Internment(59)

I look up and see that the members of the Red Cross form a cordon between us and the Director, who is raging at them, his face nearly crimson. His own security guards hold him back as he screams at them. The Red Cross team leader, a middle-aged man with deep wrinkles on his forehead, is shouting, trying to be heard above the commotion. All I can hear is “violation of the Geneva Convention” and “prisoners of war.”

Dr. Mahar, from the clinic, pushes his way through the crowd. We’ve gotten Soheil up and seated on the floor, clutching napkins to his nose, trying to stop the stream of blood pouring out. Dr. Mahar bends down to examine him. Ayesha stays at Soheil’s side, holding his hand, whispering to him. I stand up to scan the room. The minders work with the guards to get people out of the Mess. I catch sight of my parents, who look at me, disbelief and confusion in their eyes. My mom extends her hand toward me, but she is caught up in the crowd pushing toward the exit.

The Director is now in a corner talking with some of his security guards. The Red Cross team leader is on his phone. The doors burst open and what seems like an entire army of Exclusion Guards marches in, roughly pushing through the crowd. People scream as they are thrown to the ground or shoved out of the way. The members of the Director’s security detail trudge up to the two journalists and seize their phones. The reporters object, loudly. One of them yells something about Article 79 and wartime protection for journalists. But it doesn’t matter. We all watch helplessly as their phones clatter to the floor. One of the private security guys shatters both with the butt of his rifle.

I was scared before, but as I watch the guards pull apart the wall of Red Cross members in front of us, I’m powerless to move. The team leader protests to the Director, who brushes him off and barks orders to the guards. Dr. Mahar and another man help Soheil up and move toward the team leader, who reaches his arm out toward them as he yells into his phone. A fire alarm goes off and the sprinklers switch on, drenching everyone. The crowd surges forward. I search for my parents, but I can’t find them anywhere. My head spins, my stomach lurches; I don’t know where to go.

“Come on.” Ayesha takes my hand and pulls me out of the crowd; she drags me against the stream of people heading toward the main exit, and we reach a side door. She shoves it open, and Jake takes her by the shoulders.

“You’ve got to get back to your trailers now! Follow me!” he shouts. Nadeem and some of the others flee toward their blocks. Ayesha and I hurry to keep up, following Jake toward Block 2. He takes a circuitous route around the Hub, away from the mass of Exclusion Guards and internees who are still pouring out of the Mess and toward the Midway. As we pass the Hub, I see the lights blazing outside the camp. Other internees are running, screaming. The protestors are standing up, peering around the police, trying to catch a glimpse of the uproar. Camera crews rush toward the fence and are stopped by police, but they still seem to be filming. The dust kicks up around us, swirling in eddies, and the air trembles with a thwip thwip thwip as a helicopter flies overhead. I guess we’ve succeeding in getting some attention.

Lights from the watchtowers illuminate the camp. People rush toward their Mercury Homes. I stand frozen, watching as a man is pushed to the ground by a guard and then kicked in the stomach and head. I scream, but I’m only one of hundreds of voices that bleed into the madness.

Somewhere in the chaos, I realize I’m not holding Ayesha’s hand anymore. Jake’s not here, either. I’ve lost sight of both of them in the dust and swirl of screaming people. I run toward the fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of David. Emergency vehicles race up the road to Mobius, and protestors cover their mouths and noses with bandannas or tuck their faces into their shirts to avoid the billowing clouds of dirt. A police officer yells into a bullhorn, ordering them away from the fence. Some protestors flee to their cars. I run along the inner side of the fence, as close as I can get, calling out David’s name, but the sounds of helicopter blades and sirens mute my screams in the blizzard of dust.

I sprint back to Block 2, hoping I’ll find my parents already at our trailer. Two other helicopters appear, filling the air with even more dust, so the visibility on the ground drops to a foot or two, if that. My eyes burn, and tears stream down my face and mix with the dust that cakes my cheeks, so when I dab at them, my fingers come away muddy.

Cough. Sputter. Try to breathe.

All around I hear the cries of internees running to their trailers, searching for some air to breathe. People bump into one another, carrying their children, covering their mouths, shielding their eyes.

As I near my block, I see Jake helping my neighbors into their trailers. When he sees me, he runs over and pulls me into my Mercury Home. Slamming the door shut, he steps to the kitchen, grabs a dish towel from the edge of the sink, fills a glass with water, and walks into my room. I follow him and shut the door behind us. He wets the cloth and sweeps it across my eyelids, cheeks, nose, and lips, tenderly removing the dust from my face. He pauses and looks into my eyes, then hands me the towel and the glass of water. “Sip,” he instructs.

I take a few tentative sips and then drink the entire glass in a long gulp. It’s the first time I’m aware of being thankful for clean, cool water. I hand the empty glass back to him. “Ayesha?” I ask.

“She’s fine. Her parents and brother are back with her in their trailer.” He moves his hand to cup my cheek, but pulls it away.

I look into his worried eyes. “My parents? Have you seen them? I tried, but I couldn’t—the dust.”