The Insurrectionist (19 page)

 

            Shortly after Dr. Sodhi left, Deni was taken back to his solitary cell. He paced around for a few minutes, nibbling his nails, noticing his blood stains on the floor and mattress. He leaned against the steel door and slid down to the floor. He stared at his home—his solitary cell.
It would be a lot more tolerable if I didn’t have to feel anything. It would be a lot easier if I could just think
.

            Later in the evening, Deni ate his Chicken Alfredo dinner. The sauce was runny and the chicken rubbery, but he was hardly in the position to be a prison food critic; he was lucky to have food. He slurped pasta into his mouth and thought about his conversation with Dr. Sodhi.

            He had never condemned Christians for their beliefs; he never really gave much thought to it.
Religions themselves are not the enemy
, he thought,
it is the people behind them. It is like most things, if you respect it and respect others there is really no harm in any belief.

            Deni knew the core values between Christianity and Islam were very much the same—love your neighbor, judge not those who trespass against you. It’s really that simple. History recorded it pretty well: for centuries Christians, Jews and Muslims made really bad neighbors and were constantly judging the other’s trespasses.

            He set his food tray down on the mattress and reclined against the wall. Deni reached for his composition book on the floor and turned to a blank page. His mind flooded with thoughts and ideas. At first he couldn’t get anything down. The words came to him in no particular fashion or order. It was as if all these unanswered questions were dying to be liberated, stuck in the solitary confinement of his mind.

 

 

            Deni had always been so sure of his Muslim upbringing. It was the one true religion based on some of the scientific writings of Muhammad, but talking with Dr. Sodhi today about perception and consciousness, had him thinking.
What is my perspective; what is my reality?

            As he looked around his barren cell he recalled instances in his life where his attitude and his actions were a simple reflection of his own perception. He had to admit he felt a little foolish before Dr. Sodhi, so pompous and sure, only to be schooled by a well-educated woman. “She can be so annoying,” he said.

 

            Deni slipped off his sneakers and stepped on a cold stone in the babbling creek. He took another careful step to the next stone and then held out his hand to Heather. She reached for his hand and he helped her across the stones.

            Heather wobbled on a stone. “Whoa! Whoa!” she yelled with a laugh.

            Deni stabilized her by placing his hand on her waist. She held onto his shoulders until she was steady. “Are you okay now?” he asked.

            “Yeah, I think so,” she said.

            It was such a beautiful summer’s day and Heather just couldn’t keep from taking it all in. The warm sunshine sprinkled through the branches like angelic rays of light. A slight breeze created tranquil music through the leaves and even the roughness of the dry grass under her feet was such a wonderful sensation. She sighed. “This is my religion.”

            Deni slipped his sneakers back on. “What?”

            “This!” she exclaimed. “Look around. Some wait to die for heaven, but look, it’s all around us.”

            Deni glanced around less impressed. He was actually more taken with Heather, dressed in a tank top and short shorts. The sun made Heather’s skin glow. Her braided strawberry blonde hair rested perfectly on her shoulders. While she walked on ahead of him, he grew fascinated with the shape of the back of her neck and how it so delicately molded into her shoulders and upper back. “Yeah, well sure it’s beautiful,” he said, “but it’s hardly religion.”

            “What’s religion but a faith; something you feel.” She turned her gaze up the trees. “Don’t you feel it?”

            He laughed. “Feel it? No.”

            “Agh, whatever,” she grunted and marched onward in front of Deni. He was slow to follow and Heather noticed. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

            The conversation was on the tip of his tongue; their relationship had taken a serious turn and the subject of faith and religion was bound to come up. “Where are we going?” he asked.

            Heather looked ahead on the wooded path. “Nowhere in particular. I just thought we’d hike up stream a bit.”

            Deni scratched his chin. “No, I mean where are
we
going?”

            She turned and skipped back to meet him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed his chin. “Wherever you want.”

            “Well we need to talk about our differences,” he said.

            “What differences?”

            “You know like cultural, religious,” he said casually, although it was hardly casual in his mind.

            Heather held him tightly and looked into his eyes. “You have got to know how I feel about you, but I cannot convert.”

            He gasped. “Jamie did for Mik.”

