Internment

by Samira Ahmed

  I nod. “I think it’s pretty clear who the enemy is here, and you’re right: We should have each other’s backs.”

  “Some of the parents, they’re too scared; but that’s not all the adults. I know others will resist. We have to ignore the haters and not worry about what they’ll think.”

  “There’re always going to be people who roll over. Look at the minders.”

  “If you don’t stand up for something, you’ll fall for anything,” Suraya says, smiling with her warm brown eyes. Nanni used to tell me about the parable of the light—an ayat in the Quran. She would say that some are touched by God’s incandescent light and that it shows on their faces. That’s what Suraya’s face looks like when she talks.

  “Exactly.” I smile at her. “By any means necessary.”

  “By any means necessary to get us the hell out of this prison.”

  “I’m open to ideas. But I think we need to do something in front of the cameras by the entrance. The police are blocking the protestors from getting too close to the fence, but the cameras can totally zoom in.”

  “Maybe some kind of silent protest. I mean, we’re not supposed to be there, so even gathering would be an act of defiance. But the Director is riding herd over everyone; there are more guards now, too, and they’re not slacking.”

  “We’d need a distraction. Maybe right after dinner. Everyone will be at the Mess. We’ll be really close to the main entrance.”

  “I’m all ears.” Suraya pauses for me to explain, but I’m distracted. In the distance, I see Jake’s determined stride as he marches toward us. “What is it?” Suraya asks me.

  “I’m not sure. Hopefully not trouble, but I have a bad feeling.” My eyes follow Jake as he hands a note to one of his fellow guards. The guard gestures at me. I rise, hand Suraya my gardening gloves, and follow Jake without a word. I turn to look back at the garden and see Suraya, Ayesha, and the others looking at me with a mix of confusion and fear on their faces. I shrug and trudge forward.

  When we’re far enough from the garden, I ask Jake where we’re going. “The Director wants to see you,” he says. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t look me in the eye, either. As we walk silently, I glance down and see his hands balled into fists at his sides.

  I expected the Director to seek me out after the Incident, but when a few days had passed, I assumed he was no longer interested in me. I was wrong.

  “You won’t be alone with him. Red Cross observers will be present—they don’t have any power, but you’re still under eighteen, and that gives you at least a little protection, especially since the Director is wary about more bad press. I’ll be right outside the door.” Jake’s jaw tenses as he speaks. “The Director’s security detail will be at his side.”

  “What does he want with me? What’s he going to do?” I’m parched, and my voice cracks.

  Jake takes a breath and shakes his head. “Question you. You’ll be okay because there will be observers in there, but be careful. Don’t say anything rash. Don’t give him the upper hand. Don’t give him an excuse to target you more than he already has. I know it’s not fair to put it all on you, but the Director has no real accountability. I’m sorry I can’t be inside with you. I have to go along with orders if I want to keep his trust. He could have me transferred, and I don’t want you to be alone in here.”

  “I understand. You have your orders. You also have his confidence; we can’t blow that.” I’m trying to sound determined, if only to convince myself that I’ll be okay, but I feel like I’m about to face a dragon and I’m without a sword.

  Jake pauses and looks into my eyes. “I’m not the only one on your side. You have courage. Hold fast to it. Don’t let him bully you.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will.”

  When Jake opens the door to the Director’s office, I’m greeted by a blast of cold air. It’s a freezer in here but a furnace outside. We read Dante’s Inferno in English class, and I always thought it was odd that the very pit of hell is ice—the absence of all hope and light and love. So, obviously, the Director’s office is an icebox. Of course.

  He’s seated at a desk and motions for me to sit in a chair facing him. He dismisses Jake, who glances at me, the distress clear in his eyes, and steps out. I slump into the chair and take a few deep breaths before straightening and throwing my shoulders back. Two of the Director’s security detail are stationed in the corners of the rectangular room, behind the large wooden desk. Two others—a man and a woman dressed in khakis and Red Cross T-shirts—sit, with notebooks in hand, in chairs against the wall. The Director’s office is in the administration building—basically, it’s a wing of the Hub connected by a narrow, windowless hallway. Admin is a single-level modular prefab building with wide gray paneling and a flat white roof. A large plate-glass window offers the Director a view of the main entrance, where I see the mass of protestors and news trucks. I grin.

  “Something funny, Miss Amin?” the Director asks, drawing my attention away from the window.

  “No, sir. Not at all.”

  “Perhaps you’re enjoying the show these shiftless millennials and hippie protestors are putting on for the press. It was, after all, the purpose behind the Incident at the Mess, wasn’t it? And your little video?”

  “No, sir.”

  “‘No, sir’? That’s all you have to say for yourself? After your little stunt disrupted the peace in our community here? People were hurt, thanks to your actions.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Director’s face reddens. If he’s trying to keep his cool, he’s failing miserably.

  “Miss Amin, you’re beginning to try my patience. Yes, sir, what?”

  “Yes, sir, people were hurt. But that had to do with your actions, not mine. I didn’t punch Soheil, sir.” The minute the words are out of my mouth, I fear I’ve made a grave error. A deadly one. I should be filtering my thoughts, but my anger overrides my fear. It might not be smart, but it’s my only way forward.

