Chapter 3--Fazia Nasser

"Why me?" This was the one question posed universally by people forcibly relocated to the "ghettoes". In their hearts, though, they knew why they had been singled out and separated from their communities. In order to put a better face on the situation, and realizing that total lockdown would only bring tensions to the point of violent revolt, the federal authorities decided to allow some internees the privilege of working outside the ghettoes. This was also a good source of cheap labor. But most internees had no hope of ever seeing the outside world again, especially those viewed as the most volatile elements in the population.

Fazia Nasser, an up and coming radio host, was one of those viewed as a dangerous element within a dangerous population. She was among the first to be forcibly removed to the new "districts of internment". Like the other internees, she felt bewildered at her situation. Yet she and they quickly came to understand the hidden psychological reasons the nation felt compelled to isolate them. Was it anger, a lust for vengeance, or something more profound?

I think that song may as well have been a death sentence for me. People probably thought I was dead when I just disappeared from the airwaves--hell, from life. Here today, gone tomorrow. They came for me in the middle of the night. I was dozing off while reading a chapter of--what else?--1984, when the thought police banged on my door. I answered it, like a fool I just went and said "Hello?" They said they were here to arrest me. "What's my crime?"

That's when they threw the door open and told me I had ten minutes to pack one bag because I was to be taken away. After that I was blindfolded and taken God-knows-where, processed, then finally dumped here in this cold, drafty, roach-infested barracks.

All because of that one song.

It was a rock song with a sultry, Middle Eastern-flavored melody; that alone probably set them off. TERRORIST! TERRORIST SYMPATHIZER!

My not-so-subtle references to the war that had been going on for most of the past decade reminded them how they'd failed in their mission to keep the public locked in a state of ersatz nirvana. "Just watch TV and scarf some snacks, and revel in the Lie." Or forget about the Lie. It's your life, just don't try to do anything with it. It's the message that was subtly drummed into the public's skulls, and they bought it. Orwell knew this shit was coming, he knew it good.

I sometimes sat in my little quarters with the one notebook they'd allowed me to keep, reading it over and over to pass the time. I'd always keep coming back to one entry, the one with "Inferno" scribbled on the page. I'd do that for hours each day waiting until the supply truck came by at noon, with rations to keep us alive until they decided what to do with us. I didn't dare hum the song outside; the guy giving out the rations must've recognized the song and he didn't take kindly to hearing it. No food that day, or the next. All because of that damned song.

That was my first survival lesson, so to speak. I learned the order of things very fast. Here's how the "ghetto" was run, for instance. Some mid-level military person was assigned to each district of internment to run the place, with a small army of guards who were zealous about their work. The whole internment camp was ringed by a series of walls and barbed wire fences. No one got in, no one got out. Unless, of course, you managed to get a "blue card." Then you could work on the outside, bring certain things inside, and get better accommodations for yourself. You made friends, set up connections, shared everything you had in order to survive. These networks were about the only thing keeping us going, physically and psychologically.

I came to rely on my fellow internees because I sure wasn't getting a "blue card" anytime soon. I was too much a dangerous element to the authorities' point of view.

Nobody here had committed any crime. We weren't traitors. We weren't terrorists. And we had no way of knowing what was going to happen to us, whether we were going to be imprisoned forever or deported or even killed. What, you actually thought they'd allow newspapers or TVs or the Internet in there? Every moment was one of anxiety, and some people couldn't take it.

I had nightmares for weeks after I saw my first dead body. It was just laying there, right on the ground by one of the barracks, in a puddle of mud and shit. The guy somehow managed to climb up onto the highway that passed over the district, and took a leap of fate… I agonized over why he'd throw his life away like that, why he'd given in to it all. After all, that was what they wanted.

But after all, it was his only means of escape from the Randall's Island District of Internment. The island, situated in the East River between Manhattan and Long Island, was the perfect place to build such a facility. There wasn't anything but a soccer stadium, now abandoned, and a sewage treatment plant, and a mental hospital…fellow prisoners. High above the island, an elevated railroad track and a highway and bridge connecting Long Island, Manhattan, and the Bronx ran above us. And just off the island was a little channel, aptly called the Hell's Gate.

