Internment(58)

“I talked to one of the aid workers for a few minutes at the clinic,” my mom says as she tucks a few stray hairs into her otherwise neat bun. We’re sitting on the vinyl sofa in the common area of the trailer while Dad washes the mugs that were in the sink. “She told me folks are thinking of us—they know we’re not the enemy of America. Know that we’re not an Other, that we’re the Us, too.”

“That’s great, Mom,” I say, happy that my mother seems brighter than she has these past few weeks; it’s been so hard to see her spirit being stripped away. But I fear her joy will be very short-lived. I imagine the terror my parents will feel when I sit with the others at dinner, refusing to eat, silently protesting in front of the Director and the Red Cross.

“Yes, and I believe the Red Cross staff will be joining our tables this evening. It will be nice to hear some news from the outside,” my dad adds as he finishes the dishes and dries his hands.

“I’m going to sit with Ayesha and some of the others, since the Director is letting us choose tables tonight.”

“That’s wonderful, honey.” My mom strokes my hair. “So glad you’ve been making friends here. It’s good to make the best of any situation.”

I don’t want to make the best of it. And I hate that my parents and I have to put on an act in this trailer—a space that should be private. It’s all a reality show, plotted to make the Director happy. But tonight some of us are going off script.

My parents and I walk out of our trailer and join the scores of other internees who are heading for the Mess. When we enter, I see some Red Cross observers chatting with small groups of internees, and others with the Director. Soheil and Nadeem are already seated with Ayesha at the first table. I kiss my parents on the cheeks and join my friends.

Ayesha squeezes my hand under the table when I take the seat next to her. “Ready?”

“Probably not, but we’re doing this.” I press her hand in return.

In minutes, the tables are full and the Director stomps to the front of the room in the same dark suit he wore at the orientation. I wonder if his face hurts because the same smile has been plastered on it since this morning. The grin may be fake, but in his eyes there’s nothing but confidence and the belief that his cruelty is justified. The Director clears his throat. Then waits. He always waits for absolute silence before he begins. “On behalf of the Mobius community, I want to thank the Red Cross and the journalists who’ve joined us for a wonderful visit today. They can see what a peaceful, vibrant community we’ve built here. We embody Unity. Security. Prosperity. Now, enjoy your dinner; you’re among friends. The minders will call out tables starting from the back.”

We wait patiently for our number to be called. Others file past the food stations, filling their plates and chatting with Red Cross team members who join them at the tables. When a minder calls Table 1 to head to the food line, none of us moves. My mouth is dry as sawdust and tastes like it, too. I rub the back of my neck.

The minder sticks his chicken neck out, staring at us. “Table One,” he calls again, louder this time. When none of us moves, he takes long strides over to us, bends his head, and says in an angry whisper, “I called your table; now stand up and get your food.” We glance at one another uneasily but stay seated. We don’t acknowledge him. I feel twin surges of pride and panic as no one budges.

The minder walks over to the Director, who is speaking with the Red Cross team leader. The Director excuses himself and walks to our table. He’s still grinning, but telltale angry red blotches have traveled from his neck to his face. “Table One, take your meals.” He speaks slowly and enunciates each word. By now everyone has put down their forks to watch the scene unfold. I’m glad I’m not facing my parents, but even with my back to them, I can imagine the wild panic in their hearts. And I’m sorry, but not sorry enough to stop.

The Director turns his face away for a moment and smirks. It’s not the fake smile he’s worn all day. I’ve seen this look before, when he confronted David and me. It’s the grin that precedes his rage. He thinks he’s in control, but he’s not clever and self-aware enough to stop himself from exploding.

He spins around in a fury and slams both of his thick fists down on the table. “I said, get up now!” The table rattles. My brain rattles. His yell rings through the Mess. There are audible gasps. Some people rise from their chairs, and I see two reporters standing by the wall with their phones out, recording.

Soheil speaks loudly and clearly, directing his comments to the reporters. “We’re protesting the illegality of Mobius. We’re protesting the violation of the civil rights of the Muslim community. We want the world to know that there are internees who have been tortured and disappeared. Here. On American soil. We are being held without cause or trial.”

A sheen of sweat appears on the Director’s face. His lips curl up over his teeth. I can almost see him struggling, trying to control himself in front of the reporters and the Red Cross, but it’s too late. He’s lost.

He curls his right hand into a fist and lands a vicious punch across Soheil’s face. I hear a crack; blood spurts from Soheil’s nose and mouth as he falls to the ground with a thud. There’s a single piercing shriek—I have no idea from where—then pandemonium. Ayesha screams. She and I rush to Soheil’s side, snatching napkins to wipe away the blood. The reporters leap forward into the crowd that surrounds Soheil, their phone cameras capturing the chaos.