Internment

by Samira Ahmed

  We step into the common area.

  The trailer door slams open. My parents, like phantoms made of dust, walk in but stop short when they see Jake standing in our kitchen.

  I exhale. Deeply. If my parents had seen Jake come out of my room, it might have induced dual heart attacks.

  “Ma’am. Sir.” Jake nods. “I was seeing to it that Layla got home safe. I told her that it was best for you not to leave your trailer. I’m sure instructions will follow shortly.”

  My parents look too shocked to speak or move.

  “We understand, Corporal Reynolds,” I say as I walk past my parents to open the door for him. “We’ll make sure to stay inside.” When he steps out, I whisper a thank-you. He gives me a sad, obligatory smile and then marches away, disappearing into the yellow, dust-filled air.

  “What was he doing here? Are you okay?” my dad asks.

  “I’m fine. I stumbled while I was running, and he helped me back.”

  My mom glances at the camera and chokes back words. The hesitancy in her eyes makes me want to reassure her, but I don’t think I can explain in any way that will satisfy my parents.

  They walk past me to the sink and begin wiping the dust and grime off their faces.

  “What were you kids thinking? Look what you’ve done.” My mom doesn’t hold back. “People got hurt. Soheil? It could have ended much, much worse for him. Actions have consequences, and now we’re all about to face them, thanks to the stunt you and your friends pulled.” Part of me wants to believe she’s doing this for the camera, putting on a show of anger for them, whoever they are. I’ve begun picturing each camera trained on us as the Eye of Sauron. Perhaps she believes that acting the part of the livid parent will make the consequences less severe for me, show that I was merely being a ridiculous child, that I’m not a threat. But for the Director, even the slightest disobedience endangers his vision of his absolute authority in here. I want her to be proud of me for taking a stand, but if she has any pride at all, it’s been consumed by her fear.

  “Your mother’s right, Layla. That was foolish indeed.” As always, my dad keeps his composure. But there’s anger in him, too. I can see it in his rigid posture and hear it in the deep, flat tone of his voice.

  I open my mouth, but before I can reply, before I can formulate the right thing to say, my parents turn their backs to me, shuffle into their room, and shut the door.

  So they’re going with the (mostly) cold shoulder. I would’ve preferred more yelling from my mom. Or any form of raised voice from my dad, for that matter. The truth: That’s what I want. For us to be honest with one another—to be free to hash out our feelings in the open. But there is no open here, only razor wire and electric fences, where all our truths are trapped. I walk into my own room, slamming the door behind me, eyes stinging from dust and bitterness. I strip and throw my clothes into a heap in the corner; tiny particles of dust rise into the air and drift soundlessly back to the ground. Outside beckons—I want to run into the foothills and scream into the canyons. I want my voice to echo and crack the ground beneath my feet.

  The shower timer clicks on. I’m guessing it’s my mom trying to rinse off her fear and disappointment. I imagine stepping into a warm, sudsy bath and how the water would feel on my skin. The luxury of water seeping into every one of my pores and making me clean again. Dirt-caked fingernails are my constant companions here. Dirty nails and terror. I step to the sink and scrub my hands under the water until they are pink and raw. The door to my parents’ room opens and closes a couple more times. When I’m sure they’ve retired for the night, I tiptoe out and into the shower, but a stream of screaming-cold water greets me. We ran out of hot water. One more slap in the face. I step out, wrap my shivering body in a towel, and head back into my room. My fingers tremble as I pull on my warmest pj’s and add a sweatshirt. After putting my wet hair in a towel turban, I crawl into bed. Every muscle in my body aches, so even this stupidly hard bunk mattress feels welcome.

  I wish I could make my parents understand, persuade them to speak up, act out. But they’re so angry with me for taking risks. They want to bide their time until one day we are magically released and the president isn’t some raging fascist.

  That will be never.

  I don’t want to spend my life in this place. I don’t want to die in here. But maybe there are some things worse than death.

  The camp-wide siren booms. Six a.m. I roll out of bed and walk into the common room of our trailer. Apparently, my parents either have not slept or have been up for a while, since they are already dressed and drinking tea.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. My mother simply shrugs. My dad walks to the window and looks out, shaking his head. The media unit blinks on.