After my first week, I went out and explored my new home, looking at the decrepit, ugly barracks that had been hastily built to accommodate us. I passed by a pair of junked trucks being used as shelter by some new arrivals, people just sitting around with nothing to do but wait for their fate, soldiers glaring at me as they stomped past me on their patrols. Trash, dying grass, stray dogs, barbed wire fences… I saw very few internees around; some people peeked out from windows and hid as soon as I passed by. Some of them just stared at me blankly. We didn't need words to convey our feelings about our situation.

In the distance I could plainly see the skyscrapers of Manhattan, so proud, so inviting, so close and yet a world away. I'd once enjoyed a bit of celebrity over there, in the Big Apple--in the real world. I used to have my own radio program, and my voice transmitted through the sky and reached the ears of people all around the city and beyond. They tuned in every evening at about this time, and they listened to me-and of course, the music, my songs as well as others'. My show had been the hottest in the region. I had been talked about on TV and in the news.

All because of that song…everything because of that song.

I walked in the direction of the skyscrapers, passing under the highway that ran through the ghetto. I averted my gaze and tried to visualize the cars whizzing past, their drivers going as fast as possible. I could feel their indifference. But that wasn't all. If I looked behind me I saw the desolate barracks and the fences that surrounded them. If I looked ahead I saw the city--the real world--and the river. I couldn't swim across. I'd be shot if I even tried it--I could see a few guards posted by the concrete barriers that blocked access to the shore. They were looking at me…taunting me with their eyes, daring me to try it!

And the sky…I'll never forget it…the sky was cloudless and blue! And I heard birds singing! And all the while I could just hear the cars whizzing past, ignoring me! And the skyscrapers were gleaming in the sunlight, while around me I saw only blandness and coldness and misery!

I suddenly felt aware of the ankle bracelet on my left leg as I backed away from the guards and their menacing guns. It had been put on me…on all of us…like a modern-day Star of David sewn onto our clothes. My emotions were starting to overwhelm me; I felt cold all over. I had to lean against a dirty wall and try to breathe a little because my heart felt like it was going to explode any moment. My knees went weak and I dropped to the pavement, sobbing like I'd never sobbed before. I made it rain tears on that grimy street, for it was then I realized just why that man had jumped to his death.

I cried, knowing I was giving the bastards exactly what they wanted…or was I? No…it was all to protect the nation, wasn't it? It was all to make the nation safe. Go home and sleep…go home and rest your head…go home and let us be your dream maker… A random lyric from a song my mind was racing to assemble on the spot. They were the dream makers indeed, making the people think they were safe because the brown people who talked funny and the people who prayed to Allah and the sand niggers were all being sent away…

"Hey, you over there!"

I looked up from my tearful reverie to see a soldier approaching me slowly, warily. No use running away; I'd not been here long but already I'd seen how trigger-happy they were. Another survival lesson, one I was glad I didn't learn first hand. I hoped to keep it that way, too.

"What are you doing here? This is the border zone. You can't be here." The soldier had steel in his voice. He also had an automatic rifle on him, which gave him extra resolve. "Go on lady, get out of here and go pray or something." He used the word lady with irony. He also muttered something else under his breath, something I didn't like the sound of. "Hysterics…no wonder their men keep them in those burqas…"

"I'm not doing anything," was all I dared say. Even so, he kept his distance from me, as if I was some wild animal about to lash out at him.

"Doesn't matter a lick here, lady. You're too close to the river. Now, I don't know if you're thinking of swimming across, but don't even think about it." He inclined his head toward his fellow guards, fully armed and dangerous. "Go. Now." He motioned toward his lethal rifle.

Who the hell was this guy, ordering me around? I had to swallow my pride and obey if I wanted to keep my life that day. "Fine."

I wiped my eyes and started to turn away, but he added, "I'm just doing my job." I'm sure his words were meant to be somewhat sympathetic but his voice was purely robotic. Did he really mean it?

I saw through it. I just stared at him for a moment, thinking of the things I wanted to tell him. I wanted to ask him, why? I wanted to ask, you really think the country is safer because people like me are rounded up behind barbed wire fences? I simply replied, "Hmph…apology accepted," as I turned away and started walking.

I'd hardly gotten more than a few paces when he spoke again. "Hey, hold up a moment!"

