Internment

by Samira Ahmed

  “Are you about to say ‘rebellions are built on hope’?” I wink at Ayesha.

  “Dammit. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” Ayesha laughs. “But it’s true. Hope is all we’ve got right now. Hope and a ragtag bunch of Muslim teenagers. Look out, world—the Muslims are coming.” Ayesha jokingly punches the air with her fist.

  “We’re already here.”

  “And we’re not going anywhere.”

  We walk into the Mess nodding at our co-conspirators. Even having a secret feels dangerous. I wonder if this is how the White Rose students felt. Like they were drinking liquid adrenaline through a fire hose. And scared. Scared all the time. For everyone.

  Suraya and Raeshma are sitting with some of the other kids from their block. Abdul is with them, but he doesn’t acknowledge me at all when I catch his eye. He looks through me like the physical space I occupy is empty. Odd, but a lot of things about him are off. We take our food and eat at a Block 2 table. Tonight it’s pizza, a fruit cup, soggy green beans, and milk. This might be the only time in the history of the world that public school lunch lines have been remembered with nostalgia. Not that I miss the food. At all. I mean, gross. But I do miss all the mundane things, like standing in a line and talking to friends and getting a crappy lunch without the heart-stopping terror of looking into the eyes of a man with a gun who is allowed to kill you.

  People begin getting up to return trays and get tea or coffee, when the lights go out in the Mess. There’s a great clattering of dishes and trays from the kitchen, dropped silverware, people bumping into tables and one another as we’re all thrown into darkness. Someone screams, apparently having spilled hot tea. The clamoring spins into chaos. But the lights haven’t gone out in just the Mess. When I glance out the windows, I see that the admin offices and the Hub are blacked out, too. I’m not sure what Suraya’s friend did exactly, because no backup generator has come on yet. I’m so ecstatic, I’m certain I would kiss him if he were in front of me.

  I grab Ayesha’s hand and we race toward a side exit. The guards, also in disarray, are too busy trying to sort out the power situation and help people up to notice the twenty or so of us who slip out the door.

  Outside it is eerily quiet and dark. The normal hum from the fluorescent lights that illuminate the pathways between buildings is absent. The only working searchlights seem to be at the back of the camp. As they sweep the grounds, I sense them reaching out to me, trying to seize me with their illuminated tentacles, trying to expose my face to the light. But for now I am beyond their grasp. Ayesha and I find the others and hurry to the open yard between the Hub and the entrance gate. We stick close to the walls as we approach, but the frenzy from the blackout compels the guards to rush from their posts to secure the Mess and the Hub. Higher-ups bark orders, and the thunder of hundreds of boots stomping against dry ground reverberates through my body. The darkness and disorder inside the camp lie in sharp contrast to the outside. The Occupy Mobius encampment is bright with car headlights and portable outdoor work lights operated by generators. The protestors line up by the fence, behind the wall of police. They are ready. Waiting. David did his job.

  We take our positions as close to the fence as we can. There are thirty-three of us. It’s not an army, but it is a resistance. A couple of older aunties and some uncles join the group. Suraya winks at me when she catches me counting the new recruits. We face the crowd near the fence and raise our fists. Like I’ve seen in old pictures of the Olympics in 1968, and the NoDAPL protests that have been going on for years, and women in India fighting for justice for rape victims, and the teens—just like me—at the March for Our Lives. It’s a simple gesture, and a beautiful one. It calls out through dusty pages of history and echoes from those whose shoulders I stand on—the ones who were hosed down but never retreated, who were beaten but persisted, and the ones whose voices were locked behind walls but whose spirits were never broken. The people united will never be defeated.

  For a moment everything is quiet. The world is still.

  And through that silence, like the sweetest melody, I hear my name called out. “Layla! Layla! I love you!” David. I can’t see him, but he is here. And I laugh. Out loud. And the others laugh. And the Occupy folks raise their fists and start yelling and cheering and clapping. Tears run down my face.

  The police outside the fence turn their heads over their shoulders to look at us. We few, causing this ruckus. Other internees who’ve left the darkness of the Mess see our line and join in. Some nod at me as they step into the formation. Others smile. I scan the line—old, young, black, white, brown. We are all here.

