Internment(83)

Ayesha bites her lip. “Let’s hope things get better, not worse.”

“Can I make you some tea?” I get up to fill the kettle, but a brash alarm rings across the camp, vibrating through the trailer. We push ourselves out the door.

The wind swirls and dust freckles the air. There are no guards—they’re probably all at the Hub. But the minders are out, getting people in line, scanning everyone’s barcodes. I can’t hide the bruises on my face or the cut on my lip, and I don’t want to. I want people to see what the Director did. I expected the stares and whispers. What I didn’t expect? Khadijah auntie walking up to me, leaning on her cane, drawing me into a one-armed hug. And then the family in trailer 23, and the two sisters from 27. One by one people offer prayers and kind words for my parents. The minders struggle to get everyone back in order, but after a few fruitless attempts, they stand to the side, waiting, until everyone files back into a row.

I squeeze Ayesha’s hand as I join the line behind her and her family. The earth spins around me. Like it could give way, crack, and swallow me whole if I let it. I close my eyes and see my parents cooking dinner in the kitchen. Laughing as they chop onions and caramelize them with garam masala and turmeric and ginger and garlic, trying to replicate my nanni’s kheema. Their efforts always fell a little short, but not for lack of enthusiasm or love. For a single, illusory moment of bliss, I’m there in that kitchen, my kitchen, in my home, with my parents. Safe and happy.

Someone roughly grasps my hand. And I’m back here at Mobius. In the present.

“I said, show me your wrist,” Saleem fumes.

“Ow! You’re hurting me.”

“And don’t you deserve it?”

“Shut up!” Ayesha yells. “And let go of her. If anyone deserves to be hurt, it’s you and your wife. Minders? What a joke. Everyone knows what you are.”

“Ayesha, be quiet,” her mother chastises, the fear transparent on her face.

“No, Mom. I’m tired of being quiet. All of you should be. Layla’s been fighting for us. Literally. Look at her face. And what have any of you done? Nothing but cower in fear.”

Before I can say or do anything, Saleem drops my hand and grabs Ayesha’s arm, yanking her out of the line and throwing her into the dirt. He raises his hand to hit her with the barcode scanner.

Her mother screams, “No!”

I jump out of line, throwing myself over Ayesha. Fauzia dashes over to stay Saleem’s hand.

Saleem snatches his hand away and turns back to us as we rise from the dirt with the help of Ayesha’s parents. He points at Ayesha and me. “You’re nothing but a bunch of stupid children playing grown-up. You have no idea how much worse things could get for all of us.”

“All of us?” I scream. “You threw your own people under the bus. You’re as bad as the Director. Worse.”

“Shut your fucking trap,” Saleem rages. His face is red, and spit flies out of his mouth. He inches toward me.

Khadijah auntie steps up behind him and thwacks him across the back with her cane. He spins around, nostrils flaring, fury in his eyes. “Back off, old woman, or you’ll be next.”

Saleem’s wife clasps his hands and pulls him aside. “Stop—now, Saleem. This isn’t right.”

“Besharam. You should be ashamed,” Khadijah auntie continues. Undeterred and apparently with a backbone like steel, she shakes her head at him, contempt in her voice. “You attack these girls? They are the only ones who have the courage to help us, to stand up to this tyranny. You brutalize your fellow Muslims, and you take pride in this behavior? You bring shame on your family and your people.”

Saleem shoves his wife to the ground and advances on Khadijah auntie. I watch the scene unfold in slow motion. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone as graceful as this eighty-something-year-old woman, her body straight, her cane at her side, a spitfire glare on her face. Ayesha and I scurry to stop Saleem from hurting her. Others step in front of Saleem, and in the flurry of yells and moving bodies and rising dust, someone shoves him to the ground.

The minder looks around, his eyes blinking wildly at the others on the block, now gathered in a semicircle around him. He scoots backward in the dirt and then stands, dusting himself off. “You’ll regret this. All of you.” He takes off running toward the Hub.

We all stand there, looking at one another. Scared. At least that’s how I feel. But also exultant at a tiny, tiny victory.

Khadijah auntie walks up to me and holds my hand and speaks in a soft, clear voice: “Do you remember your father’s words?”

I shake my head, not sure what words she means.

“It’s okay, beta.” She pats my hand and continues.


We shall bear witness

On the Night of Destiny.

As a hush descends,

And a prayer rises.

There is only the listening, then,

To the beating heart of the earth,

And flashes of thunderous light in the heavens.

It’s one of my dad’s poems. A lump swells in my throat. “Why are you reciting this to me now?” I whisper.

Khadijah auntie smiles and nods, then squeezes my hand. “Your father is speaking to us. To you. You are the heartbeat. Now make us the lightning.”

The people from our block nod, and tears spring to my eyes. I remember my dad reading from his poems to Mom and me. His voice comes back to me now like a bittersweet song.