  He pounds his fist on top of his desk and stands up. “How dare you? Do you know who I am? What I can do?”

  He towers over me, and I shrink into myself a little. I close my eyes for a second. Breathe. Prepare. But that’s a joke. There’s no way I can prepare myself for what might happen. “Yes, sir. You’re the Director of an internment camp where American citizens have been illegally imprisoned.” I hear the scratch of the observers’ pens on their notepads; I give them a sideways glance.

  “You think these observers will save you?” The Director points at them. “They can’t. The Red Cross can monitor and take all the notes they want. They can’t interfere with the laws of this nation. And Mobius and all our rules here comply with federal law. Should you get a paper cut, though, I’m sure they will generously offer you a bandage.”

  The observers shift in their seats. One whispers something I can’t hear. I don’t look back. I’m too scared to take my eyes off the Director.

  He sits in his chair again. He raises a finger in the air and wags it like he’s about to make a brilliant observation. “Tell you what. I am going to give you the opportunity to save yourself and some of your friends who were involved in your ill-conceived, childish attempt at protesting during dinner. Who organized it? What else are they planning? Who else is involved? If you cooperate, I can make sure that you and your family are taken care of.”

  “You saw all of us. Everyone was sitting at a table right in front of you. No one else was involved.”

  “I’m not stupid, girl. I know there were others. What adults were involved? What else are they planning on having you do? Don’t protect them; they’re using you. If they were brave, they’d put themselves in the line of fire. Instead they’re using you as human shields, counting on children to do their dirty work. They are the real enemy here.”

  “It really was just us. No one is planning anything else, sir. Believe me.”

  The Director
laughs. “Believe you. Yes, indeed. Now, these blog posts: Who is writing those stories? I know someone is smuggling them out of here. I thought it was you and your little Jewish boyfriend, but it seems like someone else now. So tell me. Tell me, and I can make life a lot easier for you and your parents here.”

  “How exactly will you make life easier for us?”

  “I heard one of your own people threw dirt on you,” he says.

  “How did you—” I shut my mouth before I say anything more. Of course he knows. Saleem saw the old man throw that clod at me, and he did nothing but laugh. And obviously he dutifully reported it to Dear Leader. I bite my lower lip and stare at the ground. I don’t want to see the Director’s smug smile.

  He continues. “And I assume you know about the threatening letters your parents received at their work assignments.”

  I blanch and jerk my head up. No. I didn’t know, because my parents didn’t tell me. They probably think they’re protecting me—don’t want me to worry. My chest tightens. I see the Director reading my face. I’ve given it away.

  “No? They decided to keep that from you? Lucky for you, I have eyes everywhere. Should I give you the details? About what they said they would do to your mother if you didn’t stop? What they would do to you? I can make sure your fellow internees know you are under my protection. I have access to certain luxuries here that I can make available to you. Like this pleasant, cool environment you’re enjoying right now. I’m sure your parents would appreciate it. You need to help me help you.”

  I wrap my arms across my stomach. I feel like throwing up. I have no way of knowing if the notes are real. If the threats are real, or if they were planted by the Director to instill fear. In that case, it’s working. But I can’t let him see that. I can’t let him know that. The weaker I seem, the stronger he feels.

  “Air-conditioning would be amazing, Director. But I don’t have any information for you. I don’t know anything about those blog posts. I haven’t even seen them. We can’t get the internet at Mobius, as you know.” I clench my clammy hands into fists to keep them from shaking, but I focus my mind’s eye on the Occupy encampment, their shouts and signs and raised fists. I hear Suraya’s voice in my head: “We’re with you.” And something like confidence grows inside me.

  The Director looks past me to the two Red Cross observers who are documenting the conversation. “Miss Amin, let me be clear. Those news cameras outside, those protestors? They’ll leave soon enough. The observers behind you? That’s all they are: observers. Soon it will be just us again. Our little Mobius community. Isn’t it better that we’re all friends?” The Director bares his teeth in a menacing smile. “Try to keep that in mind, Miss Amin. Corporal Reynolds!” At the sound of the Director barking his name, Jake opens the door. “Corporal, escort Miss Amin back to her Mercury Home. We’re done. For now. I would tell you not to go anywhere, Miss Amin. But we both know you’ll be close by for a good long time, don’t we?”

  I stand and turn to the observers and nod. The woman bites her lip, and the man looks away. I might have their sympathy, but sympathy isn’t going to set me free.

  The next morning, Ayesha and I amble to our garden shift. As we walk, my brain swirls with the information the Director shared with me last night. Why wouldn’t my parents tell me about the notes? Are they even real? Did the Director make it all up—some kind of bizarre test to see if I’ll say something to them or hide what I know? My thoughts are too muddled. I can’t see anything clearly, and when I look up and out past the fence, I only see waves of a mirage displacing the desert plants and the mountains in the distance. Nothing is in its true place.

  The heat makes everything slower, steps and thoughts included.

  “What was that about yesterday, when Corporal Reynolds took you away?” Ayesha asks as we drag our feet forward. We saw each other at dinner, like we do every night, but with so many extra guards around, we’ve all been taking extra care to speak of nothing but benign things any time we’re in a group.

