by Dave Eggers
Teshnuba and I, all by ourselves, got in this elevator. We went up, and we went into this large room that was divided into smaller holding cells. The cells didn't have bars, but were enclosed with glass. They put us into our own cell. From there, we saw a bunch of men in one of the other cells, all yelling and screaming and talking, all in orange jumpsuits. Teshnuba and I just looked at each other. She said to me, "You put me on a list?"
I said, "No! They said you put me on a list." We both realized they had been trying to set us up. So, they didn't have anything on us. They'd come for her early in the morning, too. They didn't detain any of her parents, they just detained her. Later I found out why they'd taken my dad. After I'd been reported as a a suicide bomber, the FBI started investigating my whole family. That's how they found out about my dad being here without papers.
Teshnuba and I were then trying to figure out what was going on, what they were going to do, if they were going to release us.
That's when a lady walked in. She said, "What are you guys in for?"
We said, "We don't know."
"I hear you guys did something."
"What did we do?" We were asking her for information.
She said, "We're going to take you to Pennsylvania."
Teshnuba and I looked at each other, like, Pennsylvania? I said, "What are we going to do in Pennsylvania?"
She answered, "They didn't tell you? There's a detention center there."
You No Longer Have Rights
The FBI drove us to Pennsylvania, across state lines, without my parent's permission. We got to the juvenile detention center late at night. When the FBI agents dropped us off, I wanted to scream, "Please don't leave us!" I didn't want to be left there. I didn't know where I was. There were too many faces for one night for me.
The female guard told me and Teshnuba we had to get strip searched. We said that was against our religion.
The guard said, "It's either that or we hold you down."
I said, "Hold me down and do what? I'm not doing a strip search." I'm stubborn like that, but I was in a situation where I had no choice.
So, she said, "Who wants to go first?"
Teshnuba went first. They searched her hair, checked her body parts; they checked everything. She then had to take a shower and change into a uniform they gave her, and then she had to go. When they took her downstairs, the guard said, "Okay, your turn."
The guard stood there and said, "You're going to have to take off everything. Take off whatever you feel comfortable with first."
I said, "I can't do this. I can't." I was in tears. My own mother doesn't look at me naked. It's my privacy. I said, "It must be against some law for you to do this to me."
She said, "No, It's not. You no longer have rights."
"Why not? What did I do?"
"You're just going to have to take your clothes off."
I was crying, but she just looked at me and said, "Kids here sneak in things and I have to search you."
I had on my abaya, and that was the first thing I took off. Second thing I took off was my head scarf. Third thing I took off was my top. Fourth was my bra. I stopped there for the longest minutes. I was with my hands across my chest, just to get that little dignity for myself.
She said, "Come on, I don't have all day."
I said, "I can't do this, I can't, I can't."
"Drop your pants."
So, I took off my pants, I took off my underwear, and I kept my legs closed against each other, trying to cover myself. I was just holding myself with the little bit I could.
She said, "You cannot do that. You have to let loose, or else I'll call another guard and we'll hold you down and search you. This is your last warning. If you want me to call someone in, I'll call them in right now but it's not gonna be nice. We're going to hold you down and search you."
I said, "Okay." I let go of my arms.
She said, "Lift your breasts."
I lifted my breasts.
She said, "Open your legs more."
I opened my legs.
She said, "Put your hands in there, to see there's nothing."
I said, "There's nothing there!"
She said, "Just do it."
I did it.
She said, "Turn around, put your hands up."
I did that.
Then she said, "Alright, now put your fingers to your hair, pull at your ears. Show me your ears, open your mouth."
I showed my mouth.
"Show me your nose."
I put my finger up my nose, put it up so she could see.
Then she gave me a blue uniform: sweat pants, socks, underwear, a bra, and a hair tie and a little towel and wash cloth. She told me to take a shower in five minutes, and then she left.
I knew I only had five minutes, but I just sat at the corner of the shower and just held myself and cried. I was thinking, I cannot believe what I just went through. I'm just crying and crying and crying. I don't know how long, but then I just told myself that I had to get up. I washed myself really quickly. I've never felt like I needed God more than anything than this day. So, I did ghusul, which is like a special shower for prayer. I prayed, "God, you've got to hear me for this one. I've never asked for anything that I desperately needed but this one."
I dried myself and put my clothes on. There was a little mirror there. I looked into it. My eyes were red from crying.
The guard returned and told me I had to take off my head scarf. I said, "It's part of my religion." And, I was having a bad hair day, I was not ready to show my hair. She let me keep the scarf, but later the supervisor took it from me once she saw me.
I was then taken to my cell. As we walked, the guard said, "You must keep your hands to your side at all times." You had to look straight, you couldn't look anywhere else. There were cameras everywhere, but I wasn't listening, I was looking around.
I still didn't know why I was there. I didn't know if it was immigration or if it was for the stuff they were interrogating me about. When I got to the cell, all the lights were out. I could see Teshnuba in the corner, praying. There was one blanket, and it was freezing cold in there.
