Color Me Blue

by Ragnhild Yndestad

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh my God. Prison would have been better.”

  “Why on earth would you read that book? Why would you read a book in the first place? You have Kindle.”

  I can’t explain. I just shake my head.

  “What was it about?” she asks next, her voice suddenly a whisper. We both look around in the room, to make sure there are no listeners. To simply talk about a flagged item is not a problem in itself, but you always have to be careful.

  “It was about the issues of race and class in the USA, from the time before, you know, in 1930 or something.”

  She frowns.

  “But that has been solved ages ago. Our society is much better now. African Americans have had equal rights for years.”

  I nod.

  “I know, but it is not so much about African Americans as it is about people in general.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t know.”

  I quickly change the conversation into a safer topic. No ripples.

  Now, you might wonder why I am not guarded. Why I, in peace the night before my shipping, can go unattended to a friends house. There are two reasons for that. The first, and the most important one, is; Where would I run to? There are no wilds anymore. There are people living everywhere, the same strict society no matter where your head turns. The only place to run to would be The East. And that is basically where I am going anyway, since The Camps are by the border. The second reason is that it is, after all, only ten days. Ten days, and my life will be normal again. If I am lucky, the mental troubles afterward will be minimal. Ten days is not worth throwing away your whole life for. I hope.

  I try my best to keep the conversation with Jenny normal. Speak about normal things. Such as likes, what to post and what not to post, or the latest scandal on Social Media. But no matter how hard I try, the conversations all die out. Jenny is not cooperating. I can already feel her draw away from me. Maybe she is scared for me, and this is a way of protecting herself, by distancing herself from me. I can not blame her for that. The Camps are very real. It is not something you can simply post. It is complicated and cruel and very real. It does not fit into our world. Or her world.

  Still, she gives me a hug before we part. Wishing me good luck. I ask if we can keep in touch while I am down there. There are no rules against bringing a phone. She says yes, but I can tell she is lying. The way she looks away when she says it.

  I leave.

  5

  That night, I can not sleep. Panic attacks roll through me, like ice cold waves pulling me under. I have terrible visions of what the next days will hold, I imagine the most terrible things, hearing Jenny’s voice ringing in my ears. You could be raped. You could be killed. I guess the severity of the situation has not occurred to me completely before now. It has all happened so fast, my mind is still hanging back in the normal, safe routines of everyday life.

  I check my phone regularly through the night to see the time. 6 more hours, 5, 4, 3 more hours. The panic fills me. Until now, I had not believed that anxiety and panic attacks could really be so bad, but they are much worse than I thought. Like cold knives stabbing in my chest and my heart trying to flee my body. I drift in and out of sleep. I need sleep. Who knows if I will have any in The Camps? The anxiety follows me into my dreams, visualizing itself in nightmares. When my alarm goes off at five in the morning, I feel even more tired than when I went to bed. I feel like a man headed for a hanging, I feel envious for those who, in this instant, wake up to go to their regular jobs or schools. I can’t believe I did not appreciate such everyday life before.

  I walk into the bathroom. My body, my hands, are shaking so bad everything becomes a struggle. Foam is flying everywhere when I brush my teeth. Pulling up my pants becomes almost impossible, since my grip keeps losing, and the pants fall down, again and again. I try to be brave, but my mind is so scattered it is impossible to gather it into anything rational or inspiring. I have never heard of anyone from The West dying in The Camps, at least. So I guess that is something.

  I pull my hair back into a ponytail, trying to make myself feel more awake, more alert. I took psychology in high school, and I remember reading that ‘fake it till you make it’ actually works, that your behavior can trick your brain into feeling the way you behave. I smile to myself in the mirror, but it looks more like a grimace. I pull on my jacket, shoes, phone in pocket, and leave.

  The police car is waiting outside. Sleek and black, with a white and blue symbol on each door, as well as white and blue lights on the roof, for the moment, turned off. White and blue, the colors of The West. A man in uniform comes out, grabs my suitcase, and puts it in the truck. I stand by hesitantly, watching him. I know my face must be very pale, as my heart pounds the blood to my muscles, leaving nothing for the skin in my face. He then takes a firm grip on my shoulders and escorts me into the back seat. I can hear the car door lock immediately after he closes it. There is a fence between the back seat and the front. To my surprise, I feel better. I do not have any power back here, in this small trap of a car. Here, there is no chance at all to run away. It feels like I am a robot, simply following orders. In psychology, it was called behaviorism. It said we were simply animals responding to the environment, that we did not think. I liked that theory. It takes away your responsibility. Go with the flow, not make any ripples.

  We drive in silence. The engine is very quiet. I look out the window, seeing the light of the city flash before my eyes, it is still dark. I long for the next time I will see this view. In a little more than ten days. Then what I am dreading now will only be a memory, over. But I try not to think too much about that, it is too painful, and my whole body is focused on what lays in my nearest future. The drive feels long. I read once that a man headed for a hanging feels that he still has endless time. That there are still three more corners, still four more houses to pass along the way, still ten more steps.

  Then the airport stretches out before my eyes, rows of big, white buildings, and a high glass tower touching the sky. A plane is coming in for landing as I watch.