  The Director’s red-rimmed eyes shoot daggers at us through the screen. “After last night’s insubordination, we will have new rules at Mobius. You will report for roll call every morning at six thirty a.m., to be marked present by your minders. At seven a.m., you will proceed to your jobs or classes. Those not on duty or in class will be confined to their block. Dinner at the Mess remains promptly at six p.m. A nine p.m. curfew will be strictly enforced. At that time, you are to remain in your Mercury Home until roll call the next morning. Anyone found in violation of these regulations will be dealt with accordingly. Make no mistake: The consequences will be swift and severe. Mobius will also have the pleasure of unscheduled visits from the Red Cross.” He spits out the last sentence. He doesn’t even try to hide his disgust at the Red Cross observers. They are the only protections standing between us and the violence behind the Director’s warnings. It’s a thin line, but it’s all the hope we have.

  The Director continues. “I am sure I don’t need to stress the importance of your cooperation in all these matters. Unity. Security. Prosperity.” The Director’s swollen lips curl back into a menacing smile. “Report for roll call immediately.” The media unit flashes off.

  My parents and I don’t say a word. I’m not even sure what the purpose of speaking would be. Silently, we step out and see other families from our block doing the same, looking around, some bewildered, others clearly angry. I hear my name and see Ayesha waving at me before her mother intercedes and makes her drop her hands to her sides. Ayesha shrugs an apology.

  Saleem and Fauzia, our minders—or, as I affectionately refer to them, traitors—motion to the sixteen internee families on Block 2 to form a straight line down the center of the narrow lane that separates the eight Mercury Homes on one side from the eight on the other side. Quietly, asking no questions, we fall into formation, too tired and shell-shocked to do anything but obey. This is exactly what they want, exhaustion and acquiescence.

  “You heard the Director,” Saleem shouts. “This is every day from now until further notice. Hold out your wrists as Fauzia passes by and scans you in.” Fauzia moves down the line with a small scanner the size of a phone. It reads the ultraviolet barcode on the inside of everyone’s wrist and marks each internee as present, flashing our camp mug shots for a moment on the scanner’s screen. Some grumble as Fauzia walks by. She gives everyone a weak smile and goes back to stand by her husband’s side when she’s done.

  “Do not miss roll call.” Saleem’s voice is gravelly, like he hasn’t slept in days. Good. I hope he gets no sleep for the rest of his life. It’s petty as hell, but I don’t care. They can take away my freedom, but not my fantastic ability to hold a grudge.

  “Do not disobey any of the new directives. Do not go anywhere you are not supposed to go. Do not step out of line. You are being watched. We all are being watched. We do not want our block to land on the Director’s list of enemies—” He pauses, then looks directly at me and adds, “Not more than we already are, thanks to the actions of some individuals on this block.”

  I’m not surprised he’s calling me out. There’s pretty much no ethical qualm you can have anymore once you’ve sold out your own people and stood by to watch them get beaten and disappeared. The minder’s jo
b is to inform on other Muslims at the camp, and Saleem is making it clear that he will continue his duties, no matter what the Director does to us. A murmur grows in the line. A middle-aged man in a white kurta and gray topi points at me. “She is the one who deserves punishment, not us.”

  “Pipe down, Adil,” my dad yells back at the man. I’m surprised at my dad’s quick defense. He usually avoids confrontation. His words make my cracked heart swell a little.

  Ayesha joins in. “Yeah—I was there, too.” I smile so wide that I feel tears in my eyes. Ayesha is throwing herself into the lion’s den with me.

  A younger woman with a pale-pink chiffon dupatta wrapped loosely around her braided hair yells, “Adil’s right. These foolish kids pulled this stupid act, refusing to eat like they’re Gandhi or something. What were you thinking?” She wags a finger at me. “Look what you’ve done. That kid got what he deserved.”

  Others nod. Bile rises in my throat. But there’s an older woman—she’s probably at least eighty—who catches my eye and lifts her hand to her shoulder in a little fist and gives me a nod. When we first got here, she introduced herself as Khadijah auntie. She has a gray bun and lives alone; there’s a spark in her eyes. She gives me what I need to bolster my resolve.

