Internment

by Samira Ahmed

  Her mother screams, “No!”

  I jump out of line, throwing myself over Ayesha. Fauzia dashes over to stay Saleem’s hand.

  Saleem snatches his hand away and turns back to us as we rise from the dirt with the help of Ayesha’s parents. He points at Ayesha and me. “You’re nothing but a bunch of stupid children playing grown-up. You have no idea how much worse things could get for all of us.”

  “All of us?” I scream. “You threw your own people under the bus. You’re as bad as the Director. Worse.”

  “Shut your fucking trap,” Saleem rages. His face is red, and spit flies out of his mouth. He inches toward me.

  Khadijah auntie steps up behind him and thwacks him across the back with her cane. He spins around, nostrils flaring, fury in his eyes. “Back off, old woman, or you’ll be next.”

  Saleem’s wife clasps his hands and pulls him aside. “Stop—now, Saleem. This isn’t right.”

  “Besharam. You should be ashamed,” Khadijah auntie continues. Undeterred and apparently with a backbone like steel, she shakes her head at him, contempt in her voice. “You attack these girls? They are the only ones who have the courage to help us, to stand up to this tyranny. You brutalize your fellow Muslims, and you take pride in this behavior? You bring shame on your family and your people.”

  Saleem shoves his wife to the ground and advances on Khadijah auntie. I watch the scene unfold in slow motion. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone as graceful as this eighty-something-year-old woman, her body straight, her cane at her side, a spitfire glare on her face. Ayesha and I scurry to stop Saleem from hurting her. Others step in front of Saleem, and in the flurry of yells and moving bodies and rising dust, someone shoves him to the ground.

  The minder looks around, his eyes blinking wildly at the others on the block, now gathered in a semicircle around him. He scoots backward in the dirt and then stands, dusting himself off. “You’ll regret this. All of you.” He takes off running toward the Hub.

  We all stand there, looking at one another. Scared. At least that’s how I feel. But also exultant at a tiny, tiny victory.

  Khadijah auntie walks up to me and holds my hand and speaks in a soft, clear voice: “Do you remember your father’s words?”

  I shake my head, not sure what words she means.

  “It’s okay, beta.” She pats my hand and continues.

  We shall bear witness

  On the Night of Destiny.

  As a hush descends,

  And a prayer rises.

  There is only the listening, then,

  To the beating heart of the earth,

  And flashes of thunderous light in the heavens.

  It’s one of my dad’s poems. A lump swells in my throat. “Why are you reciting this to me now?” I whisper.

  Khadijah auntie smiles and nods, then squeezes my hand. “Your father is speaking to us. To you. You are the heartbeat. Now make us the lightning.”

  The people from our block nod, and tears spring to my eyes. I remember my dad reading from his poems to Mom and me. His voice comes back to me now like a bittersweet song.

  I was little and saw my mom’s eyes glassy with tears, but I didn’t quite understand. “Even if you don’t know what all the words mean, I hope you can close your eyes and feel the poem pulsing in your blood,” my dad said. Mom. Dad. I’ll find you. I won’t give up.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to Khadijah auntie, and give her a hug. Then I step back. “It’s not a single heartbeat that calls the storm. It’s the power of our voices joined together, demanding justice. It’s the thunder of our collective feet marching for our freedom.”

  I turn my gaze to the dozens of eyes on me. Khadijah auntie is right next to me, still holding my hand. “The Director is hiding in his office, surrounded by his private security. I guess the top brass from DC are coming today; that’s why we’re on lockdown. The press and the Occupy folks are all outside. I think we need to march to the front gate and demand to be released. People on the outside are turning against the Exclusion Laws, especially after Soheil—” My voice cracks. I take a breath. “Especially after Soheil was killed.”

  “It’s a death wish,” a voice calls out from the crowd. “That fence could still be live. They could shoot us.”

  “You can stay if you don’t want to join us. Little kids should stay behind, too,” Ayesha adds.

