Internment(21)

Soheil runs his hand through his wavy dark hair. His light-brown eyes look off into the distance, then snap back to us. “The curse inscribed on a statue of a High Priest of Amun says any transgressor will ‘die from hunger and thirst.’”

“It’s a little on the nose for a desert, don’t you think?” Ayesha says.

He gives her a little side-eye grin. “How about ‘He shall be cooked together with the condemned.’”

“Succinct,” I say. “I think I like that one. May our enemies be cooked with the condemned.”

“Yeah, well, we’re the ones most likely to die from hunger and thirst, not the guards or any of those fascist bureaucrats in the Hub. And definitely not the president,” Soheil says.

“You think they’re going to starve us?” Ayesha asks.

“This is a prison camp. Have you seen pictures of the concentration camps in World War Two?” Soheil asks.

I see Ayesha take a step back, like she’s been hit in the chest.

Then it occurs to me that she hasn’t imagined anything worse than this. Probably a lot of people haven’t. Everyone is scared in a deep way—like, in our bones. And maybe thinking of what more they might do to us is too much to bear.

“This isn’t a concentration camp,” I say. Part of me feels like I need to shield Ayesha, because she’s not ready to consider the nightmare scenarios. “And it’s not going to help anyone if you talk like that. It’s too scary.”

“Good. I want to scare people. We should be scared. Then maybe people will rise up and do something.”

“I get it. Some fear is good, but not if it makes you draw so much into yourself that you’re petrified. That’s not good for anyone. Take a look around. Don’t be stupid.”

Soheil’s jaw tightens. He looks like he’s about to say something but stops himself. Then he glances at Ayesha, and his face softens. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“It’s okay. We’re all on edge.”

“Where’s your block?” I ask, trying to ease the tension.

Soheil points across the Midway. “I’m on Block Six, with a hodgepodge of other Arab Americans.”

It’s only when Soheil phrases it that way that I realize we’ve been segregated by ethnic group.

Ayesha realizes it, too. “Damn. Our whole block is desi,” Ayesha says, then looks at me. “I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence that they separated us?”

Soheil rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “I don’t think the Authority leaves anything to coincidence.”

“Divide and conquer,” I say. But I don’t think either Soheil or Ayesha hears me; they’re looking at each other with awkward half smiles.

“Oh my God,” Ayesha says, glancing at her watch. “We’re going to be late for the orientation. My mom is gonna freak.”

“I’ll catch up with you guys later, after we’ve been properly oriented, or whatever the hell they want to tell us about this fucking place,” Soheil says.

Ayesha and I turn and walk toward our block as Soheil heads to his. With each step, another muscle in my body tenses. Ayesha clutches her stomach.

I see others walking back to their trailers, many already making their way to the Hub in small family groups. And it’s so quiet. Too quiet. We’re all different people, but each of us, to a person, has the same look: abject fear.

As we near our trailers, I turn to look back toward the mountains, the stunning granite peaks off in the distance. They’re beautiful and stark against the sky, and I imagine how stunning the moonrise will be if we can see it this evening, a silver crescent hanging above the summit. But then I look again, and I see only fences and razor wire and guns.

I shiver as a desert chill sweeps through me.





“Where were you?” my dad asks the moment I step back in the trailer. “The orientation is in fifteen minutes. Hurry. We can’t be late.”

“I’m sorry. I ran into Ayesha—the girl I met at the train station. We were walking around and didn’t realize how big this place is, and we got a little lost.”

“And you’re covered in dirt!” My mom looks at me, wide-eyed. “What were you doing?”

“Nothing. It’s the dust. I’ll go clean up.” I hurry to my room. I guess I’m calling it my room now. Funny how our minds cling to normalcy—desperately searching for the familiar in an environment that’s totally foreign. No. That’s wrong. It’s not like being in another country, where you feel a weird sort of thrill when you find a piece of home, a person from your city, say, or even a vintage Coke sign. This place isn’t foreign; it’s forced. It’s poison being shoved down our throats.

I quickly wash my face and scrub the dirt from my hands. I change into a gray Wilco T-shirt I got when David and I saw them in concert last summer. It seems like a million years ago now, and David a million miles away. I can’t get all the dust out of my hair, so I opt for a ponytail and a green Wimbledon baseball cap. I think of the tennis team. A few of us agreed to help the coach run a clinic during the upcoming summer for the new varsity potentials to prep for the fall season. There will be drills and running lines and scrimmage matches and laughter and gossip. But not for me. My racket and tennis skirts are in my closet, awaiting cobwebs. Seems impossible that the entire world could lose all sense and decency in an instant.