            “And look at all their problems.” She pressed herself tightly against his body. “This is what I believe. I believe in me; I believe in you, and that’s it. That’s all it should be!”

            Deni grimaced and looked away. “If you loved me—”

            “And if you loved me you wouldn’t force me to become something I don’t believe. Why does it have to be that way anyway? Why can’t you believe what you want and I believe what I want?” She tugged on his waist. “Why can’t we just be? Deni, you have to understand, I would do anything for you, but that.” She grinned flirtatiously. “My hair is way too pretty to hide in a hijab.”

           
It was true; her hair was beautiful
, he thought and brushed her long bangs from her eyes. “But it’s the most important thing.”

            “No it’s not; it’s just a factor. Religion is a label, a factor. It means nothing when two people are in love,” she said.

            “Okay,” he said with a sigh, but it wasn’t. It was like a punch to his solar plexus. He was willing to give into the current debate for the immediate sake of continuing to hold her in his arms, but for her to deny his faith was a rejection of his love. 

            The sound of the slit in his cell door opening woke Deni. He removed his pants from his head and opened his eyes to see his breakfast sitting on the small ledge. Wondering if indeed there were security cameras in his room, he dressed quickly.
Too late, I guess. The whole prison probably already got their eye full
.

            After Deni ate his breakfast, he had the idea to create some structure in his solitary. It seemed perhaps the only way to maintain sanity. He set his tray back on the open slit ledge on the steel door and then sat on the floor. He did a series of sit-ups, this time an easy round of push-ups and then several stretching exercises. Exercise, he decided, would be done after every meal.

            Afterward, he felt like a conqueror of his solitary confinement. As long as he remain physical and remain mentally stimulated he believed he could beat it
. I had already beaten the light, now I have to beat the time
.

            The door of his cell opened and the guard escorted Deni to a large barbed wire cage. It was just like a cage he saw at dog pounds.
I am officially no longer human; I am an animal or beast
, he thought as he walked around the cage. At the far end of the cage he wrapped his fingers between the wire links of the fence and looked out at freedom.

            Suddenly he felt a presence at his back. He glanced over his shoulder to find the prison guard pressing against him and pushing him against the wire fence. The guard lowered his hand and grabbed Deni’s crotch.
This was it; this was what everyone warned about in prison
.
Should I let this fucker rape me?

            Instinct took over. Deni lifted his legs and pressed his feet against the chain-linked fence. He released his fingers from the chain links and with athletic ability, using the strength of his legs, he thrust backward, pushing the guard backward. The guard hit the ground, bumping his head on the cement.

            Deni stood over the unconscious guard. “Ah shit,” he muttered. He leaned over and realized he could take the guard’s keys and guns
. Could I actually escape, or would they kill me on sight?
When more guards came, Deni casually said, “He slipped and hit his head.” He wasn’t sure why he lied, maybe it was his pride, but it was a truth he couldn’t tell. 

            One of the guards grabbed Deni’s wrists and cuffed them behind his back. As he was roughly taken back to his cell, he knew it was coming. The retaliation would be hard and quick.  Curled up on his bed, he wondered how it would come—gang rape by the guards, deny or spit in his food, control the temperature of his cell.

            That night Deni lay awake. There was no way in hell he was sleeping tonight, yet no retaliation came. He was however wrestled out of bed early in the morning by a guard and dragged down the hallway to an interview room where Marsha was waiting.

            The guard shoved Deni in the seat in front of Marsha. “I was—” Deni started.

            “I know,” Marsha interrupted. “There are video cameras everywhere and I get a copy of all of your activity.”

            Deni reclined back in his seat. “Shit. Isn’t that a little perverted?”

            “Only if you do something perverted,” Marsha remarked. “It is for your safety, for exactly what was about to happen yesterday.” She studied Deni. “Why did you tell the guards he slipped?”

            “I don’t know, because I didn’t want them to know that guard was a fag,” said Deni.

            “Sexual assault has nothing to do with sexuality. It has to do with power and control. He tried to exercise his control and dominance over you, you exercised your ability not to be dominated,” explained Marsha.

            “Is he okay?” asked Deni.

            “From what I heard his ego was badly bruised,” replied Marsha.