  “Look at what we’ve done?” I respond. “Look at what you’ve done. Nothing. You stood by during the election, thinking that none of this would come to pass, that the racism and xenophobia running rampant during the campaign was hot air. And then you stayed silent while your rights were stripped away, and you quietly packed your things and let yourselves be taken prisoner. All of you. All of us. We’ve offered ourselves up in some kind of twisted Abrahamic sacrifice. But no lamb will be offered instead of us. It’s our necks waiting for the ax to fall. We have to be our own miracle—” My mom clamps her hand over my mouth, silencing my speech.

  Saleem’s eyes bulge out of his head. He walks up to me and shoves an angry finger into my shoulder. “Shut your mouth and watch your step. Don’t think I won’t report you. And you won’t be going to the barracks—the Director, he’ll send you out to—”

  “Saleem,” Fauzia interrupts. “That’s enough. We need to give the rest of the instructions.” Fauzia coaxes her husband to back away from me while my mother drapes an arm around my shoulders. My dad steps between Saleem and me.

  Saleem allows his wife to guide him away, and then he clears his throat and addresses us again. “Each of you will have a new schedule available on your media unit, in your work folder. Report to work when you’re required to. If your children are taking early-childhood classes, you can escort them and wait for them in the Hub. Some of you have been assigned new formal tasks in the Mess, the laundry, or the gardens. Instructions are included in your work folder as well.” Saleem’s angry tone turns to pleading. “Just go along. Everyone. Please. No more outbursts and demonstrations. Cooperate and it will turn out all right in the end. Remember: Unity. Security. Prosperity. Dismissed.”

  People shuffle away. I hear my name amid the whispers. Ayesha and her parents walk up to us. Ayesha gives me a tight hug while our parents speak. “I can’t believe those horrible people. It’s like they didn’t even notice I was all rebel with a cause, too.” Her face breaks into a grin. Ayesha is gold.

  “Any word about Soheil?”

  Her face falls, and she blinks rapidly a few times. “The Red Cross took him out of here. Corporal Reynolds told me there’s a clinic nearby. Layla, I’m scared. What if they bring him back to Mobius? He’ll be number one on the Director’s shit list.”

  I squeeze Ayesha’s shoulder. “Maybe he’ll be allowed to stay in the clinic until he’s fully healed, and then the Red Cross can get him, like, special protection?” I wish I could find more reassuring words, but I can’t, because she’s probably right. The minute Soheil is back in the camp, there will be a target on his back.

  “Do you think it was a mistake? The fast, I mean? What happens now?” Ayesha bites her lower lip.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer truthfully. “I guess we regroup and—ow.” Something smacks me in the back. I turn and see a hardened clod of dirt on the ground.

  “What the hell? Are you okay?” Ayesha and I look around. I catch Saleem’s eye. The minder is idling on the steps of his trailer, a smug smile on his face. But he’s standing in front of me, and the chunk hit me from behind. I pivot all the way around and see an older man with betel-stained teeth standing a few feet away, giving us an icy glare; he spits on the ground. A small patch the color of dried blood blooms at his feet.

  Droplets of sweat slither down my neck and into my T-shirt. At the cooling station, I take giant swigs from my water bottle, then wet the bandanna I use to wipe the salt and perspiration off my grimy face. Folding the cloth multiple times lengthwise, I add more water and tie it around my neck, knotting it at the front. Internment chic. I pull my faded Wimbledon baseball cap lower over my eyes and slather my chapped lips with balm. An assignment to work mornings in the garden seemed like a blessing at first, better than laundry or the Mess, but by the time my first three-hour shift was over, I trudged home and collapsed into bed.

  At least Ayesha, Nadia, and Nadeem are on the same work detail as me. I thought the Director would separate us, but guards side-eye us whenever we try to speak anything more than passing words to one another. Maybe he figures that this way we’re all at the back of the camp, far from the Mobius protestors. Maybe the Director actually hopes we will try something else so he can have an excuse to bring the hammer down on us. Whatever his reason, the Director reminds us daily during his announcements that he will not tolerate “unsanctioned congregating” or “untoward fraternizing.” And, of course, every time he speaks, he spits the damn camp motto at us: Unity. Security. Prosperity. Like the repetition will make us believe this place isn’t a prison.