  “Look, I know it’s a risk and you’re all scared. I’m scared, too,” I continue. “I have no idea where my parents are, and I know that the Director and the Authority could do horrible things to all of us. But I also believe that some of the Exclusion Guards will not stand for any more of this, either. I’m not going to ask anyone to do something they don’t want to do. If you don’t want to go, I understand, but this is our chance. Maybe our only chance to be heard.”

  “We’re with you.” A couple steps forward. Then others.

  I turn to Ayesha and say, “Can you run to Block Eight and see if you can find Suraya, and grab anyone else who will come along?” Ayesha gives me a huge, reassuring smile.

  Her mom reaches out toward her. “Ayesha, wait. No.”

  Ayesha’s dad places a gentle hand on his wife’s arm. “Jaan, the children are right. I’ll go with her. I’ll keep her safe.” He and Ayesha hurry off in the direction of Block 8.

  I squeeze Khadijah auntie’s hand and look at her. “Please stay back and watch the children. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’ve done enough already.”

  “Beta, I am alone in this world, and I am at peace with God. When my time comes, it will come. Nothing you or I can do will stop that. I am with you.”

  I want to break down in tears of joy and relief and thanks, but we don’t have time for that, so I hug her and whisper a shukria in her ear.

  “So what should we do?” another voice asks.

  I pause for a moment and lick my chapped, scabbed lips. “We need to make some noise.”

  “But the Director will hear us coming.”

  “I want the whole world to hear us coming. Everyone, go back to your trailers and grab anything that can make noise. Pots, pans, spoons, whatever. We might not have weapons, but we have our voices. Let’s get loud.”

  There’s a smattering of claps and cheers as people rush off to grab their tools of protest. I watch everyone and look up to the sky. I pray. Really pray. “Please, God, keep us under your protection. Please let my parents be okay. Please let this work.”

  There are so many thoughts and images flooding my brain, but I try to push them aside. Focus. This is a half-assed plan, but in here, we’re the Resistance, and that’s all I have right now.

  When people emerge from their trailers, I thrust my shoulders back, trying to stand up straight. My lungs expand as I gulp in the air around me. I ask everyone staying behind with the kids to separate into groups and take cover in two trailers. People are milling around. I scan the scene: shaking hands, nervous smiles, grim faces, a group kneeling in prayer a few feet away, their hands cupped in front of them. I hear the melodic “ameens” and add my own. I wipe my clammy hands on my dusty jeans and clear my throat.

  Then I hear them—the muted thump of footsteps in the dirt coming around the corner.

  My heart jumps. Guards. I clench my fists and try to steel myself.

  But it’s not guards with Tasers and guns and hate in their hearts who round the corner. It’s not Them. It’s Us. It’s Ayesha and Suraya. Nadia and Nadeem. It’s girls in hijab and girls with their hair whipping across their faces and girls with shaved heads. It’s parents and grandparents. It’s young men wearing colorful dashikis and white cotton kurtas and concert T-shirts. It’s straight couples and queer couples and friends and strangers and families connected by blood or circumstance. Here we all are. Brown. Black. White. There must be at least fifty people, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The groups from the different blocks mingle. Smiling, clasping hands, patting one another on the back. My heart swells.

  From
many, we are one.

  I wish Soheil were here to see this. Maybe, in a way, he is.

  Ayesha’s and Suraya’s smiling faces shine as they approach me.

  “So, we hear you want a revolution.” Suraya hugs me. “We’re here.”

  “I know,” I whisper to her. I straighten up and stand on the step in front of the nearest trailer.

  “You might need this.” Fauzia passes a small bullhorn to me. “Press that red button when you speak.” I don’t have time to really be in shock at her gesture, but I’m sure it registers on my face.

  I nod at the minder. I hold up the bullhorn, looking at the anxious, bright faces in front of me. I hesitate, then clear my throat. “I haven’t really given any pep talks or lead-the-troops-into-battle kind of rousing speeches.” My eyes dart to Ayesha and Suraya, who smile and raise their fists to encourage me. I pause for a moment and remember this one smile my mom has that warms her eyes, a smile reserved for me. Especially in middle school, whenever I felt a little lost or discouraged, she was there for me, knowing what I needed without my having to say it.

