by Samira Ahmed
“That’s all we’re going to do? Stand there?” Abdul asks.
“That’s going to be hard enough,” Ayesha says. “We don’t even know if we’ll make it there and be able to line up before the guards herd us away.”
“We need a distraction—something that will allow us to get out of the Mess without being caught. At least not right away,” I explain.
Suraya speaks up. “I was talking to some of the others on my block, and one of them works in the Mess.” She pauses and looks at all the sets of eyes on her. “He says he can access the utility box in the storage room and throw a couple of circuit breakers.”
“What will that do?” Nadia asks.
“It’ll turn off the lights.” I grin. “That could be the perfect chance. Our only chance, really. The second the lights go out, exit and head toward the Hub. We can meet by the flagpole and walk the last few steps toward the main entrance together. We probably won’t have long before they push us back, but we only need to be there long enough for the press to see us.”
“What if we each raise a fist?” Nadia suggests.
“But we’re not all black,” Abdul says.
Suraya rolls her eyes. “Really? That wasn’t obvious at all. The raised-fist salute is about standing up to oppression and racism. It doesn’t belong to one race or culture. It belongs to all of us. And it’s easy. We stand shoulder to shoulder and raise our right hands in a fist above our heads. That’s it. Everybody knows what it is and what it means.”
I think about the old woman from our block, Khadijah auntie, who raised her fist to bolster me when some of the others were yelling at me about the fast. I smile. This idea is perfect.
But Abdul jumps in before I can respond. “And what does a hijabi know about standing up to oppression?”
“Are you fucking serious?” Suraya steps closer to Abdul, getting in his face. “Your entire ignorant ass is showing. Maybe educate yourself. I’m not oppressed, and I certainly don’t need saving. If anyone needs saving, it’s you.”
“Seriously,” I add. “You sound like one of them, Abdul. Do you even know a single damn thing about the history of badass Muslim women?”
“Or Muslimahs today, for that matter,” Ayesha says. “Malala got shot in the face by the Taliban, and that still didn’t scare her away from fighting for girls’ rights. She has more courage in her pinkie than every dude I know.”
“Whatever.” Abdul kicks the dirt.
“Hey,” I snap. “Let me be clear. There’s only one enemy here, and he would want us to turn on each other. They want us to be separate factions—that’s why they segregated us in the first place. Don’t give the Director the satisfaction. You don’t want to do this? No one’s twisting your arm. But if you join in, you don’t bash anyone else. And don’t be an asshole. You get me?”
“Yeah,” Suraya adds. “United we stand; divided we fall. And all that American patriotic stuff.”
I look at the group; most of them nod in agreement. Abdul looks away, chastised.
Jake whistles.
I look in his direction. “The drones are coming. Everyone, get to work. And keep it quiet. Tomorrow, after the lights go out in the Mess.”
Suraya walks with me to a corner of the garden and kneels as a drone whirs overhead. “I was talking to Nadia and Nadeem, and we think we can get some others to join us.”
“Okay. Be careful. Don’t tell anyone you don’t trust. And make sure they know the risks. I don’t think the Director is going to take this lightly.”
“They know. We all know. But there’s not much choice, is there?”
“No, I guess there’s not.”
They can kill us while we sit quietly and do nothing as well.
That night I toss and turn from one end of my pillow to the other, trying to get comfortable, to relax. I kick off the sheets, then pull them back up again. I stare hard at the bunk mattress above me like it’s about to reveal life’s secrets.
I don’t think I’ve had a single good night’s sleep at Mobius. I can’t imagine what it was like for the internees at Manzanar. We can’t see the former camp from here, but we know it’s there. A reminder. A warning. They were in barracks with multiple families. Shanties, really.
But prison is prison, I guess. And being called an enemy of your country, the feeling that you are hated—they probably felt that, too. I wonder if the weight of that ever goes away. Even if we get out of here, will fear become a part of daily life, like breathing? There’s not even a real war, not like World War II. It’s all terrorist attacks and retaliation and enemies without borders. There could be no end. I’m afraid we’ll rot away and die in here. Erased. Forgotten.
