Internment(22)
And yet here we are.
We walk toward the Hub with hundreds of other families. An alarm blaring over the speakers silences everyone and signals the meeting. Again, I’m struck by the Americanness of the throngs of people. Every race, dozens of ethnicities, different ways of dressing, and, certainly, widely varying opinions about politics and life and Islam. But I guess that’s the old America. Now we all have one thing in common—a religion that makes us enemies of the state. The state all of us are citizens of, the one most of us were born into. As we approach the Hub, I’m gutted by another realization: The armed guards, the ones looking down on us—they’re all American, too. I scan the Midway for the face of the guard with the compass tattoo, the one who seemed—I stop that thought. It doesn’t matter what I see in his face or in his eyes. To him, I’m the enemy. And to me, he is my jailer.
We walk into the vast Hub auditorium. UNITY. SECURITY. PROSPERITY. The words fill a giant screen at the back of the stage.
Even with the hundreds of people filing in, the space feels cavernous. I shudder when I think of the many internees who might be forced to join us here or be taken to the other camps, as yet unnamed and unpopulated. Muslims make up only about 1 percent of the total US population. But that’s still almost three and a half million people. How can they imprison all of us? That would be like arresting 90 percent of Los Angeles. Besides the logistics, the very thought of it should be impossible to imagine here in America.
A large man wearing a black suit walks to the center of the stage—it’s the same blotchy-faced man who watched the guards take down that kid. The loud echo of his footfalls quiets the buzz of voices in the hall. His face still looks like his tie cuts off the circulation to his head. He’s flanked by what seems to be his own security detail. They don’t wear military uniforms but suits, like the Secret Service, and with their fashy haircuts and vicious grins, they’d fit right in at a Unite the Right rally. The man stares at us as we enter, his eyes like daggers and his blubbery purple lips drawn into a plastic smile. If he were to add a polo shirt with a whistle around his neck, he’d look suspiciously like Mr. Connors, the thick-necked football coach at my high school. His voice thunders through the crowd. “Welcome to Mobius. I’m the Director of our camp, which takes its name from the Mobius Arch Loop Trail nearby.”
“Welcome?” I whisper in Mom’s ear. “He makes it seem like we had a choice to come here.” My mom squeezes my hand and gives me her be quiet look—lips in shushing gesture, eyebrows drawn together.
“Now, we want to make life here as peaceful and enjoyable as possible. Take a little time to familiarize yourself with the camp and its layout. It’s a big place, and there are a lot of opportunities here. There are recreation areas for the children as well as for adults. We’re planning a vegetable garden. There’s the warehouse where you can collect your rations and, of course, the Mess, where we’ll take our dinners together as a community.”
I stare at the Director, almost in awe of how he is able to twist the idea of imprisonment to make it seem like sleepaway camp. Community. Opportunity. Recreation. Garden. He speaks like he’s the entertainment director on a cruise ship, not the warden of a prison camp. Looking around, I see people staring ahead, wide eyes brimming with fear, with tears, seething with anger. Some of them hush their babies, gently bouncing them so they don’t cry out, trying to give them some comfort.
Watching this simple act of love destroys me. A prison camp isn’t a place for children; it isn’t a place for anyone. I lock eyes with a toddler. A little girl who can’t be more than two or three. Her green eyes are bright, but dark circles under them betray her lack of sleep. Like the rest of us, she’s tired. She stares at me, and in that heart-shaped face I see something familiar. Something I’ve seen before. I rack my brain.
Refugees.
Syrian refugees. That’s who she reminds me of: a photo of a little girl, probably her age, staring through a chain-link fence into a photographer’s lens. But that girl—the photographer caught her in the moment when the light in her eyes was extinguished. Stamped out not merely by fear but by being forgotten, by the complacency of the world around her. I first saw that picture in the daily digital news feed our history teacher made us subscribe to, and I think it might be the loneliest picture I’ve ever seen. This little girl, the one with the heart-shaped face—God, I don’t want that light taken from her.
But I also see a few people nodding mechanically, probably thinking we should go along, maybe believing that will get them out of here sooner. I can’t figure out if they’re utterly clueless or genuinely hopeful that justice will prevail.
“You’ll notice we’ve divided the blocks by your ethnic and cultural backgrounds. The Authority believes you’ll be more comfortable among your own people.”
My people are Americans. All of them.
The Director continues in his upbeat vocal swagger. “To help ease your transition, each block has its own minders. And the minders speak your language, for the most part. So they can understand everything.” The Director pauses and then repeats himself. “Everything.”
What an asshole. Each of his words bulges with threats. We’re watching you. We’re listening. We’re everywhere.
He continues. “They’re available night or day to assist you.” He points to a row of a couple dozen people seated behind him. They are us: some in hijab, some in topis, some in jeans and T-shirts. Every race and ethnicity represented at the camp. Who needs your government to bring you down when your own people will do it for them?