Immigré
June 8th, 2007Yes, the title is ambiguous on purpose. Just so you will click on over to see what this is about. A little bit of background: I wrote this for my English class because we needed to write make a “big stretch” and do something we had never done before. For me, it was writing a fictional piece of work that argued against a belief that the majority of American’s haven’t thought about. Immigration Policy. This is my critique of what the government’s immigration policies could to our country. It clocks in at just over 7 pages with alot of words. Currently handing props over to input from Jeff Merill. You were a great help.
The man on the TV raged.
“One of the great attractions of patriotism,” the speaker repeated, “is that it fulfills our worst wishes. In the person of our nation we are able, vicariously, to bully and cheat. Bully and cheat, what’s more, with a feeling that we are profoundly virtuous.”
Meanwhile, the rain tapped on the window frame making sure that he wasn’t asleep. The rain made the dark neighborhood outside rise up from its slumber. Trash was blowing around, and being picked up by the wind, outside of the closely packed, dilapidated, crooked tenement buildings. Laundry hung. It was drenched, and the minimal vegetation outside was dead or dying.
Clomps were heard coming up the narrow stairwell, followed by a series of ham-handed knocks.
Aba opened the door to reveal a shiny new InSec officer, with “Sergeant Zeisser” emblazoned upon his breast, flanked by two gun-wielding soldiers.
Ja?
As expected, the robot expelled his usual drawl. “Your family unit has been selected to participate in a government-funded Population Mobilization service. Please prepare your things, and we will be off.
“We had no choice did we?” Ali thinks.
Ali knew what he wanted to bring. He grabbed his blanket and stopwatch.
They left. They rounded a corner and were confronted by a series of buses, the only beacons of light left on in the destitute barrio.
“Gehen sie schnell,” Sergeant Zeisser said in GovTongue, forgetting that it would not have been taught to an immigrant like Ali. “Get in now,” he repeated with his sudden realization.
As Ali neared the buses, he heard a gaggle of other immigrants who had already boarded, screeching at one another in their mother tongues: Russian, Spanish, and French. Nearing them, he saw an assortment of arms waving about like grass in the wind, sticking through what seemed to be bars.
Through his own realization, he received a strong jab in the back with the butt of a stray weapon. He got on.
Yet, he was joined not by the fanfare or heart warming comradic smiles he had suspected that he would receive. The stony glares seem to bore right through his head and slice his prior happiness into little minute pieces.
His family unit continued stuffing their meager possessions under the remaining mobile prison’s seats. They took the remaining spaces in the shoddily painted onyx bus. As the vehicle ground off, Ali rested his shoulder on the barred window frames of his confinement and gazed outside at the barren landscape.
Ali awoke as his vehicle was chauffeured through yet another series of bars. Yet, this one was different. This new gate was flanked by a set of austere, and ironically peaceful looking, cream-colored guard posts housing sooty faced soldiers in matching military regalia, American Army combat equipment. Up above, a dreary, scrolling notification read “Mobilization Facility 101”. The sign glowed as if illuminated by large spotlights; under it another sign read “Work Will Make You Free”. The temperature in the cabin dropped in conjunction with everyone’s stomachs.
An abrupt stop lurched Ali forward. The lowly robot guards were asking the bus driver about its human cargo. Their conversation echoed in the ever-increasing silence, punctuated only by systematic mechanized screeches caused by some distant type of work.
“Yes. Everything is order. Of course everything is in order. They are just immigrants, Okay? I am not a Saboteur. I am an American immigration specialist.”
With a salute, the journey continued, only to be shortly interrupted by another abrupt stop.
Sergeant Zeisser examined the dangerous elements through the grille that separated the cabin and the driver’s area. The robot officer half-turned and lethargically punched a series of buttons on the electronic keypad so that a similarly clothed officer could enter. Grim-faced, he entered, and withdrew his shock stick from his waist holster.
“Out! Shnell!” He was pointing at a couple of old men and Ali’s father.
Aba got up. Again, “Out, shnell!” Two old men somehow managed to maneuver their rheumatic joints into a standing position. One abruptly sat down. The officer advanced brandishing his static-tipped baton.