Will I mark my life as only having two parts? Before Mobius and after?
The Mobius morning alarm blasts me awake. I drag myself out of bed and splash water on my face. I change and step out of my room. As usual, my parents are at the little dining table, tea in hand. They mutter their good mornings, not even looking me in the eye.
Since the Incident at the Mess and since they got wind of the Instagram Live video, they’ve barely spoken to me. They know others blame me for the new regulations. They won’t let anyone speak ill of me, but that doesn’t mean they approve of what I’ve done. They asked me to promise that I wouldn’t do anything else “foolish.” I refused, so the chill in the trailer remains. I get that they’re worried and looking out for me, but I can’t abide their pleas or assuage their fears. I haven’t brought up the threats the Director said they received, but last night when they thought I was asleep, I heard them through my bedroom door. They were talking, trying to decide if they should tell me. They’re not going to. They’re hiding the threats from me because they want to protect me, but deep down, in their own way, they each believe I’m beyond their protection, and it terrifies them. Maybe concealing the threats gives them a bit of solace, the belief that they are still able to shield me from a few of the horrors of the world. I won’t tell them I already know. Let them have that. It’s all that is left that I can give them.
Little vortexes of dust spiral around the block as I step down from the trailer with my parents. Others from Block 2 trudge their weary bodies into line for roll call, shading their eyes from the dust and sun. The minders are out, their annoyingly cheery smiles spackled across their faces as if they aren’t turncoats, as if their grins make them likable or legitimate. I can barely stand to look at their faces anymore. What they’ve agreed to. What they’ve made themselves party to. What they allow to happen to other human beings so that they can have the illusion of power, the barest whiff of control. I think again and again of a story we read last year by Ursula Le Guin about a utopian city whose bliss can only exist because of its one horrifying atrocity. That’s who the minders are like—the adults of Omelas, the ones who smile and go about their day and revel in the false illusion of freedom while their souls are withered, desolate things.
But for me, the most chilling aspect here is the automatic feel to it all. The roll call, everyone exposing the underside of their wrist to have their barcode scanned, like we’re all fucking produce in a grocery store. The very fact that we all have barcodes now. I rub my finger over the invisible ink. It can only be seen under UV light, but it’s there, burned into my skin, branding me forever.
Even the mere knowledge of this mark breeds fear. Enough to make people forget the essence of who they are.
All the more reason not to give in.
Not to give up.
To resist.
When she gets to me, Fauzia drops the pretense of her cold smile. She scowls as she scans my barcode. Good. I prefer her grimace to her syrupy fake smiles anyway. I look back in the line and lift my fingers in a little wave to Ayesha. Ayesha’s parents are trying to keep her away from me, afraid of my bad influence, but Ayesha ignores them. Because she is awesome. She pantomimes gardening gestures at me and taps her index finger on an imaginary watch. I smile and nod. Not being alone is everything. Her friendship, a be
nediction.
I linger outside on my doorstep as my parents head to the Hub a little early for their work assignments. They enjoy the quiet solitude together. I watch them walk away from me, holding hands. A lump forms in my throat. I wish they could understand, be less protective or scared. But for now, I know this growing distance is a kind of barrier I put between us. Not because my parents are the enemy; they’re the opposite—the people I love most in the world, and I want to protect them, even in a small way. I hope I’ll make it right with them one day. If I can’t fix our relationship, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make, because my lying to them keeps them safer. They’ve done the same calculus, too.
I remember happier times—movie nights in our old basement, sharing popcorn, and my mother’s un-ironic love for eighties movies starring Molly Ringwald. Sometimes David would join us. David. An invisible hand squeezes my chest. I try to bury thoughts of him, of us, deep in my mind, in the part accessible only to dreams. I have to keep my sentimentality in check or I won’t be able to go on—I’d be crushed by the weight of memory. I press my palms over my eyes, trying to push back the tears that are about to drown out my vision.