            Deni chuckled. “I don’t know why that punk thought I’d be an easy target. I may not look like much, but I did have the ability to get away from biggest of tacklers on the football field. Do I look like a pansy to you?”

            “Do you want my honest opinion?” asked Marsha.

            Deni sunk in his seat. “Am I in trouble for defending myself?”

            “Not with the incident on video tape.” Marsha leaned in toward Deni. “Honestly, they’re frightened of you. Frightened of what you are, what you did, for your crazy cell antics, and now that you’ve averted an attack; they’re even more frightened of you. It’s psychological. Once your enemy knows you’re afraid, you lose. You should know; the Russian army displayed the same tactics to the German soldiers in WWII.”

            “Really?” asked Deni with a hint of pride.

            “Before battle, the Russian troops would sing victory songs,” Marsha explained. “But you know what freaked the Germans out more? The Russians used to let their dead rot in the trenches, which terrified the Germans. They wondered what kind of people wouldn’t bury their dead; Russians must be insane and therefore capable of anything.”

            Deni reclined in his seat and smiled proudly. “As I always said, you fuck with Russia, Russia will fuck with you.”

            Later, after returning to his cell, Deni paced around the few square feet. He wished they would give him a television or at least a radio, something, anything to distract him from his thoughts as they were about to drive him mad.
I’ve been in here less than a week and already I can feel my mind escaping me. By the time I get to court, I will be a rambling idiot
.

            Between Marsha and Dr. Sodhi, his entire life, faith and ancestry had been brought to the forefront of his memory. It was like a thousand piece puzzle and all the pieces lay before him just waiting to be put together.
Once the puzzle is complete, so will I
, he thought.

            “It seems a man’s purpose in life is to find his purpose, once that purpose is defined, that man dies,” he said out loud as if dictating to an imagery secretary. “It’s true. Martin Luther King Jr. came to inspire us to dream and then was assassinated. John Lennon asked us to imagine and when we did, he was shot.” He paused and sat down on his bed, reached for his composition book and started writing:

 

 

            “Well shit, that sucks. Who wants to be a martyr?” Deni asked. He leaned back in bed and recalled his life. “I think I was handed a puzzle with pieces that don’t match. How was I ever supposed to make it when things didn’t fit? Why have such great times with people who are fated not to be in your life?”

 

            It was a hot, humid, yet breezy afternoon in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. Deni slurped his soda from the straw and then stepped on the hot sand.  He headed back to Heather with cartons of food—hamburgers, fries, onion rings—the works. From a distance he noticed a hot-shot guy hitting on Heather.

            Deni said nothing and didn’t stop to let it bother him. Upon reaching his towel placed next to Heather’s, he sat down and handed her, her food and drink. “Sorry,” he said casually to the guy hitting on his girlfriend, “If I knew we were going to have guests, I would have gotten more food.”

            Heather chuckled while slurping soda through her straw. “Deni, this is John. He’s a junior at the University of Delaware.” Heather repeated to Deni. “This is my boyfriend, Deni. He got a scholarship to play football at Temple.”

            John, the typical All-American alpha male eyed Deni and determined he wasn’t much competition. He laughed. “Temple football? Are you the water boy?”

            “Close,” replied Deni, “Wide receiver.”

            “Well that kind of makes sense, Temple isn’t really known to be a big football school. It’s not like you’re Big or Pact Ten,” said John and then turned to Heather. “So, what are you doing later?”

            Heather chuckled and raised her eyes in disbelief at the nerve of the guy. “I will be having hot sex with my boyfriend.”

            Deni took a bite out of his cheeseburger and then said with a ketchup covered grin, “That would be me.”

            Heather took another slurp of soda and nodded. “Yeah, that would be him.”

            John laughed. “Skinny Sloppy Joe over there? Okay, whatever sweetheart, when you get tired of playing around with a boy, you can stop by our party tonight—212 Lakewood Street.” He stood and wiped the sand from his legs. “I’ll see you later.”

            “Right, okay,” said Heather and then she nibbled a French fry.

            “Nice meeting you!” Deni shouted to John as he walked away and then he said to Heather, “I guess I’m not invited to his party.”