  Then I glance beyond the fence at the sea of people. In this place where I thought I was lost, the world has found me. Hope courses through my veins.

  Outside, a man with a bullhorn begins chanting, “Set them free! Set them free!” Others join, their voices carrying across the desert and resounding through the valley. Tens, then hundreds. People are streaming out from the Mess now, and guards are running toward us. Someone yells, “Back to your blocks! Now!” But the protestors and the internees drown out the commands.

  A shot is fired into the sky; the sound ricochets through the camp. Screaming. A free-for-all. I hear a voice from the outside yell, “They’re shooting them!” Then more screams, and the crowd outside surges forward, toward the fence.

  The fence.

  I’m frozen.

  The police outside struggle to push back the protestors. Exclusion Guards race toward the line, and I see another guard rushing to the security booth, yelling, “Cut it off! Cut it off!”

  He’s screaming about the fence.

  The electric fence.

  I assumed the electricity for the fence had gone down with the lights. The protestors must have thought the same thing. Shit. They’re pushing toward it.

  I force myself out of my trancelike state and run toward the fence from the inside. “No! No! Go back!” I scream, but I can barely hear my own voice above all the noise.

  When I turn back to look toward the internees, I see guards seizing some, pulling them out of line, shoving others. Some slip away, but one guard has Ayesha by the arm. I run back in her direction. “Get off! Let go of her!” Then I see Fred, Jake’s friend, tell the guard who has Ayesha to report elsewhere. He takes Ayesha by the elbow and leads her away. She’s safe. For now.

  But another guard pulls off Suraya’s headscarf and throws her to the ground. One guard punches one of the uncles who joined us in the line. I stop moving. It doesn’t even feel like I’m breathing. I’m outside my body, watching the chaos unfold as if I’m not in the middle of it. I fall to my knees, crying. Huge, heaving sobs. I can’t stop. I can’t catch my breath. What have I done?

  “Layla. Layla.”

  I look up, searching. “David?”

  Jake steps toward me amid a whirling cloud of dust. “Layla, you’ve got to get out of here.” He lifts me to my feet like I’m a rag doll. As he steadies me, all the lights come on. Full force, temporarily blinding everyone.

  Jake prods me in the direction of my block. “Now. Go. Now.” I nod, still blinking against the artificial brightness. I turn back for a moment to look for David, but he’s lost in the crowd.

  And that’s when I see him, a protestor in the glaring spotlight on the other side of the fence.

  Shit.

  It’s not just a protestor. It’s Soheil.

  No. No. No.

  Of course he’s with the protestors. He would never walk away and just leave us here. My screams rip through my body, but he doesn’t hear me.

  He knows better. He’ll stop.

  Stop, Soheil. Please.

  He pushes past a cop, and for a fleeting second, our eyes meet.

  He skirts by the orange plastic barrier, then jumps toward the fence, like he’s going to scale it. Like he can bring it all down with the power of his leap. Caught in midair, like a ballet dancer, defying gravity.

  Soaring toward eternity.

&n
bsp; Like that poem. “Hope is the thing with feathers.”

  I watch his fingers reaching through the metal.

  The action swirls around me in slow motion. My focus blurs.

  A hum and a crackle.

  A sickening buzz.

  A bone-shattering scream.

  Then the air is thick with shouts like daggers.

  The guards, who were breaking up the protest inside the camp, sprint toward the fence. The hum stops.

  Too late.

  Soheil falls to the ground. His body jolts and then goes limp.

  Some jump to help him; others wrestle with the police.

  “Go! Go! Go!” I hear someone yell at the guards, who are spilling outside the gate to help the police control the Occupy protestors. They are outnumbered and overrun. Chaos, everywhere. People pushing, being shoved, and tripping all around me.

  All I see is Soheil and his beautiful, broken body.

  Someone jostles me from behind. I run.