I snapped. "What now? Can't you just leave me alone? Can't you…just leave all of us alone?!" He looked pissed at me now, just for the crime of having talked back to him. I took a step toward him, but before I could take another he pointed his gun right at me.

"Halt!" Unnecessary words. He put his finger on the trigger to show he was serious.

Before I even knew what I was doing, I screamed, "What gives you the right to do this to us? You think…you think you're protecting yourselves from terrorists by setting up little Gitmos right in your backyard? Are you satisfied at seeing me cry? Are you satisfied at seeing those kids back there crying all the time? Are you satisfied seeing our communities ripped apart and separated? Does that make your wife and kids feel safe at night? Do you…how do you even sleep at night?" I spat at the ground in front of him.

He remained stoic but I could see his hands tightening their grip on his gun.

"Kill me now--just…fucking kill me and get it over with! I know you want to!"

His finger went off the trigger as he looked toward his buddies, who were looking on at my outburst. They seemed amused, but he seemed to be searching for what to do. I doubt he saw it coming. I didn't even see it coming. The words just came tumbling out of my big mouth.

"You…just shut up!" he retorted. "You think it's all about poor little you, don't you? Well it's not! You're out of order, lady! Return to your quarters immediately!" He was pretty hard to read; his face gave very little away. His body language, though, was telling a very different story.

We stared at each other for minutes. Neither of us blinked. Neither of us made a move. Neither of us took a step forward or back. I saw his buddies looking at each other, wonder what was going on and what to do. Were they going to unleash a hail of bullets at me?

It was very quiet, and I could hear that his breathing was growing more ragged. Was he…intimidated by me? Had anyone ever stood up to him like this before? As for me, if I was the first one to accost him then I'd most likely be the last. At any rate, I was ready to die. Anything was better than this hell-hole.

"The tyrant in the White House wants to play a little game…"

All of a sudden I could've sworn I heard my song "Inferno" playing in the distance.

"The name of the game is Crusade and it is quite insane."

The soldier's eyes went wide. He recognized it too.

"It seems we're out of oil, so it is time to get some more…"

That song!

"So grab your sword and grab your shield, it's time to go to war."

I'd done it again! Before I even had time to realize it, I was singing my song "Inferno", the infamous song that had sent me here in the first place. Now, with armed guards around, it was probably going to send me out of this place too--in a coffin. But I couldn't stop now. I kept singing:

"Saddam just won't comply and it's an Inferno,
They stole our civil rights and it's an Inferno,
World Trade got blown away and it's an Inferno,
Bin Laden got away and it's an IN-FER-NO!"

And I didn't stop. I kept singing until the song was totally finished. People always said I had a nice voice. It was partly what made me such a hit on the radio. The soldier seemed entranced, but not in the good 'I love it' sort of way. No, he looked at me like I was singing in some alien language. To my utter amazement, he backed away a few paces. He kept his gun aimed at me; he didn't take his eyes off me for one second. And he just kept shaking his head, not really comprehending what was going on. I didn't totally comprehend it either, but I knew one thing right then and there. He was afraid. He was afraid…of me, of my song. Nothing else explained his reaction.

I stood there, staring at him, armed only with a notorious song. Now I was in control. And I challenged him--dared him--to make a move or shoot me dead. Not with my words, mind you, but with my eyes, my voice, my poise.

After a few moments, he managed to choke out a few words. "Fuck you." He lowered his weapon. "Just…go away. I don't have the time or patience to deal with you."

Maybe he'd heard the song on the radio and he recognized my voice--and therefore, me. But I didn't bother asking him. I turned tail and fled as fast as I can, and I didn't stop until I reached my barracks, on the other side of the island, safely. The last thing I heard him say was, "Crazy bitch! I'm just doing my damn job!"

Something changed in me that day. Before that moment, I'd lived in a state of fear, anxiety, and shock at seeing what was happening to us. Their savage treatment of us was meant to make us live in fear, punishment for being of the wrong race or religion or whatever. We were powerless in the face of all their guns and armies and laws and popular mandates…yet they were the ones who were truly living in fear after all. They were afraid of us; afraid of the monster they were creating in oppressing us.

That fact gave me infinite satisfaction as I drifted off to sleep that night.

And I realized another thing that day. Despite all they'd done to us and our communities, there was one thing they never could take from me. They couldn't stop me from singing. No, they could never stop me from singing.