here, either. I’ve lost sight of both of them in the dust and swirl of screaming people. I run toward the fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of David. Emergency vehicles race up the road to Mobius, and protestors cover their mouths and noses with bandannas or tuck their faces into their shirts to avoid the billowing clouds of dirt. A police officer yells into a bullhorn, ordering them away from the fence. Some protestors flee to their cars. I run along the inner side of the fence, as close as I can get, calling out David’s name, but the sounds of helicopter blades and sirens mute my screams in the blizzard of dust.

  I sprint back to Block 2, hoping I’ll find my parents already at our trailer. Two other helicopters appear, filling the air with even more dust, so the visibility on the ground drops to a foot or two, if that. My eyes burn, and tears stream down my face and mix with the dust that cakes my cheeks, so when I dab at them, my fingers come away muddy.

  Cough. Sputter. Try to breathe.

  All around I hear the cries of internees running to their trailers, searching for some air to breathe. People bump into one another, carrying their children, covering their mouths, shielding their eyes.

  As I near my block, I see Jake helping my neighbors into their trailers. When he sees me, he runs over and pulls me into my Mercury Home. Slamming the door shut, he steps to the kitchen, grabs a dish towel from the edge of the sink, fills a glass with water, and walks into my room. I follow him and shut the door behind us. He wets the cloth and sweeps it across my eyelids, cheeks, nose, and lips, tenderly removing the dust from my face. He pauses and looks into my eyes, then hands me the towel and the glass of water. “Sip,” he instructs.

  I take a few tentative sips and then drink the entire glass in a long gulp. It’s the first time I’m aware of being thankful for clean, cool water. I hand the empty glass back to him. “Ayesha?” I ask.

  “She’s fine. Her parents and brother are back with her
in their trailer.” He moves his hand to cup my cheek, but pulls it away.

  I look into his worried eyes. “My parents? Have you seen them? I tried, but I couldn’t—the dust.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be okay. Once they get back, you all need to stay put. Do not leave this trailer, hear me? It’s a God-awful mess out there. And I’m sure there’s going to be a lockdown.”

  “A lockdown?”

  “I’m guessing the movements of the internees are about to get a lot more controlled. No one in or out. The Director is going to have to somehow convince the higher-ups that he wasn’t at fault for this shit show and that he is still in control.”

  I take a deep breath. “Soheil? What do you think will happen to him? Dr. Mahar said the Director broke his nose.”

  “You should be happy that’s all that happened. And he’s lucky the Red Cross visitors were here. They’ll get him out. The Director stepped way over the line when he hit Soheil. In front of reporters? I mean, the president is going to be apoplectic over this. He’s been trying to hide it all, and now he’s got journalists whose cameras were smashed and an articulate and charismatic young man who will be on the outside with the Red Cross protecting him, ready to tell his story to hungry press outlets.”

  “So our plan worked.”

  “I’d say so.” Jake pauses and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Things will be more dangerous than ever for you and your friends now. The Occupy blog posted your story right before the incident at the Mess. Between that and all the coverage tonight’s chaos is going to get—you have the world’s attention, but the Director is going to zero in on you like a target.”

  “What about you? They saw you walk in here with me. Will you be okay?” I ask.

  “It’s havoc out there. I don’t know. I have a friend in surveillance, so—”

  “A friend?”

  “Remember, I said I wasn’t the only one here on your side. The only side that matters.” Jake gives me a small smile.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. But I have to go back out to find my parents,” I say.

 

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