“No puedo ir.”
“Get up, Immigré. You Saboteur, immigrant scum. I know all about your terrorist wiles. Get up!”
“No puedo ir. Tengo dolor en mis rodillas.” No, I can’t go he repeated. My knees hurt. With this, an additional automaton materialized at the opening of the grille, grasping the quivering chain of an attack-mutt, 3/4 German Shepherd ¼ Pit Bull.
With the activation of Sergeant Zeisser’s shock stick came an increase in static. The man crumpled like a flimsy paper model. The attackdog-wielding officer relinquished control of his brute momentarily, and the dog lunged ahead in a drooling madness. The old man was lugged down the aisle. Through the bars, Ali saw the old men and his father being deposited in a cage. He saw more cages. The bus continued.
Finally, they stopped. Everyone got out onto the plaza that they were presented with. It looked almost like home. There was billowing trash, sardine tenements, and cracked pavement interrupted by short expanses of up-shooting weeds. More like home.
The Iranians, The Pakistanis, The Chinese: all were in a ongoing conflict in the plaza over position, even when faced with a common foe. Each had their patriotism and nationality that divided them. Yet, their riotous efforts were wasted. The electro baton cracked again, as the uniformed Internal Security contingent jostled the incoming captives off of the pavilion and into the processing compound.
Ali watched as evening settled its dimming gaze over the plaza. Fires began to erupt in trashcans and oil barrels littering the streets. The previously deserted camp became raucous and noisy, alive with drunken revelry and black-market activity that Ali and his mother needed shelter from, and so they wandered.
Ali came to a shriveled paper sign. “Dos Pesos” it read. They entered the dank interior, and were greeted by a diminutive Arabic man with patches of white hair. “Ishkar. Call me Ishkar.”
“Yes, this is the best place, he continued, “I try to be humble, but I just can’t keep my pride in.” He continued mumbling as they rounded the half decayed banister.
They handed over their dollars, and entered their creaky abode or room if the lowliest pauper would call it that. The shoddily constructed wooden floor already had holes in it. The furniture? Poorly crafted wooden chairs existed. Most were missing a leg, or two. The only other thing worth noting in Ali’s opinion was the single scrawny mattress, sprawled by the bombed out window frame. The mattress went to his mother. Ali slept on the floor.
They were awoken by loud chants and nationalistic epithets in a variety of dialects.
“Oh, it is just the local militia in their daily shield banging,” Ishkar repeated softly, for the second time. But Ali would not let it be blown off. He ventured outside to be met by scattered groups of men carrying weapons: an AK-47 here, a Molotov cocktail there.
A man’s voice rose above the rest. “Soy de Suramérica. De México y Argentina y no quiero sufrecer mas! Viva la revolucion!” Ishkar translates. I am from South America. From Mexico and Argentina. And I don’t want to suffer or be suppressed anymore. The revolution lives…Ishkar ends sadly.
“There will be fighting today,” he mumbled, averting his eyes from those of the militia men.
Ali wanted to assist in any attempt at a possible escape from this horrible hellhole. He ventured an interjection. “Let me help.”
“He isn’t even Mexican, look at the little Arab.”
“Silencio, any one else can just be cannon fodder for their guns.” He was handed an old German Luger.
“Vamanos, Vamanos.” The group spread out, and disappeared among the alleys and warrens of the compound.
He headed toward an alcove as shots rang out. Crouched timidly, Ali placed his sidearm within the elastic room of his pants. Ali dashed to the next object of cover, a pile of rubble. There was a loud boom, and a consecutive series of screams. It had begun.
The revolutionary speaker, ran past with a grenade and a belt of explosives tied across his chest. The muzzle of a tank became apparent. It swiveled, but not quickly enough. “Viva Mexico!” was followed by a hand landing in Ali’s lap.
“Retratamiento. Los americanos!” Turning, the boy followed the retreating patriotic men into a large tenement building. More booms resounded, followed by the silent drum-like tapping of a lone machine gun.
Inside, civilians and revolutionaries alike huddled against the oncoming storm. They never heard the low flying, supersonic bombers coming.