Internment(84)

I was little and saw my mom’s eyes glassy with tears, but I didn’t quite understand. “Even if you don’t know what all the words mean, I hope you can close your eyes and feel the poem pulsing in your blood,” my dad said. Mom. Dad. I’ll find you. I won’t give up.

“Thank you,” I whisper to Khadijah auntie, and give her a hug. Then I step back. “It’s not a single heartbeat that calls the storm. It’s the power of our voices joined together, demanding justice. It’s the thunder of our collective feet marching for our freedom.”

I turn my gaze to the dozens of eyes on me. Khadijah auntie is right next to me, still holding my hand. “The Director is hiding in his office, surrounded by his private security. I guess the top brass from DC are coming today; that’s why we’re on lockdown. The press and the Occupy folks are all outside. I think we need to march to the front gate and demand to be released. People on the outside are turning against the Exclusion Laws, especially after Soheil—” My voice cracks. I take a breath. “Especially after Soheil was killed.”

“It’s a death wish,” a voice calls out from the crowd. “That fence could still be live. They could shoot us.”

“You can stay if you don’t want to join us. Little kids should stay behind, too,” Ayesha adds.

“Look, I know it’s a risk and you’re all scared. I’m scared, too,” I continue. “I have no idea where my parents are, and I know that the Director and the Authority could do horrible things to all of us. But I also believe that some of the Exclusion Guards will not stand for any more of this, either. I’m not going to ask anyone to do something they don’t want to do. If you don’t want to go, I understand, but this is our chance. Maybe our only chance to be heard.”

“We’re with you.” A couple steps forward. Then others.

I turn to Ayesha and say, “Can you run to Block Eight and see if you can find Suraya, and grab anyone else who will come along?” Ayesha gives me a huge, reassuring smile.

Her mom reaches out toward her. “Ayesha, wait. No.”

Ayesha’s dad places a gentle hand on his wife’s arm. “Jaan, the children are right. I’ll go with her. I’ll keep her safe.” He and Ayesha hurry off in the direction of Block 8.

I squeeze Khadijah auntie’s hand and look at her. “Please stay back and watch the children. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’ve done enough already.”

“Beta, I am alone in this world, and I am at peace with God. When my time comes, it will come. Nothing you or I can do will stop that. I am with you.”

I want to break down in tears of joy and relief and thanks, but we don’t have time for that, so I hug her and whisper a shukria in her ear.

“So what should we do?” another voice asks.

I pause for a moment and lick my chapped, scabbed lips. “We need to make some noise.”

“But the Director will hear us coming.”

“I want the whole world to hear us coming. Everyone, go back to your trailers and grab anything that can make noise. Pots, pans, spoons, whatever. We might not have weapons, but we have our voices. Let’s get loud.”

There’s a smattering of claps and cheers as people rush off to grab their tools of protest. I watch everyone and look up to the sky. I pray. Really pray. “Please, God, keep us under your protection. Please let my parents be okay. Please let this work.”

There are so many thoughts and images flooding my brain, but I try to push them aside. Focus. This is a half-assed plan, but in here, we’re the Resistance, and that’s all I have right now.

When people emerge from their trailers, I thrust my shoulders back, trying to stand up straight. My lungs expand as I gulp in the air around me. I ask everyone staying behind with the kids to separate into groups and take cover in two trailers. People are milling around. I scan the scene: shaking hands, nervous smiles, grim faces, a group kneeling in prayer a few feet away, their hands cupped in front of them. I hear the melodic “ameens” and add my own. I wipe my clammy hands on my dusty jeans and clear my throat.

Then I hear them—the muted thump of footsteps in the dirt coming around the corner.

My heart jumps. Guards. I clench my fists and try to steel myself.

But it’s not guards with Tasers and guns and hate in their hearts who round the corner. It’s not Them. It’s Us. It’s Ayesha and Suraya. Nadia and Nadeem. It’s girls in hijab and girls with their hair whipping across their faces and girls with shaved heads. It’s parents and grandparents. It’s young men wearing colorful dashikis and white cotton kurtas and concert T-shirts. It’s straight couples and queer couples and friends and strangers and families connected by blood or circumstance. Here we all are. Brown. Black. White. There must be at least fifty people, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The groups from the different blocks mingle. Smiling, clasping hands, patting one another on the back. My heart swells.

From many, we are one.

I wish Soheil were here to see this. Maybe, in a way, he is.

Ayesha’s and Suraya’s smiling faces shine as they approach me.

“So, we hear you want a revolution.” Suraya hugs me. “We’re here.”

“I know,” I whisper to her. I straighten up and stand on the step in front of the nearest trailer.