Internment(61)

I wish I could make my parents understand, persuade them to speak up, act out. But they’re so angry with me for taking risks. They want to bide their time until one day we are magically released and the president isn’t some raging fascist.

That will be never.

I don’t want to spend my life in this place. I don’t want to die in here. But maybe there are some things worse than death.





The camp-wide siren booms. Six a.m. I roll out of bed and walk into the common room of our trailer. Apparently, my parents either have not slept or have been up for a while, since they are already dressed and drinking tea.

“What’s going on?” I ask. My mother simply shrugs. My dad walks to the window and looks out, shaking his head. The media unit blinks on.

The Director’s red-rimmed eyes shoot daggers at us through the screen. “After last night’s insubordination, we will have new rules at Mobius. You will report for roll call every morning at six thirty a.m., to be marked present by your minders. At seven a.m., you will proceed to your jobs or classes. Those not on duty or in class will be confined to their block. Dinner at the Mess remains promptly at six p.m. A nine p.m. curfew will be strictly enforced. At that time, you are to remain in your Mercury Home until roll call the next morning. Anyone found in violation of these regulations will be dealt with accordingly. Make no mistake: The consequences will be swift and severe. Mobius will also have the pleasure of unscheduled visits from the Red Cross.” He spits out the last sentence. He doesn’t even try to hide his disgust at the Red Cross observers. They are the only protections standing between us and the violence behind the Director’s warnings. It’s a thin line, but it’s all the hope we have.

The Director continues. “I am sure I don’t need to stress the importance of your cooperation in all these matters. Unity. Security. Prosperity.” The Director’s swollen lips curl back into a menacing smile. “Report for roll call immediately.” The media unit flashes off.

My parents and I don’t say a word. I’m not even sure what the purpose of speaking would be. Silently, we step out and see other families from our block doing the same, looking around, some bewildered, others clearly angry. I hear my name and see Ayesha waving at me before her mother intercedes and makes her drop her hands to her sides. Ayesha shrugs an apology.

Saleem and Fauzia, our minders—or, as I affectionately refer to them, traitors—motion to the sixteen internee families on Block 2 to form a straight line down the center of the narrow lane that separates the eight Mercury Homes on one side from the eight on the other side. Quietly, asking no questions, we fall into formation, too tired and shell-shocked to do anything but obey. This is exactly what they want, exhaustion and acquiescence.

“You heard the Director,” Saleem shouts. “This is every day from now until further notice. Hold out your wrists as Fauzia passes by and scans you in.” Fauzia moves down the line with a small scanner the size of a phone. It reads the ultraviolet barcode on the inside of everyone’s wrist and marks each internee as present, flashing our camp mug shots for a moment on the scanner’s screen. Some grumble as Fauzia walks by. She gives everyone a weak smile and goes back to stand by her husband’s side when she’s done.

“Do not miss roll call.” Saleem’s voice is gravelly, like he hasn’t slept in days. Good. I hope he gets no sleep for the rest of his life. It’s petty as hell, but I don’t care. They can take away my freedom, but not my fantastic ability to hold a grudge.

“Do not disobey any of the new directives. Do not go anywhere you are not supposed to go. Do not step out of line. You are being watched. We all are being watched. We do not want our block to land on the Director’s list of enemies—” He pauses, then looks directly at me and adds, “Not more than we already are, thanks to the actions of some individuals on this block.”

I’m not surprised he’s calling me out. There’s pretty much no ethical qualm you can have anymore once you’ve sold out your own people and stood by to watch them get beaten and disappeared. The minder’s job is to inform on other Muslims at the camp, and Saleem is making it clear that he will continue his duties, no matter what the Director does to us. A murmur grows in the line. A middle-aged man in a white kurta and gray topi points at me. “She is the one who deserves punishment, not us.”

“Pipe down, Adil,” my dad yells back at the man. I’m surprised at my dad’s quick defense. He usually avoids confrontation. His words make my cracked heart swell a little.

Ayesha joins in. “Yeah—I was there, too.” I smile so wide that I feel tears in my eyes. Ayesha is throwing herself into the lion’s den with me.

A younger woman with a pale-pink chiffon dupatta wrapped loosely around her braided hair yells, “Adil’s right. These foolish kids pulled this stupid act, refusing to eat like they’re Gandhi or something. What were you thinking?” She wags a finger at me. “Look what you’ve done. That kid got what he deserved.”

Others nod. Bile rises in my throat. But there’s an older woman—she’s probably at least eighty—who catches my eye and lifts her hand to her shoulder in a little fist and gives me a nod. When we first got here, she introduced herself as Khadijah auntie. She has a gray bun and lives alone; there’s a spark in her eyes. She gives me what I need to bolster my resolve.