Internment(23)
The Director motions for the minders to rise. “These fine people share your background, understand your concerns. They come from your community, and they have kindly volunteered their time to help ease your transition into life at Mobius—”
“Traitors! Fascists!” A woman with her light-brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail stands up in the middle of the auditorium and shouts at the minders onstage. A wave of murmurs pulses through the crowd, and some people at the back join her spontaneous protest. “Traitors!”
The Director’s face reddens, but he keeps his voice calm. He motions to the guards to remove the woman who began the chants. “We won’t have disruptions at Mobius. We are the first camp, and we will set the standard. And there will be consequences for anyone straying from the regulations.”
As he speaks, two Exclusion Guards yank the woman from her seat and drag her to the aisle. The first guard pulls out handcuffs. The woman spits in the face of the second guard, who responds with a slap so hard that she falls to the floor. I feel sick to my stomach watching. The second guard moves to pull her up, but she flails at him and kicks him in the shin with the heel of her shoe. Then he tases her. A buzz fills the air, along with a piercing scream. He tases her again. The guards grab her arms, hoist her up, and drag her limp body out of the auditorium. All eyes in the room watch the door as it slams shut.
A silence descends. People are either too scared or too stunned to speak. No one seems sure where to look—at the floor, at one another. Some people cover their faces and mouths with their hands. I shake my head at my parents, tears stinging my eyes; I have no words. What use are my words in the face of this? My mom pulls me closer and grasps my hand tighter.
Eventually, our heads return to the stage and the Director, who has been standing there, unfazed, watching the scene unfold, not saying a word. It’s a terrifying kind of quiet. The kind in a horror movie that tells you something unspeakable is about to happen and you’re helpless to stop it.
The Director clears his throat. “Remember our motto.” He points to the screen behind him. “Unity. Security. Prosperity. Now, dinner. Minders, call out your block number and walk them to the Mess.”
When the minders call their blocks and march the short distance from the Hub to the Mess, hundreds of us follow in stunned silence. I think we’re all shaken—not only at the cruelty of what we witnessed, but at the everydayness of it. How the Director didn’t flinch; how the guards delivered those volts with such ease. I wonder where the woman was taken—if that display was merely the tip of the iceberg. A drone hums overhead, recording our silent procession.
The Mess is a giant characterless cafeteria, like you’d find in a public high school or a prison. Long tables with blue plastic chairs lining the sides. My Converse squeak against the gray-and-white checkerboard vinyl floor as I follow the masses inside. I guess it’s vinyl? Some kind of epoxy coating, maybe? It actually feels a little squishy, soft underfoot. It’s a large hall with a kitchen and a food line at one end, and stone-colored walls with colorful posters about handwashing and hygiene. Like I said, school or prison. There’s a whiff of the bleach that is in our Mercury Home, but mixed with fried oil and what I used to call eau de cafeteria when I still ate lunch at school.
The Mess is also divided by blocks—small cardboard table tents are labeled with block numbers so we know where to go. The din rises as people find their tables and their voices, though I can’t imagine anyone is actually saying what is on their mind.
My parents and I sort of hang out by our block tables, not sure what to do next. Then our minders pass by, introducing themselves. “I’m Saleem and this is my wife, Fauzia. Glad to meet you.” They’re young—I bet they’re only in their twenties, and they don’t seem to have any kids. I saw them on our block earlier. They’re desi Americans, like us. But, you know, more backstabbing and collaborating. I wonder how they came to this, what the impetus would be to turn against your own.
I look around as people take seats in our segregated sections—South Asian, African American, Arab, Southeast Asian. East Asian and Latinx, too, though they seem to be fewer in number. Soheil was right. Everything is deliberate. Divide and conquer. We may all be Muslims, but we still have our prejudices and racism. It’s simpler to play on our internalized “-isms” if you separate us and feed our fears—easier to make us “other” ourselves and do the Director’s work for him. Today, we’re all Muslims who’ve been forced here, but maybe it wouldn’t be hard to tap into our bigotry to turn us against one another, to turn our gaze away from where our anger should really be directed. Classic colonial conquest strategy. Just ask the British.
Ayesha approaches us. She’s holding hands with a younger boy and walking next to a middle-aged man and woman; I assume they’re her family.
“Auntie, Uncle.” Ayesha addresses my parents with the automatic honorific accorded all desis of parental age. Some of us may have lost our “mother tongue,” as my nanni used to call it, but the custom of tameez—respect—for elders stays strong, despite decades of assimilation.
“These are my parents, Asfiya and Zaki, and my little brother, Zoubair,” Ayesha says. Our parents shake hands.
“As-Salaam-Alaikum. Nice to meet you,” my dad says. He pauses, then speaks again. “So much dust in this place.”