October 5-6, 2011 — Delaney Hall Detention Facility, Newark, New Jersey
Hungry, cold, and dead-tired, the trauma of the past 14 hours of processing succeeded in bringing me to my psychological edge. Most of our time was spent in different offices – waiting to answer a new set of questions. The names and faces of the interrogators became too many to remember and numbness soon spread through me. Handcuffs were on then off, on then off. Finally, I knew we weren’t going anywhere. The stiff orange jumper was placed in my lap and I realized this would be no quick visit. Somehow I knew I would be there long enough to see the material become softer over time, not so rough against my skin. This was not a consolation, just a reminder we were in big trouble.
The cell Eni and I were in holds eight. On my back in a bottom bunk, I stared at the underside of the bed above me. The sound of my roommates makes it difficult for me to shut out the day, to falter into a peaceful state of denial. I miss my wife then, the familiar sounds of her drifting off to sleep. I’m praying she is safe and not about to be ripped from our comfortable, very American life.
To my left is Pakistan. Above left – Peru. To my right is Bangladesh. Above right – Mali. In the corner – Guatemala and Brazil.
Above me – Bulgaria. My son.
I feel an overwhelming sadness then, and when I hear the muffled crying from one of the other bunks, I can’t help but cry myself.
“You okay, Dad?” Eni asks, his face upside down, peering at me from the edge of his bunk from above. The dark circles under his eyes evidence of the day we’ve had, and I don’t know when he’ll have the luxury of sleeping-in again.