  I dash for my trailer, tears blurring my vision while the horrible sound and image of Soheil on that fence engraves itself onto my brain and my heart. The swirling dust clings to my wet cheeks. Hundreds of people flood the Midway, rushing to the relative safety of their blocks. I lose myself in the crowd, and my mind swirls. David. My parents. Jake. Ayesha. Poor Ayesha. I can’t even remember if she was there, if she saw. I pray everyone is safe even as I know that no one is safe. Not anymore.

  Soheil.

  God. Why?

  And what about everyone else? Maybe the others have made it back to their trailers. It was dark while the guards were breaking up our demonstration; maybe most of the people got home without being recognized. Maybe they’ll be okay? A montage of images and sounds plays before my eyes: people getting hit and kicked by guards, hijabs and topis being torn off, and Soheil and that sound and his scream and that briefest of seconds when I saw him, right before. Bile rises in my throat.

  I need to go home. I want home. I want to sleep in my bed and wake up from this nightmare. But there is no home here. And I’m wide awake.

  I turn off the Midway toward my block and fall to my knees, grasping my stomach, and vomit in the dirt. I retch again and again, and when my stomach is empty, the dry heaves take over.

  “Layla!” my mom calls, and bends down next to me. She pulls my hair off my face and holds it back. She supports me while I try to balance on my knees.

  “Mom! Mom! Soheil—” I choke on my words.

  Her hazel eyes stare into my dark-brown ones. There is so much kindness and love in her gaze. She takes the hem of her shirt and wipes my face. Then she pulls me to her. “Shh. It’s okay, beta. I’m here.”

  “No, Mom. It’s not. Nothing will be okay ever again.” I pull my face away from her shoulder and look at her. “A protestor was killed. He ran onto the fence. It was… Soheil. The fence was still on, Mom. He—Soheil—he’s dead.”

  Mom blanches. She covers her hand with her mouth as she blinks back tears. Then she cups her hands together and looks into them; I do the same. Then she says, “We belong to Allah and to Him we shall return. May Allah have mercy upon Soheil and grant him the highest place in heaven.”

  “Ameen,” I say, my voice and hands trembling.

  Mom helps me stand up, and we walk toward the trailer. With each step, I feel like I will shatter, a glass figurine thrown to a tile floor. I suddenly realize that my dad is not with us.

  “Dad?” I ask.

  “He’s okay,” my mom says. “He went to look for you by the garden.”

  My mom helps me up the steps to the trailer. The door is pulled open. Dad is already inside, his face contorted with worry. I don’t say a word. I lurch toward the sink, afraid of throwing up again. My mom wets a washcloth and wipes down my face and hands. She helps me to a chair. My dad brings over a glass of water and urges me to take a tiny sip.

  My dad looks at my mom, confused. I hear her whisper to him, telling him what happened, what I saw. Then he kneels next to my chair and wraps an arm around me.

  He doesn’t ask me any questions. Neither does my mom. They sit with me, each holding my hand. Giving me the quiet space they know I need.

  I stand up. “I need a rinse,” I say. My mom nods. She lets me lean on her as she guides me the few steps to the shower.

  I step in and turn on the timer, hoping the water will turn hot. Mostly I want the water to seep into my pores so I can feel clean and free, but I’m not sure if that will ever be possible again. Maybe I’ll never leave this place.

  I dress and step back into the common room. My parents are waiting for me at the little table with a cup of tea and saltines. I sink into the chair.

  “Drink it,” my mother says in a voice that reminds me of when I was home sick from grade school. So soft. “Slowly.”

  I smile weakly. I can tell my parents are restraining themselves from asking me what happened, where I’ve been. I see the panic and exhaustion on their faces. And also the love. I wrap my fingers around the cup of tea; it warms my hands.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice raspy as I lift the mug to my lips with shaky hands. My mom drapes her arm around my shoulder as my dad pats my knee.

  Soheil’s face—his scream—won’t leave my mind. I have to find Ayesha. I don’t want to tell her. How can I tell her? But I want to be the one who—

  The door bursts open.

  My dad jumps up from his seat, blocking my view.

  Four men from the Director’s private security detail enter. “Layla Amin, the Director requests your presence in his office.”

