Internment

Even worse, although David got booted, too, only my parents and I were called in for a lecture about how I should know my place at school, keep my head down, and be grateful for the privilege of attending classes there. I was gobsmacked. My dad nodded, took it in stride. My mom did, too, even though she wore a scowl the entire time we were in the office. Then, when I started to open my mouth to say something, my mom shook her head at me. Like I’m supposed to be thankful to go to the public school where I’ve always gone, in the town where I’ve always lived.

Why were they so quiet? Especially Mom? She’s almost never quiet.

He clears his throat. “Private, I think we can let this slide.”

“Sir, the internees were given clear orders, and so were we.”

“There are bathrooms on this car for a reason. We can’t expect all of them to stop having bodily functions, can we?”

The stocky guard glares at me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, then squares himself to the other guard. “No, sir.”

My vision clouds. I blink against the dust, and my knees buckle a little. I grab onto my dad’s arm. Every muscle in his arm is taught. He straightens his backpack. He and my mom are holding hands, and I catch them looking at each other. They’re run-down. The few wrinkles they have are highlighted by this dust that’s blowing everywhere. They look so small, so human.

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.

“Layla, the best thing we can do here is keep our heads down. Don’t attract attention. Fade into the crowd. Stay as anonymous as possible. That’s how we’ll survive.”

[...] “Survive? Is that all we want now? To survive? What about wanting to live? Have we all forgotten that? Have we all decided that our entire lives are going to be spent here? Did I miss the memo?”

“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.”

Ayesha smiles. “I know! Last week when I was at the Hub library, I suggested a teen vegetable garden to the librarian, and she was into it. She even requisitioned tools and seeds and stuff. So we plant. Get some tools, do some work. Rebel.”

Yes, I think Sow the seeds. Perfect.

During our first few days here, Noor caught me smiling at her American flag hijab while we were both doing laundry, and she introduced herself. Block 6, she said, rolling her eyes. Arab American. She told Authority Suits grabbed her from her dorm room for seditious acts. When I asked her if she had done what they claimed, she looked at me with a mysterious smile and said, “Rebellion is as American as apple pie. And so is fascism.”

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—”

The sky is clear and full of stars; the mountains are silhouettes in the moonlight. It is beautiful here. But that’s all on the other side of the fence, unreachable—like our freedom. So close. So far. I wonder if I’ll ever look at mountains or a starry night sky the same way once we get out of here. If. Will their beauty always be marred by memories of Mobius? Will beauty simply cease to exist for me?

“Look at what we’ve done?” I respond. “Look at what you’ve done. Nothing. You stood by during the election, thinking that none of this would come to pass, that the racism and xenophobia running rampant during the campaign was hot air. And then you stayed silent while your rights were stripped away, and you quietly packed your things and let yourselves be taken prisoner. All of you. All of us.”

So, of course, Suraya and the other hijabi girls are down with joining the protests; they already know what bravery is. Hijab is a choice they made, and in these times, an especially courageous one. I’m embarrassed—no, angry at myself—for not approaching them earlier, wrongly assuming they might be unwilling to stand up to the Director.

I nod. “I think it’s pretty clear who the enemy is here, and you’re right: We should have each other’s backs.”

“Some of the parents, they’re too scared; but that’s not all the adults. I know others will resist. We have to ignore the haters and not worry about what they’ll think.”

“He wants me to give up the organizers and tell him if anything else is being planned. Apparently, he thinks some adults are using us to forward their radical freedom agenda.”

“How insulting. Doesn’t he think we can plan anything ourselves?”

I laugh. “I like how you’re indignant about him underestimating us. He wants to blame some adult for it because it’s easier to send one of them to the black-ops sites, where he can torture them. It’s a bigger risk with kids. Plus, I don’t think his ego can handle that a bunch of teenagers spat on him, figuratively speaking.”

“Anyway, I wound our way to Heart Lake—it really is shaped like a heart. And my mom hugged me and told me to trust myself, that I had a good heart. Then she said words I’ll never forget: ‘A compass doesn’t tell you where you are, and it doesn’t tell you where you have to go. It can only point you in a direction. It’s up to you to always find your true north.’ That’s the last hike I ever took with her.” Jake breathes deeply and looks off toward the mountains.

“Hope is basically faith, right? It’s intangible. You literally can’t grasp it. That’s why it’s easier to doubt than believe. That’s why it’s easier to give up than persist. Soheil and I talked about this once—about how the basis of faith is believing in the unseen, the unknowable. About how it actually is important to question, because searching for the answer can strengthen your resolve. But holding on to hope isn’t easy. It’s work. But necessary. And, well, that’s why—”

“Are you about to say “rebellions are built on hope’?” I wink at Ayesha.

We face the crowd near the fence and raise our fists. Like I’ve seen in old pictures of the Olympics in 1968, and the NoDAPL protests that have been going on for years, and women in India fighting for justice for rape victims, and the teens—just like me—at the March for Our Lives. It’s a simple gesture, and a beautiful one. It calls out through dusty pages of history and echoes from those whose shoulders I stand on—the ones who were hosed down but never retreated, who were beaten but persisted, and the ones whose voices were locked behind walls but whose spirits were never broken. The people united will never be defeated.

“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.”