“Are you okay?” I hear Jake’s voice and look up. His broad shoulders block out the sun.
“Dust,” I reply, blinking.
The block is empty, so I inch over to make room on the metal steps in front of my trailer. Jake wavers. “It’s okay,” he says. “Everyone is already suspicious of me.”
Jake whistles to his friend Fred, who is also on block duty, and puts up five fingers. Then he hesitantly takes a seat next to me. The step is small, and suddenly I’m aware of how close we are. Close enough that I can smell the smoky sweetness of coffee beans on him. “That does not smell like the coffee that’s in the Mess. Contraband?”
He chuckles. “I grind my own. It’s one of the lessons my dad imparted to me about military life. He was Army to the core. And when I left for basic training he said, ‘Always grind your own coffee.’”
“Is that, like, a metaphor?” I ask.
“No, he literally meant grind my own beans. Basic-training coffee sucked.”
We share a laugh.
A wisp of a cloud moves by in the sky, allowing the morning sun to shine brightly on our faces. For a moment it feels good. Warm. But it’s not long before the warmth turns to blazing heat. Jake rolls up his sleeves, revealing that compass tattoo I first noticed on his right forearm when we were on the train. It’s small. Simple. Two crossed arrows with a black N inked between the shafts.
I touch his arm with my index finger, barely making contact. His muscles twitch, so I pull my hand away, but I’m curious, so I ask, “Why the compass?”
Jake rubs his thumb over his tattoo, then turns to look at me with a sad smile that’s like a dagger to my heart. “Have you ever been to Castle Lake?”
“By Mount Shasta?” I ask.
Jake nods.
I continue. “My dad sometimes gets a cabin there to write. A couple years ago, my mom and I met up with him while he was on a retreat. For a long weekend. We did a few hikes around there. My dad wrote a poem about it, actually. Well, maybe not that lake specifically, but a glacial lake with still, silvery stars overhead.”
“Sounds like a good poem,” Jake says and gives me a half smile. “My mom was a big hiker, and when I was eleven, she and I took this hike together, from Castle Lake to Heart Lake. The two of us. She gave me a compass. Made me lead the way, across the outlet creek, eventually getting to a narrow, unsigned trail. It’s really a short hike, only two or maybe three miles. Moderate elevation gain. Nothing tough. But man, was I nervous. There’s a saddle where you have to choose your path, and my mom wouldn’t tell me which one. She just pointed to my compass.”
“A saddle?”
“An elevated spot between two mountain peaks that looks like a saddle,” Jake says. “Anyway, I wound our way to Heart Lake—it really is shaped like a heart. And my mom hugged me and told me to trust myself, that I had a good heart. Then she said words I’ll never forget: ‘A compass doesn’t tell you where you are, and it doesn’t tell you where you have to go. It can only point you in a direction. It’s up to you to always find your true north.’ That’s the last hike I ever took with her.” Jake breathes deeply and looks off toward the mountains.
Without thinking, I reach over and take his hand in mine. I don’t care if people can see us. This entire camp is a giant open wound. We shove all our feelings deep down inside ourselves, like we’re not even people anymore. We hide it all away from our family, friends, everyone we might possibly love. The only truth we share with each other is the fear in our eyes that we can’t hide. I’m so tired of it all. Jake squeezes my hand but then quickly lets it go.
I tilt my head up to look at him with a wistful smile. I sigh. Loudly. “I miss breathing.”
“I know,” he says. “All the oxygen is sucked out of this place. I wish I could whisk you away to Heart Lake. I’ve been there a million times since that hike with my mom. In the late afternoons of summer, overlooking Mount Shasta, the sky is orange and gold. It’s gorgeous. I could stand there for days. I don’t think my eyes would ever tire of that view. The air feels clear up there. You could breathe.”
I don’t know what to say. There are no words. Maybe some moments are better left unadorned.
We sit there quietly for a minute, looking out, away from each other.