  Drawn by my mom’s screams, people step out of their trailers as I’m escorted down the steps. My parents follow at my heels, and my dad reaches for my arm, but one of the security detail butts him in the chest with the end of his rifle. My dad falls, his head and shoulder slamming against the hard ground. He groans, bringing his hand up to cover his face.

  No. No. No.

  I try to pull away from the detail, but one of them twists my arm to keep me in place.

  “Ali!” my mom cries out, and rushes to my dad and takes his hand in hers. He turns to his side; there’s blood on his face. “You’re monsters!” my mom screams. “Get your hands off my daughter!”

  “Dad! Mom!” I scream as the Director’s men drag me away. My chest tightens. My knees begin to buckle, but one of the men yanks me back up. I strain my neck and see some people trying to help my parents.

  Then I see Ayesha. She runs down the block, calling my name. I haven’t seen her since we got separated. Does she know about Soheil yet? Has no one told her? My heart thrums in my ears, and my mind moves too fast for me to think straight. All I know is that I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Not because of me.

  “Go back!” I shout, fighting tears. “It’s okay.” Ayesha’s father grabs her and pulls her back. She screams and struggles against him. Her dad holds on to her. Good.

  Others yell down the block at the men dragging me away. The minders come out of their trailer and try to usher people back to their homes. But the clamoring grows louder as people start yelling at the minders as well. As we turn toward the Midway, a squad of guards rushes past me toward my block.

  “What are they going to do?” I ask in a raspy whisper. Everything is a blur around me, and I keep my eyes on the ground so I don’t get dizzy.

  One of them looks at me but doesn’t say a word.

  “Where are you taking me?” I continue.

  They ignore my questions. I’m invisible.

  My body goes limp. One of the Director’s henchmen holds me up, half dragging me forward. As we get farther from my block, the din dies down. People watch as the security team pulls me down the Midway. There are some murmurs, but the sound grows quieter the closer I get to the admin building, until all I hear are the scratchy sounds of my shoes scraping lines in the dirt as I’m led forward. The breathing of the security detail is loud in my ears, harsh and open-mouthed. No. That’s not their breathing; it’s mine. I s
hake my head, trying to focus, but my mind wanders back to Noor, Asmaa, Bilqis. When the guards hauled them down the Midway, they never came back.

  We all know there’s a holding cell at Mobius, but I have no idea where it is. The security detail walks me into the admin building through a dimly lit hallway, passing the Director’s empty office, and through a door I’ve never seen. Behind the door is a small windowless foyer, and down the hall are four doors with small rectangular windows about five feet up from the ground. The security detail deliver me to an Exclusion Guard in front of the first door and then turn on their heels and stomp away.

  I’m standing in the hall, wiping my forehead with a shaky hand, my knees so wobbly I’m amazed I’m still upright. The guard waits. I notice his angular jaw juts out as he clenches his teeth. It’s the only part of his body that moves. His freakish stillness has a kind of mesmerizing quality to it.

  The outside door to the building slams. No more echoing footsteps. It seems the security detail has departed.

  The guard puts a bottle of water in my hands.

  He opens the door to the cell. I walk in. The door closes with a loud thud. There’s a single cot to the side. It has a striped mattress with a thin, nearly see-through cotton sheet thrown over it; an Army-green cotton blanket is folded under the single pillow at the head. A small metal sink and toilet stand in the corner. A prison in a prison.

  I sit on the bed and grip the water bottle in my hands like it’s a life preserver and I’m drowning. But it’s only a piece of plastic that can’t hold me afloat. I look out the little window in the door and see the back of the guard’s head. I walk back to the bed and lie down with my face to the wall and pull my knees up into my chest.

  Breathe. I scan the bare walls, not quite knowing where to let my eyes rest. My head pounds, and every muscle in my body feels stretched too far. I walk over to the small sink and run my hands under the water to wash away the ever-present dirt on my fingers, tiny muddy rivulets carrying this place down the drain. I keep the water on until it runs clear. I take some tissue to blow my nose and wipe my face. I shiver. It’s hot outside, but in here, I’m freezing.