Internment(62)
“Look at what we’ve done?” I respond. “Look at what you’ve done. Nothing. You stood by during the election, thinking that none of this would come to pass, that the racism and xenophobia running rampant during the campaign was hot air. And then you stayed silent while your rights were stripped away, and you quietly packed your things and let yourselves be taken prisoner. All of you. All of us. We’ve offered ourselves up in some kind of twisted Abrahamic sacrifice. But no lamb will be offered instead of us. It’s our necks waiting for the ax to fall. We have to be our own miracle—” My mom clamps her hand over my mouth, silencing my speech.
Saleem’s eyes bulge out of his head. He walks up to me and shoves an angry finger into my shoulder. “Shut your mouth and watch your step. Don’t think I won’t report you. And you won’t be going to the barracks—the Director, he’ll send you out to—”
“Saleem,” Fauzia interrupts. “That’s enough. We need to give the rest of the instructions.” Fauzia coaxes her husband to back away from me while my mother drapes an arm around my shoulders. My dad steps between Saleem and me.
Saleem allows his wife to guide him away, and then he clears his throat and addresses us again. “Each of you will have a new schedule available on your media unit, in your work folder. Report to work when you’re required to. If your children are taking early-childhood classes, you can escort them and wait for them in the Hub. Some of you have been assigned new formal tasks in the Mess, the laundry, or the gardens. Instructions are included in your work folder as well.” Saleem’s angry tone turns to pleading. “Just go along. Everyone. Please. No more outbursts and demonstrations. Cooperate and it will turn out all right in the end. Remember: Unity. Security. Prosperity. Dismissed.”
People shuffle away. I hear my name amid the whispers. Ayesha and her parents walk up to us. Ayesha gives me a tight hug while our parents speak. “I can’t believe those horrible people. It’s like they didn’t even notice I was all rebel with a cause, too.” Her face breaks into a grin. Ayesha is gold.
“Any word about Soheil?”
Her face falls, and she blinks rapidly a few times. “The Red Cross took him out of here. Corporal Reynolds told me there’s a clinic nearby. Layla, I’m scared. What if they bring him back to Mobius? He’ll be number one on the Director’s shit list.”
I squeeze Ayesha’s shoulder. “Maybe he’ll be allowed to stay in the clinic until he’s fully healed, and then the Red Cross can get him, like, special protection?” I wish I could find more reassuring words, but I can’t, because she’s probably right. The minute Soheil is back in the camp, there will be a target on his back.
“Do you think it was a mistake? The fast, I mean? What happens now?” Ayesha bites her lower lip.
“I’m not sure,” I answer truthfully. “I guess we regroup and—ow.” Something smacks me in the back. I turn and see a hardened clod of dirt on the ground.
“What the hell? Are you okay?” Ayesha and I look around. I catch Saleem’s eye. The minder is idling on the steps of his trailer, a smug smile on his face. But he’s standing in front of me, and the chunk hit me from behind. I pivot all the way around and see an older man with betel-stained teeth standing a few feet away, giving us an icy glare; he spits on the ground. A small patch the color of dried blood blooms at his feet.
Droplets of sweat slither down my neck and into my T-shirt. At the cooling station, I take giant swigs from my water bottle, then wet the bandanna I use to wipe the salt and perspiration off my grimy face. Folding the cloth multiple times lengthwise, I add more water and tie it around my neck, knotting it at the front. Internment chic. I pull my faded Wimbledon baseball cap lower over my eyes and slather my chapped lips with balm. An assignment to work mornings in the garden seemed like a blessing at first, better than laundry or the Mess, but by the time my first three-hour shift was over, I trudged home and collapsed into bed.
At least Ayesha, Nadia, and Nadeem are on the same work detail as me. I thought the Director would separate us, but guards side-eye us whenever we try to speak anything more than passing words to one another. Maybe he figures that this way we’re all at the back of the camp, far from the Mobius protestors. Maybe the Director actually hopes we will try something else so he can have an excuse to bring the hammer down on us. Whatever his reason, the Director reminds us daily during his announcements that he will not tolerate “unsanctioned congregating” or “untoward fraternizing.” And, of course, every time he speaks, he spits the damn camp motto at us: Unity. Security. Prosperity. Like the repetition will make us believe this place isn’t a prison.
A few girls on my detail wear hijab, even in this blazing heat. I can’t imagine the courage it takes to maintain that part of their Muslim identity in the face of everything. Hijab is an individual choice, but if it had been the choice I made for myself, I have no idea whether I’d have the strength of faith to wear it now.
The camp has been mostly quiet these five days since the Incident, as everyone now refers to the melee in the Mess. But outside the electric fence, an encampment has grown. Protestors have come, hundreds more, setting up a site that looks like a Burning Man village. Jake told me that a leftist billionaire who runs a pro-democracy foundation donated porta-potties and thousands of bottles of water and energy bars and tents. The protestors bring media and more scrutiny of the Director and Mobius. When men in dark suits come to take you away under the cover of night, a dread settles into your bones, a fear that you’ll be lost forever. Simply knowing the protestors are there assures me that we haven’t been forgotten. The future is never certain, but for the first time since we were taken, I know we won’t go down without a fight. I know our voices won’t be silenced.