Internment(37)

David gently pulls me down to the ground. He turns so his back is against the door and draws me to him. He folds his right arm around my shoulders and knits my fingers through his.

I want to sit here and not say anything. All night. Me. David, with the floral notes of his clean clothes and the minty smell of his soap and the intimate, familiar ways our bodies fold into each other. It’s what all humans want, isn’t it? To be known? And David knows me. But we don’t have world enough, or time. We have minutes. Seconds. Soon, we’ll return to reality—barbed wire and electric fence.

“Layla, listen, they’re not closing this place down. Another camp is opening in a few weeks. They’ve expanded the Muslim ban. Total immigration lockdown, and for tourists, too. Even if you’re not Muslim but are from a Muslim-majority country. But I have an idea.”

The news guts me. “An idea? For what?”

“Look, I don’t know if this would work, but remember how I told you my dad said something about people making themselves useful?”

I nod, not sure where David is going. Not sure I want to know.

“It got me thinking. What if, like—” He pauses, takes a deep breath. He’s never uncomfortable around me. But now I sense his muscles tense. His words are all stuck in him, and he’s trying to force them out.

“David, you’re making me nervous. What is it?”

“Do you think you could convince your parents to help the government with—”

My mouth drops open and I turn to David, grabbing the flashlight and directing its glare at his face. He puts up his hand to shield his eyes, so I lower the beam. “What? You want my parents to help the assholes who put us in here? What the fuck, David? Did your dad put you up to this?”

“No. He has no idea. I thought that maybe if I could go to him and tell him your parents would, like, cooperate somehow, then he’d try to help get you guys out of here. I wasn’t thinking that they’d be holding guns to people’s heads; they’d have to, I don’t know, translate stuff, maybe? Keep the Authority informed.”

Tears flow down my face. David has punched a hole through my center. I open my mouth. Stutter. I have so many words I want to scream right now, but they’re all frozen inside me. And I can’t scream. Not here. Not anywhere in this camp. “David, have you lost your mind? You’re the one person I have. The one person I trust on the outside, and now you want to make my parents—what—collaborators? You want us to inform on other Muslims to save ourselves? They would never do that, and neither would I.” I scoot away from him, then stand.

David reaches out to touch me. I pull away. He stands up and cups my cheek with his hand. For an instant, I relax into it, the warmth, the familiar curve of his palm touching my skin. I sigh. Then I step back, the rage building inside me. I turn my back to him, trying to figure out what to say. He comes around and draws me into his arms, but I shove him back. He bends down and whispers into my ear, “Layla. Listen to me. Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you or hurt you. But what if this is the only way to get you out? To keep you safe?”

“Who are you right now? Your mom is brown. Her last name is Shabazi, and without your dad’s protection, some ignorant fascists might’ve mistakenly forced her into this camp, too. And you want us to cooperate with them? Do you actually believe your dad would even go for your stupid idea? Did you even think this through?”

“I was thinking I love you. That’s all. I’m terrified—scared that you’ll get hurt, or worse. I want you out of here because I know what happens to people who get sent to camps. My whole family knows. Don’t you understand? I’m going crazy every second you’re away from me.” His voice breaks. “I don’t know how else to help you.”

I clench my jaw, but David’s words also pierce my heart. “If you even knew me at all, you would’ve realized how stupid it was to even ask.” I look up at David, fury in my eyes. But there’s also doubt in my heart. What I wouldn’t give to be out of here. To be free. To know my parents are safe. To do regular, everyday things. To take a walk. To breathe. To sleep. But even if I begged my parents to do this, I can’t imagine them giving in. If they wouldn’t lie on the census—a small lie to hide us—they certainly aren’t going to become traitors or spies. Even if they never saw who they were hurting, they would know that they were condemning people to internment—or worse. And living an ethical life, a moral life, is important to them. I can hear my dad’s voice now, and I repeat the words that come to mind: “In the quiet of night, the heart knows the lies you told to survive.”

“Who said that?” David asks.

“My dad,” I whisper.

“Okay, then. Exactly. Sometimes you have to do what you need to do to survive. Live to fight another day.”

“No, David. That’s not what the poem means. It means that you can never escape your lies, even if you think you have. Even if it was to survive. The lies—your deception—are always with you.”

David sinks into himself like he’s been punched. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face look so pale. Only now do I notice the bruise-like circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

Tears well in his eyes. He clears his throat. His voice is barely a whisper. “I’m afraid for you. I’m afraid of what they could do to you. If something happens to you…”