Internment(78)

“Where is Jake?” I don’t bother to hide the hurt and desperation in my voice.

Fred shakes his head. “The Director still trusts Jake, and he’s trying to use that to his advantage. Following orders. Hang on a little longer. You have allies. He can’t take you off-site. Not with all those reporters and protestors right there, beyond the fence. And if an ambulance comes through those gates, it will be bedlam outside. You can feel the undercurrent; we’re sitting on a powder keg. It’s too dangerous for him to do anything really stupid. He knows that.”

“Dangerous for him? Because right now it feels pretty fucking dangerous for me.”

“He’s being watched. The High Command guys—they’re all getting heat from the War Department and the president.”

I nod. But I find no solace in Fred’s assurances.

It’s still night. Dark and quiet are all around, such a contrast to the screaming pain inside me. I close my eyes for a second, allowing Fred to lead me back to the brig and my holding cell and the terrible aloneness that waits for me. Through the silence, I hear my mom’s voice, reciting her dua. I feel her breath as she blows the prayer over me. I open my eyes and look up into a velvety blanket of bright stars, and it reminds me of a line my dad wrote: You need only glance to the vastness of the sky and the multitude of the stars to know the infinite depth of our love.





“Get up.” The Director’s voice echoes off the walls in my small cell. He kicks the bed when I don’t rise immediately. “I said, get up!” he roars.

Slowly I sit up and push my back against the wall, drawing my legs close to my body. I rest my chin on my knees. My jaw still smarts. My swollen cheek aches—it’s probably ten different shades of blue and purple right now. My mouth tastes like blood and metal. I eye the door, and then my eyes dart back to the Director’s face. There’s nowhere to run; I draw my legs closer into me, spinning an imaginary cocoon around my body.

The Director paces from one end of the room to the other—a journey of five steps. Sweat shines on his forehead. He rubs the back of his neck; his face reddens with each step until he’s almost crimson. “Thanks to you and your antics, I’m in a bit of a bind now.”

I look up but don’t speak.

“You see, when your little stunt resulted in the death of that idiot friend of yours, Mr. Saeed, the lying, crooked press—they twisted it to make it seem like it was my fault, like I pushed that fool against the fence, when we all know it was your invisible hand that drove him to his death.”

I flinch when he says Soheil’s name. How dare he. I want to slap the words from the Director’s mouth, but I don’t have the strength to do it.

The Director continues, either not noticing the look of disgust on my face or not caring. “So now instead of celebrating the world being rid of one more vermin, the secretary of war is breathing down my neck because the president has him by the balls. Mobius is supposed to be a model. Do you hear me? Do you understand? A model camp. My camp.”

I continue to stare silently.

“And now all these damn fake-news people—they’ve raised you up to be some kind of hero. A freedom fighter, they’re calling you.” The Director takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and waves it in my face, then begins to read. “‘Miss Amin has given hope to the Muslims of America—indeed, to all democracy-loving Americans. Her brave actions from inside the concentration camp have given the Occupy protestors courage to continue even in the face of the horrific death of Soheil Saeed, who was electrocuted by the live fence surrounding Mobius that the Director failed to shut down during a legal assembly.’

“See how they twist it? How they lie? Hope, they say. Courage. You’ve brought nothing but death and chaos. You think your actions have given people hope? They’re fools. They don’t know what to do with hope. They don’t want courage. They don’t even want freedom. They think they want it. But hear me, Miss Amin. People want to be told. They are more than happy to do what they’re told. Leave them alone with their hope and freedom for five minutes and they’ll come running back to order and rules. People want to be happy in their ignorance. Give them aisles full of processed, fatty foods and a hundred channels on TV and put the fear of God in them. Give them an Other to hate, and they will do what they are told. And that’s what keeps our nation safe. Strength and security.”

My eyes follow the Director’s frenetic pacing. I practically see his mind spinning, his thoughts beginning to derail. Silence seems my safest choice.

“But in a way, you’ve gotten what you want, haven’t you—the masses bleating for your freedom. What now? We open the gates and let all you ragheads roam free? Another terrorist will blow something up somewhere, and soon enough, people will be chanting for your heads, again. And you’ll be right back here while the president soothes the jangled nerves of the masses who will gladly exchange their freedom for security. It’s already done. We know everything. What books you check out. Who you text. Who you sleep with. We know you better than you know yourselves. That’s what kept us safe from you lot and your bombs and your creeping Sharia. Since 9/11, the fear of the entire nation allowed us to pass laws that brought us into your homes and your bedrooms and your thoughts.

“What you don’t understand, what you’re too damn stupid to know, is that when you appease a man’s conscience, you can take his freedom and he will thank you for it.