Internment(28)

“A desi Muslim girl from an immigrant family and a brown Jewish son of a refugee—you’re like a dream team for Model UN.”

I grin. “David knows his dad has white privilege, but he’s seen his mom get hit with anti-Semitism and racism, so he kind of gets it, you know? We try to be open to learning about each other’s faiths—ask questions, talk things out.”

Ayesha nods. “That’s so great.”

“And, oh my God, for Shabbat dinners his mom makes marak temani—an amazing Yemeni stew—and this flaky, fried bread called malawach that I Iove more than my mom’s parathas. Don’t tell her I said that!”

Ayesha laughs. “That would earn you a one-way ticket to a boarding school in India.”

I give her a tiny smile and then clear my throat, pretending I don’t feel a lump welling in it. “Anyway… can you imagine anyone wanting to convert now? Publicly? It would be too dangerous.”

“A woman converted at our mosque a couple of months ago. She knew the risks. And honestly, her Arabic pronunciation puts mine to shame.”

“What? Seriously? Is she in here, too?”

“Nah. I don’t think so. It was after the census. Also, she’s white, and I don’t see any white converts in here. White-looking Arabs, yes. White-white Americans? No. Maybe they’ll be brought in here soon, too. But you’ve looked around. You know.”

“There’s, like, a hierarchy for bigots, isn’t there? Like their hatred of Muslims isn’t equal. They dispense it in degrees. They hate some of us more. Like, the darker your skin or the more foreign-sounding your name. And if you’re black and wear hijab, you’re getting the brunt of it.”

“Honestly, I think some racists think Islam is a race or ethnicity and not a religion. Like we’re all brown and from Muslimistan.”

A knock interrupts us. My mom’s muffled voice comes through the door. “Honey, we need to get Ayesha home. We don’t want her parents to worry.”

“Just a sec. We’ll be right out.”

Ayesha grins. “Your parents knock and don’t immediately barge in? They’re a dream. Maybe we can get them to talk to my parents.”

I take my parents for granted sometimes. I know plenty of kids, Muslim and not, who envy the trust my parents have in me. I’ve never really had to hide who I am in front of them. I know a couple of girls at the mosque who want to date openly and not sneak around. And others who are willing to be arranged. And there’s a girl who is both hijabi and the homecoming queen. The thing is, my parents always told me never to judge another Muslim’s religiosity. Each of us practices in our own way, and God alone judges. “‘Let there be no compulsion in religion.’” Can’t count the number of times my parents have quoted that ayat passage to me.

Ayesha and I exchange sad, knowing looks that don’t need words. I open my door. My parents and I walk her the few steps back to her trailer. Ayesha’s mother sits on the steps to their Mercury Home in anticipation. Who can blame her? The fever pitch of anxiety and fear is the everyday current mood at this place. We’re all hyper alert, a constant rush of adrenaline coursing through our bodies. I wonder what the crash will be like when it comes.

While my parents exchange salaams with Ayesha’s mom, I give my friend a quick hug and whisper, “I’m going to see if I can get to David. Maybe there is some way he can help us.” I’m really not sure if David could do anything for us, even if I am able to reach him somehow, but I want to leave her with a little hope as we say good-bye and gaze on the melancholy, drawn faces of our parents. I swear all the parents here have only two looks anymore—terrified worry, and a mask with a fake smile trying to hide their terror so their kids don’t notice.

When we leave Ayesha’s trailer, there’s still an hour before curfew, so I convince my parents to take a short walk with me. Every time I’m outside now, I’m always watching. Looking for a way out. Paying attention to the guards who seem a little bored. In the dark, the searchlights and watchtowers are a menacing reminder that we’re locked away. And I know the drones hover somewhere above our heads; I can feel the hum in my bones. The three of us quietly find our way back to our Mercury Home. Corporal Reynolds is stationed at the top of our block. He catches my eye but then quickly turns away.





“Honey, get up. Your dad and I are heading to the community-planning meeting at the Hub. Then we’re going to prayers—a few people are gathering for namaz in a trailer in Block Eight. Eat something.”

I roll over and try to rub the exhaustion from my eyes. I never seem to sleep deeply here. It’s like I’m asleep, but always on the edge of waking up. On the edge, period. “Okay, Mom. Got it.” I stick my hand out from under the blanket and give my mom a thumbs-up, since she’s popped her head inside the door. Once she leaves, I get out of bed and stare into the mirror above the sink. Dark circles have taken up residence under my eyes.

My parents seem to be settling in. Everyone is. Meeting people, organizing a school, scheduling regular prayers, divvying up work. My mom’s actually seeing chiropractic patients at the clinic that some of the doctors have set up in a partitioned section of the Hub. Every day for the past couple of weeks, my parents have been dropping hints that I should make friends, find something useful to do, form a book club. But the so-called library here is pathetic—there are barely any books, and it seems like all the internment-approved titles are by long-dead white dudes. I don’t want to settle in. I don’t want to adjust to the constant surveillance and the threatening gaze of white guards with weapons, and the permanent smile of death from the Director’s purple lips. I don’t want anyone to get used to it.