We stayed up the whole night talking about everything. I found out her mom had just had a baby; my mom had just had a baby too. She was the oldest, I was the oldest. I asked her age, she asked my age. I asked what school she went to, what she was studying, what she wanted to do with her life.
We were laughing like, "Pinch me. This is a prank."
She said, "Maybe it will be all be straightened out by tomorrow."
I don't know how we fell asleep but I remember at one point, we were both crying.
There Goes a Terrorist
I was just so angry, and I was trying to contain all this anger. I was so mad at America as a country. I remember the first morning in detention, we went for breakfast and we were supposed to salute the American flag. I'm like, "Fuck the American flag. I'm not saluting it." I said it. During the pledge I put my hands to my side, and I just looked out the window.
Each morning I did that. I remember one of the guards asking me, "How come you don't pledge allegiance?"
I said, "You guys said it yourself. I am not American."
Nobody told me what was going on. I wasn't brought before a judge until probably my fourth week there, and it was via video conference.
An article came out in New York Times about why Teshnuba and I were there, that we were suspected of being suicide bombers. I never saw the article while in prison. I saw it when I came out. After the guards read what happened, things changed. They would whisper, "There goes a terrorist or, "There go those girls."
After the article came out we got extra strip searches, about three times a day, and the searches got stricter. They would tell us to spread our butt cheeks, and they made nasty, racist comments. I remember the guards laughing, and going, "Look at those assholes. Look at them. These are the ones that want to take our country down." Things like that.
If I talked
back, they would tackle me down and I would be put into solitary. All I wanted to do was get out. I knew that I was going to have to take shit from everyone, because I did not want to be in solitary confinement.
We also lost a lot of privileges because of the head scarf. We weren't allowed to use the bathroom privately. So when I had to go, I was like, "I hope I stink this place up, I pray that my shit would make this place close down or something. I hope my poop brings toxins."
I remember even having tissue stuck up my butt when somebody did a strip search once, and I did it on purpose. I was like, "I hope after this, they'll think, I will never want to strip search her again. It didn't work. I still got strip searched. I even tried leaving caca there. I tried everything.
Those first three weeks I was there, my family didn't have any idea where I was. They had to do research and find out, and hire a lawyer. The lawyer, Natasha, came to see me at the detention center. She asked me, "Do you know why you're here?"
I said no.
"There's a rumor going around about you being a suicide bomber."
I laughed so hard.
She said, "That's not funny."
I said, "Are you serious or are you joking? If you knew me, you would laugh and say 'Hell no'."
I have a family, I am somebody. I wanted to live. I said, "I'm not ready to meet God yet."
She said, "But they're not charging you with anything except overstaying your visa."
My mom came to visit me after my lawyer. She was so skinny. You could just tell she wasn't eating. It was the worst visit ever because she didn't want to say anything at all. When I asked about my dad, she just said, "He's fine." She knew that he was being held in New Jersey at the time. I just knew that she was upset. She was so drained out.
A Way to Get Me Out
After a while, my lawyer called. She said she had good news. "I have a way to get you out of jail. You're going to have to wear an ankle bracelet."
I said, "I'll wear anything."
The day that I was supposed to be released from the detention center, I said goodbye to Teshnuba in the cafeteria. I wanted to hold her and let her know it was going to be okay. But I couldn't hug her, or it would've been solitary confinement for her. So I looked at her and I said, "May Allah be with you, and be patient." And I walked away.
I haven't spoken to Teshnuba since then. She'd told me that her mother made an agreement with the federal government. If they re-leased her daughter, they would go back to their country, no problems. I think their country was Bangladesh. So as soon as she was re-leased, it was right to the airport.
I stayed there six and a half weeks. By the time I came out, I was seventeen.
Federal agents picked me up. This guard walked past, and he said, "Arrest that fucking nigger, terrorist." But I didn't give a damn, I was so excited I was leaving. The whole world could burn down, but as long as I was leaving, I didn't care.
Home Again
As soon as we got to New York, I was just so excited and happy to be home again that I forgot I had to wear an ankle bracelet. I thought everything was going to go back to normal, but in a way, I knew deep down inside things would never be normal again, because I was so traumatized.
We came back to my house. My mom had to sign papers, and they released me. They put the ankle bracelet on the same day.
Once a week I had to report to Federal Plaza so they could check the bracelet. When I got there, I recognized it was the building where my father and I had been taken to a few months ago. I just looked at it and my heart just started beating so fast. It just triggered the memory, and I started to cry so badly I just could not control it. It was one of the most traumatizing moments of my life.
I wore the ankle bracket for three years. You can still see my bruises from it. My heel always hurts. This is all black from the ankle bracelet. I had to wear the bracelet and check in every week. I also had to be under curfew, which was 10:00 P.M. and then 11:00 P.M.