  The policeman opens the door again and lets me out. There is no need for handcuffs. He knows I have nowhere to go. He gives me back my small suitcase, and once again takes a grip on my shoulder, not too keep me from going anywhere, but I think it is symbolic, a power kind of thing. He takes me through the glass door, through the big main hall. I stand back as my suitcase is being checked in. We do not have to stand in line. The other passengers move quickly when they see the uniform, staring at me curiously. I think they can guess where I am headed. I would. How desperately I envy them. Wherever they are going, it must be better than my destination.

  We walk quickly through the security. I have to give away my jacket and my phone, and walk slowly through a metal detector. I shiver, feeling cold and vulnerable without my jacket on, and sigh with relief when I get it back. The policeman steers me down the long, white corridors. I notice there is a smell of fresh paint in the air, and see that the whiteness on the walls is especially crisp. It must be new.

  As we pass a small café, I ask if I may eat something. He looks at me, surprised, says that there are very few who can manage to eat something, anything, before going to the border. It’s not like I am hungry. My stomach feels like a nut. Small and hard, with no room in it. But I know I must eat, I will be needing my strength, and I’ve heard that there is very little to eat down there. So, since we have the time, I am allowed to sit down for a few minutes and nibble on a bread roll, with a slice of cheese and ham on it. My mouth is so dry, I am scared the food will get stuck in my throat and strangle me. After every bite I have to take a sip of water from a small water bottle, to make the food wet and mushy before I swallow, instead of using spit. The policeman sits beside me. We do not speak. He does not look at me, and I only send small, scared glances in his direction. I try to look around instead, trying to find something interesting to dis
tract myself with, but everywhere I just see passengers staring at me, eyeing me. It makes me feel worse, like a target.

  In the end, I only look down on the table, watching my own little finger make small, invisible circles on the plastic.

  Then we walk to the gate. My heart beats faster for every step, but like a man on his way for a hanging, I comfort myself by saying that it is still one more flight after this. And that is what the policeman says too, when we reach the gate.

  “This flight will last about four to five hours. It will take you closer to the border. Another officer will meet you at the next airport and escort you to the next plane, that will take you directly to the border.”

  I nod.

  “Say that you understand.”

  “I understand.”

  It does not sound like me anymore. The tones are different, like a scream being whispered into words.

  We wait. The minutes pass by, so slowly, slowly, ten minutes, and then it is boarding. I don’t have to wait in line here either, a woman quickly rushes me to the front, scanning my ticket, and follows me into the plane, where I am the first to be seated. So I guess that is an advantage, at least. You may be killed and raped, and you will starve, but at least you do not have to wait in line for it.

  I sit stiffly in my seat. I was lucky to have a window seat, up front in the cabin. I have always liked plane windows. They look so cute. Small and round, like the eyes of some baby animal. I lift up my hand and let my fingers touch the glass. It feels very thin beneath my fingertips. It seems incredible to think the kind of power, the pressure and the wind, these small sweet windows manages to keep out.

  This is where I keep my focus as the other passengers board. On the window, and the freedom outside. At least I think it is freedom. Still, I can feel their eyes burning on my body, touching my skin with their prejudice. They must think I am a hardcore criminal, or maybe insane. I do not feel like I fit into any of those categories. I wonder what they would have said if I told them it was all because of a book. They probably would not have believed me, or they would have put me in the second category, insane.

  The two seats next to me remain empty.

  6

  I close my eyes as the plane takes off. My whole body is being pushed back against the seat from the force, as the tip of the plane lifts up, up, up. I have never been scared of flying, but I have always found the take-off part a little uncomfortable. It makes me dizzy. Then the plane stabilizes itself, and I relax. Again, I have no power here. I only have one task, and that is to sit here for the next several hours. Simply sit, and look out the window. It is not difficult, I tell myself. I can do that.

  As time passes, I long for my Kindle. I left it back home. I don’t know why. Nobody said I could not bring it, I simply would not. I didn’t think I would be relaxed enough anyway to be able to read. It is difficult, if not impossible, to disappear into another story, when your own life suddenly demands your undivided attention. So instead, I lean back in my seat, feeling a little tired. The restlessness I usually feel doing nothing is gone. I close my eyes.

  You are now probably wondering what The Camps consist of. I know this book I am writing will never be published, The West would never allow it, but I keep thinking about you, you, a reader, reading my words, and in my head I picture you as someone from another time, or world, who knows nothing about my world. So I will explain. As I have written before, The East is being torn apart by war, starvation, and even genocides. For years, thousands of people, millions probably, have fled these wars and this way of living. And the only way to run is westwards. But here comes the tricky part. The West despises The East. They despise everything with it, especially their hold of traditional values and inefficiency. Their people are considered people only in theory. In practice, they are nothing more than animals, wild and disgusting. They rape, and steal, and fight. To let them into our societies would have been a disaster. That is what they say, The Government, the politicians. That is the Public Opinion. They come to The West, to steal from us and take advantage of our hard work. They are evil. They will not contribute to our society, only take our goods and give us nothing. They are inhuman, they have no humanity, no empathy. Therefore, they are not allowed into our countries. Instead, they are gathered in terrible, lawless camps by the border, to live out their years, unless they choose to go back to The East. But still they come. I have always wondered why. I have seen the pictures in the news, of The Camps. Dirty tents, coldness. They are crowded, many more thousands of people living there than it was intended to. They know this, and still they come. The politicians say it is because they are stupid, unintelligent. That they still want to believe they will have a great, perfect life if they come. What else than stupidity can make them believe such a thing? The Government asks. I don’t know the answer. If The Government says so, they are probably right. No ripples. They are wild animals and a threat to our communities and we, therefore, have to keep them in The Camps to protect ourselves.

