Internment

The woman keeps her head turned away from me, refusing to meet my gaze, shoveling the books and papers back into her bag. I reach for two books and glance at the titles before she grabs them from my fingers. Palace Walk by Naguib Mahfouz. Nameless Saints by Ali Amin—my father.

For a split second, she looks me in the eye. I suck in my breath. “Mrs. Brown, I—I’m sorry—” My voice fades away.

Mrs. Brown owns the Sweet Spot on Jefferson Street. She made my favorite birthday cake ever, a green-frosted Tinkerbell confection for my fifth birthday.

The man clears his throat and nods. “We need to stamp the inside of your wrist with your ID number.”

[...]

“Hold still,” he says as a two-inch rectangular metal bar descends and presses into the soft flesh on the inside of my wrist for a few seconds. When the bar rises up, I see nothing on my skin. It’s UV. Ultraviolet. Invisible ink. Permanent, the man explains, like an automaton.

[...] I grip my wrist like someone has cut me with a knife. I hold it close to my face, then farther away, squinting, holding my wrist up to the fluorescent slants of light that pass through the hall. I can’t feel the mark; I can’t see it. But it’s there. Forever.

I remember something else my nanni used to tell me: Praying is important. But you can’t simply pray for what you want. You have to act.

“During the trial I think Sophie said, ‘Somebody, after all, had to make a start.’ Didn’t she? I think I remember seeing that in my textbook. And she was right. Somebody has to make a start. And it might as well be us.”

Ayesha gulps. “But you want to do leaflets in here?”

“No. I want to write stories that will rile people up on the outside. And I’m going to ask David to get them out there. I know he’s afraid. But at some point we have to stop talking and start reminding people of who we are. Americans. Human beings.”

My eyes fix on the screen. I read the headline again, and it knocks the wind out of me. I scan the words, my words. And then I’m there again, in that moment. Hearing it. Noor’s screams. The security guys dragging her away. Asmaa and Bilqis, who tried to help her. Their blood staining the dry earth. The Director. The gun. Tears fill my eyes. I whisper, “The whole world will know their names.”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. But I am.

Mom continues. “They have put us in danger, but we’re in danger every moment anyway. Progress in this country always carries a component risk. Every movement has—civil rights, marriage equality, women’s rights—”