Every night our phone would ring, and I would have to press this button and they would have to hear it. I wouldn't get any sleep. The man who put the bracelet on me told me, "If you take it off, we're going to put you in jail. If your phone is off, you're going to jail."
That was the best threat you could ever make to me. I did everything possible not to tamper with it, just to keep it on.
They never said how long I would have to wear it. It was pending my immigration case. I was only ever charged with overstaying my visa, that's it. I was never charged with anything related to terrorism. They wanted to deport me.
For days, my mom didn't want to talk because she thought they were recording us with the ankle bracelet. She was always like, "Shh, shh."
I'd say, "They're not listening."
I didn't know if they weren't listening, and I didn't care. I'd get on the phone with Demaris, my friend from high school, and we would say things on purpose like, "Fuck the government!"
I Miss Him Being the One Who Took Care of Everything
My dad got deported around 2006. It was the hardest.
I didn't see him for a long time after I got released from juvi. He was in New Jersey. I wasn't allowed to go, because it was outside the distance I could travel with my ankle bracelet. My mom and my siblings were able to visit, but they couldn't go a lot because it was a lot of money to get out there.
They made an exception to let me travel to New Jersey, just before he was deported. I couldn't look at him. I was just crying the whole time.
He said, "I hope you take care of the family. It's your job." It's always about, "It's your job, it's your responsibility, you're the next person in line."
I miss a lot about my dad. I miss his company. I even miss him yelling at me. My brothers and sister, we used to walk around saying our dad was a dictator. But we needed him. I just miss him being the one who took care of everything. I didn't have to worry about everything; no bills, no nothing.
We Were Starving
I thought I was going to be able to come back to school, the government was going to apologize and write me a check, and I was set for life. But it was the opposite way around. When I came back, I had to drop school to work to support my family. No way my dad can work in Guinea; there are no jobs there. So I support my father, his family, my mom's family, and I support my family here too.
I would work three or four jobs, whatever job I could find—babysitting jobs, cleaning houses. I worked at an interpretive service for a while, until I found out that could get me back in jail, because I had no documentation.
Sometimes we were starving. For days there would be no food in the house. Finally we met a social worker who told us we could get public assistance. Nobody tells you about this stuff.
I started feeling distance from my friends because I was going through something that none of my friends went through. I was growing up really quickly, maturing so fast.
Everything that I do in life is to take care of my family. Everything revolves around them. My family here wouldn't be able to stand on their own feet, not without me. I didn't want my brother and my sister to work at all. I didn't want them to miss out on what I missed out.
But I was drained. When I came back, I was also going through my emotions. I would come home so angry, like, "Leave me alone, don't touch me."
Now that I look back, I wish there was something that could have been done. I wish I would have told my story to a newspaper, but I was always afraid to say something, because they always threatened me with going to jail.
That's why I kept so silent and cried about everything. I feel like It's too late for me.
[Editor's Note: In 2007, Adama was granted asylum, on the grounds that she would face forcible circumcision if deported to Guinea. In court, her mother gave testimony on her own harrowing experience of being circumcised.]
I Am Not American Now. I Am a Refugee.
I had the ankle bracelet up until I got asylum. The day I got it taken off, I had the cheesiest smile. I went to the guy I had
to report every week, and when he took off the ankle bracelet, I said, "My legs! That's what my legs look like."
But for at least a year, I still had a feeling I had the ankle bracelet on. I felt like it was still there. And sometimes I would be out, and I would think, "Oh my God, my curfew," and I would just start panicking. I had to calm myself down again.
I am not American now. I have asylum. That means I am a refugee. [Editor's Note: In 2009, to celebrate winning her asylum case, Adama arranged to take a vacation in Texas with friends. When she tried to board her flight at LaGuardia airport, a ticket agent told her she was on the No Fly list. Federal agents came and handcuffed her and took her to the airport security station, where she was held for almost thirteen hours before being released.]
I'm Done. I Am Not Going to Go Through This.
In 2009 I started working for a family as a nanny. I met them through an old friend who was also working for them. They are a very nice family, they spoil me too much, beyond spoil. They pay me on time, they take care of me, they give me Christmas bonuses, they give me vacation, they take me everywhere.
We were supposed to fly to Chicago on March 31, 2010. I went to the airport before them because I just wanted to know if there would be any problems or anything. I was there with my luggage, and I had brought a friend because I was afraid of repeating what had happened before. I don't know why, but I just had a fear that something was going to happen. I even called my lawyers, but they said nothing should happen, that I should be fine. But I got to LaGuardia airport, and a problem did happen.
The same thing happened as before. The airline supervisor called Port Authority police and other government officials. I called my lawyer and he came. They kept asking me questions, like, "What did you do to be on the No Fly list?"
I wasn't able to get on the plane. I could tell the family were disappointed. They ended up taking the other babysitter. I lost money that day. They were going to pay me for going, and I was counting on that money.