Internment(70)
I give her a half smile because Ayesha always gets to the heart of it. “I’m worried, I guess. I mean, more than usual. Jake told me that the under-eighteen crowd is protected in a way—at least from being taken off-site. But there’s our parents—and also the fact is a lot of us will be eighteen soon. Some are already, and if they get caught, the Director could—”
“Disappear them?” Ayesha completes my sentence.
“Yeah. That.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
“Lately I’ve been thinking hope is kind of a flimsy feeling to hold on to,” I confess. It doesn’t feel good to say it; it feels like a betrayal, and wrong, and defeatist.
Ayesha squeezes my elbow as we continue walking. “I know what you mean. Hope is basically faith, right? It’s intangible. You literally can’t grasp it. That’s why it’s easier to doubt than believe. That’s why it’s easier to give up than persist. Soheil and I talked about this once—about how the basis of faith is believing in the unseen, the unknowable. About how it actually is important to question, because searching for the answer can strengthen your resolve. But holding on to hope isn’t easy. It’s work. But necessary. And, well, that’s why—”
“Are you about to say ‘rebellions are built on hope’?” I wink at Ayesha.
“Dammit. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” Ayesha laughs. “But it’s true. Hope is all we’ve got right now. Hope and a ragtag bunch of Muslim teenagers. Look out, world—the Muslims are coming.” Ayesha jokingly punches the air with her fist.
“We’re already here.”
“And we’re not going anywhere.”
We walk into the Mess nodding at our co-conspirators. Even having a secret feels dangerous. I wonder if this is how the White Rose students felt. Like they were drinking liquid adrenaline through a fire hose. And scared. Scared all the time. For everyone.
Suraya and Raeshma are sitting with some of the other kids from their block. Abdul is with them, but he doesn’t acknowledge me at all when I catch his eye. He looks through me like the physical space I occupy is empty. Odd, but a lot of things about him are off. We take our food and eat at a Block 2 table. Tonight it’s pizza, a fruit cup, soggy green beans, and milk. This might be the only time in the history of the world that public school lunch lines have been remembered with nostalgia. Not that I miss the food. At all. I mean, gross. But I do miss all the mundane things, like standing in a line and talking to friends and getting a crappy lunch without the heart-stopping terror of looking into the eyes of a man with a gun who is allowed to kill you.
People begin getting up to return trays and get tea or coffee, when the lights go out in the Mess. There’s a great clattering of dishes and trays from the kitchen, dropped silverware, people bumping into tables and one another as we’re all thrown into darkness. Someone screams, apparently having spilled hot tea. The clamoring spins into chaos. But the lights haven’t gone out in just the Mess. When I glance out the windows, I see that the admin offices and the Hub are blacked out, too. I’m not sure what Suraya’s friend did exactly, because no backup generator has come on yet. I’m so ecstatic, I’m certain I would kiss him if he were in front of me.
I grab Ayesha’s hand and we race toward a side exit. The guards, also in disarray, are too busy trying to sort out the power situation and help people up to notice the twenty or so of us who slip out the door.
Outside it is eerily quiet and dark. The normal hum from the fluorescent lights that illuminate the pathways between buildings is absent. The only working searchlights seem to be at the back of the camp. As they sweep the grounds, I sense them reaching out to me, trying to seize me with their illuminated tentacles, trying to expose my face to the light. But for now I am beyond their grasp. Ayesha and I find the others and hurry to the open yard between the Hub and the entrance gate. We stick close to the walls as we approach, but the frenzy from the blackout compels the guards to rush from their posts to secure the Mess and the Hub. Higher-ups bark orders, and the thunder of hundreds of boots stomping against dry ground reverberates through my body. The darkness and disorder inside the camp lie in sharp contrast to the outside. The Occupy Mobius encampment is bright with car headlights and portable outdoor work lights operated by generators. The protestors line up by the fence, behind the wall of police. They are ready. Waiting. David did his job.
We take our positions as close to the fence as we can. There are thirty-three of us. It’s not an army, but it is a resistance. A couple of older aunties and some uncles join the group. Suraya winks at me when she catches me counting the new recruits. We face the crowd near the fence and raise our fists. Like I’ve seen in old pictures of the Olympics in 1968, and the NoDAPL protests that have been going on for years, and women in India fighting for justice for rape victims, and the teens—just like me—at the March for Our Lives. It’s a simple gesture, and a beautiful one. It calls out through dusty pages of history and echoes from those whose shoulders I stand on—the ones who were hosed down but never retreated, who were beaten but persisted, and the ones whose voices were locked behind walls but whose spirits were never broken. The people united will never be defeated.
For a moment everything is quiet. The world is still.
And through that silence, like the sweetest melody, I hear my name called out. “Layla! Layla! I love you!” David. I can’t see him, but he is here. And I laugh. Out loud. And the others laugh. And the Occupy folks raise their fists and start yelling and cheering and clapping. Tears run down my face.