  I keep going. “But I know that America is built on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All those things have been ripped away from us, and I believe that every American who came before us, who stood up to oppression, who fought to guarantee our right to religious freedom, is looking down on us and telling us to rise up, to speak out, to shout our names to the world. We stand on the shoulders of giants. We are Americans. We make America great. This is our country. And we’re taking it back.”

  People clap and cheer. My heart pounds as I step down and walk to the front of the block. Ayesha and her father, Suraya, and Khadijah auntie join me in the front line, walking forward, and the others follow. We turn onto the Midway, banging our pots and pans and spoons, drawing attention from some of the other internees who were standing around their blocks. Some merely watch. Others run to join us.

  I turn to face the growing crowd. Walking backward, I raise the bullhorn to my lips, remembering all the protestors who came before us. I shout, “The people united will never be defeated!”

  A chorus of voices rises up, echoing the words.

  As we head toward the front of the Hub, other internees step into the group, and the Occupiers make noise to join our march. Camera operators rush toward the fence, scooting around the orange plastic barriers. Others follow. This time the police don’t hold the protestors back. The electricity must be off. Small victories.

  We march up to the fence so the Occupiers can see us. Then, together, we turn to face the Hub. People continue banging their pots, shouting to make their voices heard. I raise my fist in the air to quiet them. A phalanx of the Director’s security detail stomps out and takes up position in front of the Hub doors.

  Dozens of Exclusion Guards rush over, but there’s confusion. Some join the line of the Director’s private security. But Jake and maybe six or seven other guards stand by me and the other internees, facing their fellow soldiers. After the dust from all the shuffling settles, a silence comes over the desert. I sense the cameras on me, and feel the desperate hope of everyone who stands with me today. The weight of this moment could crush us all. I wish my parents were here with me, at my side. We have to do this for all our sakes, but in my heart I know I’m doing it for them. My breathing feels shaky, shuddery. Jake takes up position next to me, pressing his arm into mine, bolstering my resolve. I clench my left fist.

  I raise the bullhorn to my lips. “We demand that the gates of Mobius be opened,” I begin. I pause and shuffle my feet. My stomach quivers. I’m begging myself not to throw up. Out of the corner of my left eye, I see Ayesha, Suraya, and Khadijah auntie. And though I can’t see him, I know David’s eyes are on me. I clear my throat again. Breathe. “We are Americans.”

  Cheers from my fellow internees. I repeat. “We are Americans!” This time shouts from the Occupy protestors join ours. “We demand to be released! We demand our freedom!” People shout and bang their pots and raise their fists in the air.

  I pause, wait for quiet.

  “We know you’re hiding in there, Director. We know you’re scared of us.” I’m goading him. A part of me isn’t sure how wise this is, but my memory overflows with the horrifying sound of his voice in my ear, and the stinging slap that busted my lip, and the cruel grimace on his face. I clench my left hand tighter; my nails bite into my skin. My pulse pounds, and I explode, “Come out! Face us, COWARD!”

  For a second, everything is still. My call ricochets across the camp and into the canyons.

  The door to the Hub flies open.

  My parents are shoved out.

  Two of the Director’s security guys walk out behind them, holding guns to the backs of their heads.

  My heart stops. My mouth drops open, but words are beyond me right now.

  Gasps and shouts come from the crowd behind me.

  My mom’s hair is disheveled, her eyes wild with fear. My dad has bruises on his face, and he stands with his shoulders slightly slumped; he’s holding his right arm up at a weird angle.

  I reach a hand out toward my parents across the distance. My mom reaches back. But we can’t bridge this gap.