Jake clears his throat. “I sent another post to the Occupy blog. From there, it’ll get out everywhere.”
“You’ve become quite the scofflaw.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“You’ve got to be careful. They can trace your IP address.”
“Don’t worry. I’m using an identity-concealing browser. They are, too. They’ve probably got everything pinging off servers in ten different countries, or some Jason Bourne–type stuff. I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s nothing compared to the risks you’ve taken. Will take.”
“Me? I feel like a kid getting knocked down by giant waves.”
“You’re more than that. You’re brave. Braver than anyone I’ve met.”
“Well, that bravery—or, as I like to call it, stupidity—is about to be tested tonight.”
“I’ll be there. The press and the protestors will know, too. I texted David the details about what you’re doing tonight, and he’ll spread the word to the media and the Occupy crowd. Word of mouth, not on the web, so the Director can’t get a whiff of it before tonight. And don’t worry, we’re using burners, and we have a kind of code in place. And I’m only using the burner off-site.”
“You’ve been in touch with David?”
“Mostly details about what’s going on, and telling him you’re okay. He’s worried about you. He really loves you, you know? He’s a good guy.”
I whisper, “I’m lucky.”
Jake stares into the mountains. “He’s lucky.” He’s quiet for a moment and then adds, “And I meant it when I said be careful. David is not the only one worried about you.”
I open my mouth to respond with some kind of sarcastic remark, but Jake cuts me off before I can utter a word. “Please. You have to take this warning seriously. The Director is gunning for you. The Red Cross has been around, and you’re only seventeen—these things have been protecting you, to an extent. But the Red Cross won’t be here forever, and he knows your birthday is in a few weeks. I’m afraid he’ll haul you off to a black-ops site without provocation. We have to get you out of here before then.”
“You think he’ll get me a present?” I use sarcasm to deflect the tidal wave of terror that’s ripping through my body right now.
“It’s not a joke. David is afraid of the same thing. His dad is working on some way to get you out of here before you turn eighteen.”
“His dad? He’s an asshole. He stood by and watched all this happen and did nothing. Maybe he should have worked his State Department connections before we all got hauled off.” I spit out my w
ords like nails. “And I can’t leave without my parents, my friends. The Director will go after them—and I can’t let that happen. I couldn’t live with myself.”
“And how do you think the rest of us will feel if something happens to you?”
“I can’t think about that right now. I’m sorry. It’s literally the only way I can deal with this. I’m not walking out of this place unless everyone walks out with me.”
All day I’ve been thinking about that story Jake shared with me this morning. About finding your true north. About choosing your direction. As I head to dinner with Ayesha, I realize I’ve chosen mine.
“Do you think it’s going to work?” Ayesha asks as we hurry to the Mess.
“That depends on Suraya’s friend who works in the kitchen,” I respond, my thoughts elsewhere.
“You okay? You seem distracted. I mean, I can understand why. But why?”
I give her a half smile because Ayesha always gets to the heart of it. “I’m worried, I guess. I mean, more than usual. Jake told me that the under-eighteen crowd is protected in a way—at least from being taken off-site. But there’s our parents—and also the fact is a lot of us will be eighteen soon. Some are already, and if they get caught, the Director could—”
“Disappear them?” Ayesha completes my sentence.
“Yeah. That.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
“Lately I’ve been thinking hope is kind of a flimsy feeling to hold on to,” I confess. It doesn’t feel good to say it; it feels like a betrayal, and wrong, and defeatist.
Ayesha squeezes my elbow as we continue walking. “I know what you mean. Hope is basically faith, right? It’s intangible. You literally can’t grasp it. That’s why it’s easier to doubt than believe. That’s why it’s easier to give up than persist. Soheil and I talked about this once—about how the basis of faith is believing in the unseen, the unknowable. About how it actually is important to question, because searching for the answer can strengthen your resolve. But holding on to hope isn’t easy. It’s work. But necessary. And, well, that’s why—”