            “You can go if you want, maybe you’ll get lucky. I sensed chemistry between you and John,” she teased and then turned serious. “I’m so sorry for that asshole.”

            Deni took another bite of his burger. “Assholes will be assholes; there’s nothing you can do but appeal to their assholery.”

            Heather laughed nearly chocking on a French fry and then washed it down with another gulp of soda. “Well I’m glad you got back when you did. That guy was getting really annoying. I kept telling him I had a boyfriend and he either didn’t want to believe me or care.”

            “He’s an asshole; he didn’t care. Guys like that have no respect for girls. They just want to use them and abuse them,” he said and then wiped a French fry through a mound of ketchup in the paper carton.

            She glanced at him curiously on the verge of taking the conversation somewhere she feared to go. She had read all the horror stories of the Taliban and other Islamic tribes; their barbaric treatment toward women and how Muslim women were required to shroud themselves. The more serious her affections grew for Deni; the harder it was for her to bring up the subject.

            “What are you thinking about?” he asked casually.

            “Nothing, just enjoying the company,” she lied.

            “Come on, I know you’re thinking about something. Are you hot on Mr. USA? You want to ditch me and go to his swinging party?” asked Deni.

            Heather chuckled. “Hell no! You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

            He reached over and rubbed her ankle. “Then what is it? You can tell me.”

            “Why must Muslim men cover their women?” she asked flatly.

            Deni sat upright and wiped his face with a napkin. “Because a woman’s worth is not her beauty; it is what is in her heart and in her soul. A woman is not to be a spectacle for men to gawk at, she is to be revered by society and her husband.”

            Suddenly Heather felt very vulnerable in her bikini. “Huh, I guess I wouldn’t have been hit on by that John character if I wasn’t flaunting my sexuality on the beach.”

            “Probably not,” said Deni.

            “Are you ashamed of me?” asked Heather.

            Deni laughed. “No. You’re not my wife.”

            An uncomfortable silence grew between them. Heather’s attention drifted to the shoreline. She watched the white water waves carry screaming, joyful children to shore and the rippling water destroy castles in the sand. In the crowd she spied a Muslim family—the women completely covered taking care of their soggy, elated children. She loved Deni with every fiber of her being, but she wasn’t sure if she could sacrifice herself.

            To break the silence, Deni reached over and stole one of her French fries. She was too far gone to care. “Come on, snap out of it,” he scolded.

            “Sorry,” she muttered and then turned to Deni. “It just seems to be such a male dominated culture.”

            Deni glanced over and saw the Muslim family that caught Heather’s attention. “No, it’s really based on equality, but not superficiality. Any male domination is no different than a Christian husband who verbally talks down to his wife, or parades her around like a trophy. There is abuse in any culture and in all religions. Heather, it is a culture and a custom. It’s nothing to get freaked out about.”

            “Well women have fought hard to show their ankles,” said Heather.

            “What’s so great about showing your ankles, knees, or thighs? Some American girls wear their shorts so short, their clit is hanging out. Is that liberation? How is that not sexist that American girls need to parade their bodies for attention? How is that for an American husband to parade his half-naked wife as a status symbol?”

            Heather straightened out her legs in front of her. “But I have nice legs; I don’t want to cover them up.”

            “You have beautiful legs,” said Deni, “But why do you feel the need to expose them? Who are you trying to impress? Whose attention are you trying to get by walking around in short skirts and heels? That’s the difference. In Muslim culture, those beautiful legs are solely for her husband to enjoy, not every lecherous man. Beauty is expressed intimately, not exposed.”

            “Yeah, but you love it. You love the short skirts and high heels,” Heather countered.

            “I am a dude; of course I do. Many American women think that will get them love, but it just gets them sex. Is that what you fancy as women’s liberation?”

            Heather threw a French fry at him. “I hate arguing with you.”

            “Is that what we’re doing? I thought we were just talking.” He leaned in toward her and whispered, “Can we continue this conversation back in the room?”

            “Are my exposed legs exciting you? Did my bikini give you the wrong impression about me?” she asked.

            “I don’t know about wrong impression, but it’s definitely making an impression on me,” he said with a wide grin.

            Heather wrapped up the remnants of her cheeseburger and fries. “Well I guess my slutty American girl ploy worked.”