  But these camps need workers. Just a few, to keep it a little organized, at least. I do not know exactly what kind of work, but I think it is simply handing out clothes and ration the scarce food. And these workers are made up by criminals of The West, seen temporarily unfit to live with the rest of us, and as punishment they are sent to The Camps to do this work. The dirty work. I have heard that people sent to The Camps struggle real hard afterward. I have heard they never come back the same. In the news, there is regularly posted about one of these so-called animals getting lose and committing a rape, a murder, a theft. That is why it is so dangerous to be near them. And this is where I am going.

  Since the border on land is heavily guarded and secured behind high electric fences, they come by boat across the sea. They are poor, and the boats are even poorer, simple rubber boats unfit to carry so many. Most of them drown, their boats become overpowered by the waves. Occasionally, the boats are spotted by a patrol, and the coast guard takes them back to the eastern bank. The Camps are therefore located by the ocean, on islands by the border. This is where most of the boats land. In the beginning, many years ago, they were all sent back immediately, but too many boats came, and The Camps grew and became permanent. Sometimes I feel bad for them, but it is rarely, and I try to put that feeling away. It goes against the Public Opinion, and besides, they choose it for themselves. They can always go back to The East.

  7

  Halfway through the flight, I open my eyes again. I must have fallen asleep, lost in thought. A flight attendant brings me some food, and asks what I want to drink. She treats me cautiously. It is clear she does not really want to serve me. I ask if I can have some wine. Maybe it’s a smart move to self-medicate myself a bit, to take the edge of my fear. She frowns, but eventually gives me a small plastic bottle of white wine, a sandwich and some water. I eat slowly, chewing each bite carefully, enjoying it, trying to make time pass. The wine is surprisingly good. It tastes almost fresh, fruity. I drink it slowly, until my head feels comfortable, dull and light, and my tense muscles relax, the tiniest bit. I feel strong enough now, after eating, to look around at the other passengers. I wonder what they are doing here. The countries by the border lay in the south, so they used to be popular holidaying places to go to before The Camps came so close. To some people they still are, because they are cheap, even though it is a part of The West.

  It seems the other passengers have grown tired of looking at me, so I can look at them without the risk of meeting a pair of staring eyes. Everyone has their necks bent forward, in an angle that seems almost a bit hopeless. They look down into their laps, where some kind of touch screens lay, playing music, displaying books, or maybe a game. Everyone is wearing earplugs. They do not get to enjoy the silence of the cabin, like me.

  I turn my head back to the window, remembering how as a child I thought you could walk on clouds, imagining how soft they must be to step on, probably softer than grass. Even now, as an adult, I take myself in wishing to touch them, one of the
clouds passing by, though I know I would not feel anything except cold, moist air. Still, it looks so peaceful up here, above the clouds. The whole world beneath could have disappeared, and we would not have noticed.

  The plane starts to move closer to the ground, and then a voice over the speakers says we are going in for landing. The drowsiness inside my head vanishes in an instant, I feel sober, my muscles tighten as if preparing for a fight.

  I look out the window, at the ground growing bigger, coming closer, and I shut my eyes as the plane hits the ground with a startling shake, and I am pushed forward in my seat, held in place only by the seat belt.

  We tax slowly, slowly towards the gate. I have come to the conclusion that most airports look the same. The same bunch of white buildings, the same long runaways. The only thing different is the grass. The grass is always different. In my city, it is very green, and the leaves are thick. Here, the green color is paler, as if reduced by the stronger sun, and each leaf is tinier, smaller.

  I have to wait, for once, until all the other passengers have left the plane. Once again, they are eyeing me, while passing by. Then a flight attendant escorts me out, down a long corridor with glass walls, and into the airport where another policeman is waiting. It could have been the same man from before, they do not look any different to me once they are in uniform. This man also takes me by the shoulder, though holding a little harder than the first. My heart responds instantly to the touch, fluttering like a caged, frightened bird in my chest. There are a few hours to wait, it seems. We, once again, go through a much more thorough security check. I hand in my phone for checking, while a woman takes a scanner up and down my whole body, not missing a single centimeter. I even have to open my mouth and let her peer into it with a flashlight. Then they give me my phone back and we continue walking, to an empty gate this time, sitting down in one of the hard, blue plastic chairs, to wait. The man beside me does not seem to mind sitting like this, waiting, but to me this is almost torture, to simply sit here and wait to go to that place, The Camps. It is like having an evaluation at school. The waiting is always the hardest part.