  A few girls on my detail wear hijab, even in this blazing heat. I can’t imagine the courage it takes to maintain that part of their Muslim identity in the face of everything. Hijab is an individual choice, but if it had been the choice I made for myself, I have no idea whether I’d have the strength of faith to wear it now.

  The camp has been mostly quiet these five days since the Incident, as everyone now refers to the melee in the Mess. But outside the electric fence, an encampment has grown. Protestors have come, hundreds more, setting up a site that looks like a Burning Man village. Jake told me that a leftist billionaire who runs a pro-democracy foundation donated porta-potties and thousands of bottles of water and energy bars and tents. The protestors bring media and more scrutiny of the Director and Mobius. When men in dark suits come to take you away under the cover of night, a dread settles into your bones, a fear that you’ll be lost forever. Simply knowing the protestors are there assures me that we haven’t been forgotten. The future is never certain, but for the first time since we were taken, I know we won’t go down without a fight. I know our voices won’t be silenced.

  I’ve barely been by the Hub because this garden work assignment puts me about as far from it as I can get, so I’ve only stolen a few glances at the Occupy encampment. I wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of David, but knowing he’s there is comforting. Jake’s been assigned a fence security detail, so I haven’t seen much of him, either, but when he can slip away without suspicion, he gets me updates. So I know that the protests are growing, that there are protestors in front of the White House, too; that Mobius is a nightly topic on the news; that my blog posts have tens of thousands of hits. With Jake’s help, I managed to write two more stories about the immediate aftermath of the Incident and of the new, tighter regulations inside the camp. But after Anonymous posted the last story, the Director raged for half an hour on our media units about the leak at Mobius, and he began having all staff and Exclusion Guards patted down before they exit the camp. It’s too risky for Jake to leave with a handwritten note. I wonder if I can convince Jake to write his own stories when he’s outside.

  “We’re with you,” a soft voice whisper
s over my shoulder. I turn to see Suraya, one of three black hijabi girls who are also on garden duty. We’ve exchanged smiles and the occasional word but never really hung out. She’s Block 8.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  “I mean it. I know what some of the parents are saying, and they’re wrong. What you did, what all of you did, was brave. And we’re in, next time. There will be a next time?”

  “We?” I see a guard eyeballing us. “Help me weed,” I say to Suraya, gesturing at her to join me. Suraya kneels in the dirt next to me and begins plucking the shoots of tiny weeds that form around the okra plants. A thin sheen of sweat lines the skin around her American flag hijab. It reminds me of Noor. May God keep her safe. When the guard looks away, I repeat myself but keep my hands busy weeding. “What do you mean, we?”

  Suraya raises a finger to point toward two other hijabis; I quickly grab her hand, pull it down, and shake my head.

  “Right, sorry. I mean Raeshma and Anjum and me,” Suraya says. “We’re in for the next protest or fast or whatever. There’s others, too—the girls from our Quranic study class.”

  I awkwardly shift my weight from one knee to the other. “Oh, I—I heard that some people were doing that. I haven’t really gone to prayers or anything since we’ve been here.”

  Suraya laughs. “You don’t have to confess to me. Your faith, your deen, is between you and God. I won’t judge you; you don’t judge me. Simple.”

  I’m amazed she can smile, let alone laugh. This year must have been so much harder for her, someone so visibly Muslim. And black. The Islamophobic micro-aggressions and then real violence were first directed at women who wear hijab—especially black women who wear hijab. There’s no way Suraya could’ve escaped the toxic racism combined with Islamophobia. Since the election launched a wave of women having their scarves ripped off in public, some people in the community actually suggested hijabis shed the scarf, to be less obvious targets. But none of the hijabis I know did. So, of course, Suraya and some of the other hijabi girls are down with joining the protests; they already know what bravery is. Hijab is a choice they made, and in these times, an especially courageous one. I’m embarrassed—no, angry at myself—for not approaching them earlier, wrongly assuming they might be unwilling to stand up to the Director.