Internment(42)

There is so much screaming. And deep, almost animal-like sounds from the women. People in the crowd yell and curse and cry. Guards hold them back as Noor and Asmaa and Bilqis are taken away. But we don’t disperse. Someone from the back of the gathering throws a rock. It hits one of the Director’s security team in the arm. There are cheers. But when I glance at the Director, I know this is going to cost us. His splotchy red face looks like it’s going to explode. He marches over to one of his security guards, takes his handgun, raises it in the air, and shoots. The shot rings out and reverberates through the mountains. He does it again.

The crowd quiets. Then there are only the echoes of the women’s screams.

The Director waits, the gun still raised. He waits longer. It’s unbearable hearing the last distant sounds from the women as they’re taken who knows where. My God, they are so brave. My heart is in my throat. This is what the Director wants. He wants us to hear the screams. He wants us to know that it could be us screaming.

And then there is absolute silence.





My parents tuck me in. They haven’t done this since I don’t know when. No one has said a word beyond the absolute minimum since the incident with the three women. The Director let us eat dinner. And we did so without speaking. It was excruciating. No sounds except people chewing, and forks tapping against plastic plates, and parents shushing their babies, who didn’t know any better. If fear had a sound, it would be the painful, heavy silence in the Mess tonight.

“Do you want me to stay with you, beta?” my mom asks. Her voice is so soft, it’s almost heartbreaking.

I smile up at my parents. “No. I’m okay.”

“If you ever want to talk, you know, about anything, your mom and I are always here for you. We can always take a walk with you.” My dad pats me on the knee. They’re trying to be reassuring. But they also probably know that they’re failing. It’s an impossible task.

I kiss them both on their cheeks, and they step out.

I wait until I hear them shut the door to their room to get out of bed. I step to my tiny desk, turn on the lamp, and take a seat. No way I can sleep tonight. The bloody, stricken faces of those women will not leave my mind. And neither will their bravery. I try not to wonder what is happening to them, what could happen, but I surrender my imagination to its most terrifying conclusion. Honestly, it probably is so much worse in real life.

Since I can’t sleep, I open the notebook I brought with me. And I write. I write about life inside Mobius. About Noor. About the brave women who tried to intercede. And the woman with the ponytail at the orientation and the desperate man who was so quiet as they took him away after his partner was disappeared.

And I write about the screams. Those screams will be etched in my memory forever.

I write it all in tiny print as legibly as possible despite my shaky hand while I wipe away tears so they don’t soak into the paper. I fold it up into a small square and tuck it under my pillow for now. Before the incident, Jake reluctantly agreed to get the note to David. I’m scared for him. For me. For David. I can’t even imagine what the Director will do if he gets wind of this. It would be impossible to talk our way out of it. It’s probably treason, like everything else these days. That whole freedom-of-speech thing? That right to petition your government? Yeah, doesn’t exist so much inside an internment camp.

I glance at myself in the Mylar mirror. My face is all puffy and red, like I’ve scrubbed it too hard with exfoliant. I drag myself over to the bed and rest my head on the pillow. My eyes sting. I let them close.

There’s clattering in the common area. I bolt up and barely miss hitting my head. I’m never going to get used to having a damn bunk. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I feel woozy. I grip the sides of the mattress to steady myself. There are so many times I’ve woken up confused, wondering whose bed I’m in, whose room. This morning my head feels thick, but I know where I am. I know what I have to do.

I get up, splash water on my face, and change into my favorite jeans and my mom’s old X-Files tee. All my clothes feel dirty. There’s a laundry, but even after the wash, nothing I wear feels clean. It’s like the dust in Mobius is woven into the fiber of every article of clothing that touches my skin. Before I head out of my room, I take the note from under the pillow and slip it into my back pocket.

I step into the cramped common space of our trailer. My parents are glued to the media unit, watching the latest announcement. There’s no real news, only what the Director wants us to hear. And what he wants us to know today is that everything is back to normal after the “troublemakers” were dealt with. Then he turns back to the goings-on at Mobius.

“Looks like plans for the community garden are under way,” my mom says when she sees me. “There’s even a teen garden section.” She gives me a hollow smile. She is so pale. We’ve been in the blazing sun for a few weeks, and yet my mom is a ghost. I take a couple steps and stand next to her. She rubs the space between my shoulder blades—a gesture that always calmed me down when I was little.

I look from my mom to my dad and realize they are not going to bring up yesterday. They’re not going to talk about the violence or the bravery.

“Maybe working in the garden will make some people smile. We have to try to get along the best we can,” my mom says, her voice uncharacteristically meek. “Be happy we have each other.” Her voice falters. “Be happy we’re alive.”