Internment(85)

“You might need this.” Fauzia passes a small bullhorn to me. “Press that red button when you speak.” I don’t have time to really be in shock at her gesture, but I’m sure it registers on my face.

I nod at the minder. I hold up the bullhorn, looking at the anxious, bright faces in front of me. I hesitate, then clear my throat. “I haven’t really given any pep talks or lead-the-troops-into-battle kind of rousing speeches.” My eyes dart to Ayesha and Suraya, who smile and raise their fists to encourage me. I pause for a moment and remember this one smile my mom has that warms her eyes, a smile reserved for me. Especially in middle school, whenever I felt a little lost or discouraged, she was there for me, knowing what I needed without my having to say it.

I keep going. “But I know that America is built on life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. All those things have been ripped away from us, and I believe that every American who came before us, who stood up to oppression, who fought to guarantee our right to religious freedom, is looking down on us and telling us to rise up, to speak out, to shout our names to the world. We stand on the shoulders of giants. We are Americans. We make America great. This is our country. And we’re taking it back.”

People clap and cheer. My heart pounds as I step down and walk to the front of the block. Ayesha and her father, Suraya, and Khadijah auntie join me in the front line, walking forward, and the others follow. We turn onto the Midway, banging our pots and pans and spoons, drawing attention from some of the other internees who were standing around their blocks. Some merely watch. Others run to join us.

I turn to face the growing crowd. Walking backward, I raise the bullhorn to my lips, remembering all the protestors who came before us. I shout, “The people united will never be defeated!”

A chorus of voices rises up, echoing the words.





As we head toward the front of the Hub, other internees step into the group, and the Occupiers make noise to join our march. Camera operators rush toward the fence, scooting around the orange plastic barriers. Others follow. This time the police don’t hold the protestors back. The electricity must be off. Small victories.

We march up to the fence so the Occupiers can see us. Then, together, we turn to face the Hub. People continue banging their pots, shouting to make their voices heard. I raise my fist in the air to quiet them. A phalanx of the Director’s security detail stomps out and takes up position in front of the Hub doors.

Dozens of Exclusion Guards rush over, but there’s confusion. Some join the line of the Director’s private security. But Jake and maybe six or seven other guards stand by me and the other internees, facing their fellow soldiers. After the dust from all the shuffling settles, a silence comes over the desert. I sense the cameras on me, and feel the desperate hope of everyone who stands with me today. The weight of this moment could crush us all. I wish my parents were here with me, at my side. We have to do this for all our sakes, but in my heart I know I’m doing it for them. My breathing feels shaky, shuddery. Jake takes up position next to me, pressing his arm into mine, bolstering my resolve. I clench my left fist.

I raise the bullhorn to my lips. “We demand that the gates of Mobius be opened,” I begin. I pause and shuffle my feet. My stomach quivers. I’m begging myself not to throw up. Out of the corner of my left eye, I see Ayesha, Suraya, and Khadijah auntie. And though I can’t see him, I know David’s eyes are on me. I clear my throat again. Breathe. “We are Americans.”

Cheers from my fellow internees. I repeat. “We are Americans!” This time shouts from the Occupy protestors join ours. “We demand to be released! We demand our freedom!” People shout and bang their pots and raise their fists in the air.

I pause, wait for quiet.

“We know you’re hiding in there, Director. We know you’re scared of us.” I’m goading him. A part of me isn’t sure how wise this is, but my memory overflows with the horrifying sound of his voice in my ear, and the stinging slap that busted my lip, and the cruel grimace on his face. I clench my left hand tighter; my nails bite into my skin. My pulse pounds, and I explode, “Come out! Face us, COWARD!”

For a second, everything is still. My call ricochets across the camp and into the canyons.

The door to the Hub flies open.

My parents are shoved out.

Two of the Director’s security guys walk out behind them, holding guns to the backs of their heads.

My heart stops. My mouth drops open, but words are beyond me right now.

Gasps and shouts come from the crowd behind me.

My mom’s hair is disheveled, her eyes wild with fear. My dad has bruises on his face, and he stands with his shoulders slightly slumped; he’s holding his right arm up at a weird angle.

I reach a hand out toward my parents across the distance. My mom reaches back. But we can’t bridge this gap.

The Director slithers out from behind them, glaring at me—his suit wrinkled, his face beet-red. “Is this what all the ruckus is about, Miss Amin? Your precious parents? Well, here they are. None the worse for wear. It would be a terrible shame if your actions today caused them any harm. Now, if you break up this little demonstration and beg for my forgiveness, perhaps everyone can walk away from this foolishness alive. Your choice.” The Director takes a step back, next to the men who are holding guns to my parents’ heads. He bares his teeth like a small, angry animal.