Internment(76)

Maybe I thought someone would stop it.

Maybe I thought this couldn’t happen here.

In American Lit class once, we discussed America as a metaphor tying it into how the country is represented in books, movies, songs. You know, America is a melting pot. America is a mixed salad. America is a shining city on a hill. America is the country where a skinny kid with a funny name can defeat the odds and become president. But America doesn’t seem like any of those things anymore. Maybe it never was.

After walking a couple hundred yards, we stop. I’m pulled through another door—not a car but a building—and ushered into a room that smells like cleaning fluid. Like bleach and synthetic lemon. I hear the screech of a metal chair as it’s pulled across the floor. I’m shoved down into it, and it’s pushed back, jerking into place. Someone unlocks one side of the handcuffs and drags my still-cuffed right hand to a table in front of me. I hear the other handcuff click onto something metal. I circle my free wrist to rid the phantom weight of the handcuff while one of the security guys pulls the bag off my head.

I blink at the fluorescent lights in the room; a faint buzz emanates from them and reminds me of the lights in my high school library. The room is empty except for the small metal rectangular table in front of me; I’m handcuffed to a metal bar in its center. My blue chair is pulled up close to the table, allowing me to at least rest my handcuffed arm along it; it feels cool against my aching skin. There is one other blue chair in the room, ominously empty. And that chemical bleach smell fills my nostrils. What was spilled in this room that it had to be cleaned with bleach?

No windows.

No cot.

No hope.

One of the men reaches toward my face and rips the duct tape off my mouth. I cry out. I raise my free hand to cover my mouth. The pain brings tears to my eyes. But no one notices, or cares.

The door opens. The security detail files out of the room. Someone else enters. It’s him. He’s behind me. I can tell from the loud breathing. I try to steel myself, close my eyes and remember Jake’s words. Be brave. Be brave. You’re not alone. But an image of the woman tased at the orientation springs to mind. And Noor being dragged away, Bilqis and Asmaa being assaulted, and my dad being butted by the end of a rifle. Blood on the floor in the Mess. Blood mingling with the desert dirt. The electric fence. That terrible scream. Soheil. Soheil. Soheil. My heart thuds against my ribs. I rub my free hand against my jeans, trying stupidly to wipe away the clamminess and fear.

“We meet again. Did you miss me?” The Director’s voice seems different than it did… eighteen hours ago? Twenty? I realize I don’t know what time it is or even, really, what day. There’s a forced, practiced calm in his tone. So cold. And it’s terrifying. I bite my lip. Stay calm. I say this over and over in my head, hoping that somehow it will stick.

He slams the door shut; the thud of his soles against the concrete floor shakes my seat as he approaches me from behind. The Director takes his time walking to the other side of the table. He pulls the chair back and takes a seat, tenting his fingers, pointing his chin downward. Smug. It’s all very rehearsed. Like this is his stage. And it strikes me that this is exactly that—his show. He’s playing the strongman. I guess that’s sort of the thing with bullies, though, isn’t it? They play a part to mask their own weaknesses.

And that’s the small opening. The only one I may have. At their core, bullies are cowards. He is what he always was. He can still hurt me. Kill me, even. But he will never win.

Remember who the enemy is. I’ve been fighting myself. My fear. My failures. That’s the wrong fight. The fight is in front of me.

“I’ll keep it simple,” the Director begins. “You cooperate. You protect yourself from further harm.”

I stare at him, debating the best way to proceed.

He chuckles. “So that’s how it’s going to be? Nothing to say? Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Cooperate. Save yourself.”

“Cooperate with what?”

“Let’s say I could use someone like you. For starters, you point out the troublemakers. Tell me who is writing those lying blog posts that are causing such a ruckus. How are they getting the information out? Who is their contact? There’s a traitor in my ranks, and I need to know who that is. Now, that’s not a very big ask, is it?”

Jake.

I only saw him for a few minutes when they first brought me here. Doubts muddle my thoughts. Does the Director know? Is Jake already in custody—is that why he hasn’t shown up? Is the Director playing me, trying to trap me in a lie? A spasm of fright passes through my body and over my face. He sees it.

“So, you do know. Tell me. It’s easy. Think of all the people you’ll be saving with a few words. Say the names,” the Director coaxes. “It doesn’t have to be painful.” He’s softened his voice like he’s the good cop now.

“And what’s in it for me?” I ball my free hand into a fist and pound my left thigh with it. Keep talking. Stall. Figure a way out of this.

The Director smiles. “I knew you could be reasonable. You’ll find it’s to your advantage to be friends with me. I believe I mentioned certain perks, shall we say, for you and your family—like unlimited hot water, for instance. Perhaps a visit with that boyfriend of yours. I’m quite a generous man, you know.”

“So I name names and—”