  The Director slithers out from behind them, glaring at me—his suit wrinkled, his face beet-red. “Is this what all the ruckus is about, Miss Amin? Your precious parents? Well, here they are. None the worse for wear. It would be a terrible shame if your actions today caused them any harm. Now, if you break up this little demonstration and beg for my forgiveness, perhaps everyone can walk away from this foolishness alive. Your choice.” The Director takes a step back, next to the men who are holding guns to my parents’ heads. He bares his teeth like a small, angry animal.

  I swallow. I close my eyes and desperately search for the words I need. My insides twist and tighten. He thinks he’s won. I won’t let him win. I lift my head and gesture toward the fence, toward the Occupy protestors and the media. I pray this works.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” I say into the bullhorn.

  “Then their blood will be on your hands,” the Director yells at me. He knows just where to stab.

  “And then what? You can’t kill us all. Are you forgetting the cameras? The world is watching you, Director.” The Director takes a step back to eye the press and the hundreds of Occupiers on the other side of the fence. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He opens his mouth to speak. But he says nothing. Slowly he steps behind my parents, gesturing the security detail with guns aside.

  I hold my breath.

  He shoves my parents down the stairs. They trip and fall into the dust. I want to run to them, but Jake holds me back and motions for two of the guards from our side to help them up. I suppose men with guns are better protection than I am. My parents rush over. Mom grabs me and holds me, and Dad wraps one arm around both of us.

  “Are you okay?” I croak. I’m trying to stop myself from shaking. I’m willing my knees not to give out. My mom nods and kisses my cheeks, but my dad’s arm doesn’t look right. Ayesha and Suraya step out and help my parents find a spot behind me; a few people gather around them.

  The Director takes it all in as he moves to stand behind his security team. He points a meaty finger at me, and his spite-filled eyes bulge out of his head. “There. You’ve made your little demonstration. I’ve given you your precious reunion. Now scurry back into your ratholes, where you all belong, and you won’t be responsible for anyone else getting hurt.” His words hit me like an anvil. I shift from one foot to the other and swallow. I glance back at my parents. They look so broken, but there’s a shimmer of pride in their eyes. Jake cups my elbow to steady me.

  I take a deep breath. “We’re not leaving until those gates are opened and we can all walk out together,” I bark into the bullhorn.

  “I suggest you look around,” the Director yells, waving his arm over the camp, addressing the internees. “That electric fence? That barbed wire? These men with guns? They’re here to k
eep you inside. To protect America from you. You are enemies of the state to the strongest country in the world. And what? You propose to take over this camp with pots and pans and a little girl leading you? You’re fools. Disband. Now.” He pauses. “Or there will be consequences. My mercy has limits.”

  A murmur moves across the crowd like a wave, but no one moves.

  Then a silvery voice from the middle of the crowd yells out, “The people united will never be defeated!”

  And that’s all I need. I yell into the bullhorn, “You’re done, Director. You’re over. We will bury you.” My mom reaches out and grazes my back with the tips of her fingers.

  The Director steps forward, fists clenched, sweat shining on his forehead. His chest moves up and down, and his nostrils flare like he’s breathing fire.

  The entire camp hushes—the protestors, even the wind. I hear the faint click and zoom of the cameras beyond the fence. My throat is parched, and my heart pounds in my ears. I glance skyward, praying for a storm, a rain to wash away the hate and dust and pain. An epic flood to wipe Mobius off the map and let us start the world anew. I feel so small. And scared.

  I allow my eyelids to flutter closed for a flash, a tiny reprieve from the scorching sun. And in that second, I hear David’s voice, feel his hand pulling me into some imaginary portal that will take us back in time to the pool house, before the Exclusion Authority came and burned the world down. In this time slip, I’m there with David in the low light of flickering candles and fireflies. Everything is like it used to be, before all this. Maybe if I keep my eyes closed, this version of the world will vanish, and Mobius and the Exclusion Laws will fade into the smoky blur of my nightmares. I think of all the people throughout history who found themselves in a place like this, stepping out from the shadows, raising their voices. Finding their courage, facing their fears so that they could be free. There were so many we lost, the ones who were taken, cut down, for the color of their skin, or the religion they practiced, or the person they loved.