Internment(67)

“We need a distraction—something that will allow us to get out of the Mess without being caught. At least not right away,” I explain.

Suraya speaks up. “I was talking to some of the others on my block, and one of them works in the Mess.” She pauses and looks at all the sets of eyes on her. “He says he can access the utility box in the storage room and throw a couple of circuit breakers.”

“What will that do?” Nadia asks.

“It’ll turn off the lights.” I grin. “That could be the perfect chance. Our only chance, really. The second the lights go out, exit and head toward the Hub. We can meet by the flagpole and walk the last few steps toward the main entrance together. We probably won’t have long before they push us back, but we only need to be there long enough for the press to see us.”

“What if we each raise a fist?” Nadia suggests.

“But we’re not all black,” Abdul says.

Suraya rolls her eyes. “Really? That wasn’t obvious at all. The raised-fist salute is about standing up to oppression and racism. It doesn’t belong to one race or culture. It belongs to all of us. And it’s easy. We stand shoulder to shoulder and raise our right hands in a fist above our heads. That’s it. Everybody knows what it is and what it means.”

I think about the old woman from our block, Khadijah auntie, who raised her fist to bolster me when some of the others were yelling at me about the fast. I smile. This idea is perfect.

But Abdul jumps in before I can respond. “And what does a hijabi know about standing up to oppression?”

“Are you fucking serious?” Suraya steps closer to Abdul, getting in his face. “Your entire ignorant ass is showing. Maybe educate yourself. I’m not oppressed, and I certainly don’t need saving. If anyone needs saving, it’s you.”

“Seriously,” I add. “You sound like one of them, Abdul. Do you even know a single damn thing about the history of badass Muslim women?”

“Or Muslimahs today, for that matter,” Ayesha says. “Malala got shot in the face by the Taliban, and that still didn’t scare her away from fighting for girls’ rights. She has more courage in her pinkie than every dude I know.”

“Whatever.” Abdul kicks the dirt.

“Hey,” I snap. “Let me be clear. There’s only one enemy here, and he would want us to turn on each other. They want us to be separate factions—that’s why they segregated us in the first place. Don’t give the Director the satisfaction. You don’t want to do this? No one’s twisting your arm. But if you join in, you don’t bash anyone else. And don’t be an asshole. You get me?”

“Yeah,” Suraya adds. “United we stand; divided we fall. And all that American patriotic stuff.”

I look at the group; most of them nod in agreement. Abdul looks away, chastised.

Jake whistles.

I look in his direction. “The drones are coming. Everyone, get to work. And keep it quiet. Tomorrow, after the lights go out in the Mess.”

Suraya walks with me to a corner of the garden and kneels as a drone whirs overhead. “I was talking to Nadia and Nadeem, and we think we can get some others to join us.”

“Okay. Be careful. Don’t tell anyone you don’t trust. And make sure they know the risks. I don’t think the Director is going to take this lightly.”

“They know. We all know. But there’s not much choice, is there?”

“No, I guess there’s not.”

They can kill us while we sit quietly and do nothing as well.





That night I toss and turn from one end of my pillow to the other, trying to get comfortable, to relax. I kick off the sheets, then pull them back up again. I stare hard at the bunk mattress above me like it’s about to reveal life’s secrets.

I don’t think I’ve had a single good night’s sleep at Mobius. I can’t imagine what it was like for the internees at Manzanar. We can’t see the former camp from here, but we know it’s there. A reminder. A warning. They were in barracks with multiple families. Shanties, really.

But prison is prison, I guess. And being called an enemy of your country, the feeling that you are hated—they probably felt that, too. I wonder if the weight of that ever goes away. Even if we get out of here, will fear become a part of daily life, like breathing? There’s not even a real war, not like World War II. It’s all terrorist attacks and retaliation and enemies without borders. There could be no end. I’m afraid we’ll rot away and die in here. Erased. Forgotten.

Will I mark my life as only having two parts? Before Mobius and after?


The Mobius morning alarm blasts me awake. I drag myself out of bed and splash water on my face. I change and step out of my room. As usual, my parents are at the little dining table, tea in hand. They mutter their good mornings, not even looking me in the eye.

Since the Incident at the Mess and since they got wind of the Instagram Live video, they’ve barely spoken to me. They know others blame me for the new regulations. They won’t let anyone speak ill of me, but that doesn’t mean they approve of what I’ve done. They asked me to promise that I wouldn’t do anything else “foolish.” I refused, so the chill in the trailer remains. I get that they’re worried and looking out for me, but I can’t abide their pleas or assuage their fears. I haven’t brought up the threats the Director said they received, but last night when they thought I was asleep, I heard them through my bedroom door. They were talking, trying to decide if they should tell me. They’re not going to. They’re hiding the threats from me because they want to protect me, but deep down, in their own way, they each believe I’m beyond their protection, and it terrifies them. Maybe concealing the threats gives them a bit of solace, the belief that they are still able to shield me from a few of the horrors of the world. I won’t tell them I already know. Let them have that. It’s all that is left that I can give them.