Internment(63)

I’ve barely been by the Hub because this garden work assignment puts me about as far from it as I can get, so I’ve only stolen a few glances at the Occupy encampment. I wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of David, but knowing he’s there is comforting. Jake’s been assigned a fence security detail, so I haven’t seen much of him, either, but when he can slip away without suspicion, he gets me updates. So I know that the protests are growing, that there are protestors in front of the White House, too; that Mobius is a nightly topic on the news; that my blog posts have tens of thousands of hits. With Jake’s help, I managed to write two more stories about the immediate aftermath of the Incident and of the new, tighter regulations inside the camp. But after Anonymous posted the last story, the Director raged for half an hour on our media units about the leak at Mobius, and he began having all staff and Exclusion Guards patted down before they exit the camp. It’s too risky for Jake to leave with a handwritten note. I wonder if I can convince Jake to write his own stories when he’s outside.

“We’re with you,” a soft voice whispers over my shoulder. I turn to see Suraya, one of three black hijabi girls who are also on garden duty. We’ve exchanged smiles and the occasional word but never really hung out. She’s Block 8.

“Uh, thanks.”

“I mean it. I know what some of the parents are saying, and they’re wrong. What you did, what all of you did, was brave. And we’re in, next time. There will be a next time?”

“We?” I see a guard eyeballing us. “Help me weed,” I say to Suraya, gesturing at her to join me. Suraya kneels in the dirt next to me and begins plucking the shoots of tiny weeds that form around the okra plants. A thin sheen of sweat lines the skin around her American flag hijab. It reminds me of Noor. May God keep her safe. When the guard looks away, I repeat myself but keep my hands busy weeding. “What do you mean, we?”

Suraya raises a finger to point toward two other hijabis; I quickly grab her hand, pull it down, and shake my head.

“Right, sorry. I mean Raeshma and Anjum and me,” Suraya says. “We’re in for the next protest or fast or whatever. There’s others, too—the girls from our Quranic study class.”

I awkwardly shift my weight from one knee to the other. “Oh, I—I heard that some people were doing that. I haven’t really gone to prayers or anything since we’ve been here.”

Suraya laughs. “You don’t have to confess to me. Your faith, your deen, is between you and God. I won’t judge you; you don’t judge me. Simple.”

I’m amazed she can smile, let alone laugh. This year must have been so much harder for her, someone so visibly Muslim. And black. The Islamophobic micro-aggressions and then real violence were first directed at women who wear hijab—especially black women who wear hijab. There’s no way Suraya could’ve escaped the toxic racism combined with Islamophobia. Since the election launched a wave of women having their scarves ripped off in public, some people in the community actually suggested hijabis shed the scarf, to be less obvious targets. But none of the hijabis I know did. So, of course, Suraya and some of the other hijabi girls are down with joining the protests; they already know what bravery is. Hijab is a choice they made, and in these times, an especially courageous one. I’m embarrassed—no, angry at myself—for not approaching them earlier, wrongly assuming they might be unwilling to stand up to the Director.

I nod. “I think it’s pretty clear who the enemy is here, and you’re right: We should have each other’s backs.”

“Some of the parents, they’re too scared; but that’s not all the adults. I know others will resist. We have to ignore the haters and not worry about what they’ll think.”

“There’re always going to be people who roll over. Look at the minders.”

“If you don’t stand up for something, you’ll fall for anything,” Suraya says, smiling with her warm brown eyes. Nanni used to tell me about the parable of the light—an ayat in the Quran. She would say that some are touched by God’s incandescent light and that it shows on their faces. That’s what Suraya’s face looks like when she talks.

“Exactly.” I smile at her. “By any means necessary.”

“By any means necessary to get us the hell out of this prison.”

“I’m open to ideas. But I think we need to do something in front of the cameras by the entrance. The police are blocking the protestors from getting too close to the fence, but the cameras can totally zoom in.”

“Maybe some kind of silent protest. I mean, we’re not supposed to be there, so even gathering would be an act of defiance. But the Director is riding herd over everyone; there are more guards now, too, and they’re not slacking.”

“We’d need a distraction. Maybe right after dinner. Everyone will be at the Mess. We’ll be really close to the main entrance.”

“I’m all ears.” Suraya pauses for me to explain, but I’m distracted. In the distance, I see Jake’s determined stride as he marches toward us. “What is it?” Suraya asks me.

“I’m not sure. Hopefully not trouble, but I have a bad feeling.” My eyes follow Jake as he hands a note to one of his fellow guards. The guard gestures at me. I rise, hand Suraya my gardening gloves, and follow Jake without a word. I turn to look back at the garden and see Suraya, Ayesha, and the others looking at me with a mix of confusion and fear on their faces. I shrug and trudge forward.