  “The Director wanted to see if I’d cooperate.”

  “With what?”

  “He wants me to be an informer.”

  “An informer? He already knows everyone who participated in the ‘Incident’”—Ayesha uses air quotes—“and he hasn’t hauled us away.”

  “It’s the leaked stories. He thinks I know about them.”

  “I suppose it tells us he’s not a total idiot.”

  “He wants me to give up the organizers and tell him if anything else is being planned. Apparently, he thinks some adults are using us to forward their radical freedom agenda.”

  “How insulting. Doesn’t he think we can plan anything ourselves?”

  I laugh. “I like how you’re indignant about him underestimating us. He wants to blame some adult for it because it’s easier to send one of them to the black-ops sites, where he can torture them. It’s a bigger risk with kids. Plus, I don’t think his ego can handle that a bunch of teenagers spat on him, figuratively speaking.”

  “Please tell me whatever you’re planning next involves actually spitting on him. Please. Please.”

  “How do you know I’m planning anything?”

  “I saw you talking to Suraya yesterday.”

  “She wants to help. Raeshma and Anjum do, too.”

  “Damn, the hijabi mafia is throwing down. It’s getting serious.”

  “Well, they’ve dealt with the brunt of the racists and Islamophobes, so why wouldn’t they?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Ayesha says.

  “Me either. Which is pretty stupid of me, considering how ballsy someone had to be to wear hijab outside the house after the election. But the whole thing is, we’re in this together, regardless of how religious we are. I mean, we are all Muslim enough to be in here, right? We need to do something soon. Like tomorrow. The media isn’t going to stay camped outside forever. The last Inside Mobius post was almost two days ago, and you know people’s attention span is, like, fifteen seconds these days. It has to be tomorrow after dinner.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  “We’re going to march out toward the front gate and stand in a silent protest.”

  “Well, that sounds boring. Also impossible. Like, how are we all going to get there? The guards won’t let us walk that way after dinner; it’s straight back to our blocks, remember?” Ayesha stops and puts her hand on my forearm. “Is it wrong that I wish Soheil were here? Not that I want him to be here, but that I want him to be with us. With me. He’d be totally into this, but I’m glad he’s safe for now.” For the first time I notice that Ayesha’s face looks tired. Weary. She really tries to be upbeat, but Mobius is wearing us all down.

  “I know what you mean. And I’m sure Soheil wishes he were here, too,” I say, and give Ayesha a little hug, then gesture for us to continue walking. “We’ll work out the details. I have faith in us,” I say as we approach the garden. Ayesha gives me a halfhearted thumbs-up and then walks over to say hi to Nadia, who is already weeding next to Nadeem.

  I do have to figure out the details. More people will get hurt, I know. It’s inevitable. We have to minimize the risk. Plan it out perfectly. Honestly, though, flying by the seat of my pants would be a step up on the planning scale from where I am now.

  I survey the camp, raising my hand to shield my face from the sun. It’s been quiet the last few days; even the laughter of the littlest kids sounds hollow. My eyes fall on Jake, who is stationed at the toolshed. I walk up to him and the other guard to get gloves and a small shovel.

  “Layla, this is my buddy Specialist Adams. Fred.” I’ve seen him with Jake, and Jake has mentioned Fred, but this is the first guard Jake has introduced me to. “He’s a friend. To both of us.” Fred raises his fingertips to the brim of his cap, then smiles at me, showing off two rows of perfect white teeth and a dimple in his left cheek.

  I nod. “How’d you get this assignment?”

  “Fred and I are off duty this
shift, so we volunteered to take it from the other two guys who are normally here.”

  “They think he has a crush on you,” Fred says, “so he plays it to his advantage. And they were happy to get an extra shift off.”

  Jake clears his throat. “Whatever works.”

  “Right,” I say. “By any means necessary. Thanks for switching. I need to talk to the others, and the guards are always listening.”

  “Okay, the drone circles back in less than ten minutes. Use it, but hurry.”

  I don’t have a lot of time to think, and my body seems to be ahead of my brain. I grab a bunch of gloves and some spades and trowels and gesture for the garden-duty group to join me. Suraya, Ayesha, Nadia, and Nadeem head over, pulling along the others, including a few kids who are new to the group. I’m cautious about trusting anyone new, but I don’t have much choice.

  We gather in a semicircle next to our garden plot.

  I hand the gloves to Suraya and the trowels to Ayesha. “Pass these out to everyone. Real slow.” The drones may not be overhead yet, but we’re out in the open. We need to act normal. At least as normal as we can.

  Jake and Specialist Adams—Fred—stroll toward the water table, out of earshot. “Don’t worry,” I say to the group. “They’ll take their time.”

  “You trust them?” a kid named Abdul questions.

  Suraya silences the questioning. “Abdul, we don’t have a lot of time. Layla says it’s okay, so it’s okay.”

  “I know Suraya’s talked to some of you. The plan is to walk out of the Mess tomorrow and march straight to the area in front of the main entrance, so the protestors and, most important, the media can see us. Then we’ll form a line.”