A few hours later I’m stationed in the canteen. It’s a very lowkey task where all that is required is my presence, but it does mark my first stint working as a guard for real.
Basically, I stand around while ensuring there is no trouble. The way the canteen works is that each week the detainees are given fifty credit points (roughly equivalent to fifty dollars), which they can redeem for various foods, hygiene products, smokes, drinks, phone cards and so on. Junk food seems to be the most prized luxury item.
Time and again a detainee walks away with a bag full of soft drinks or juice boxes, sees me and insists I take one. “Is hot, take, take.” I must have refused offers from some twenty detainees for drinks and chips before one chap is so insistent he just leaves the drink on the rail and walks off.
After the canteen closes, I’m sent to the medical centre waiting room with about fifteen detainees. I don’t really know what I’m meant to be doing. I suppose it’s just another case of being a presence, a lot like the role of teachers in shitty schools, not really achieving anything, just hoping that enough crayons and bodies will stop the barbarians from burning down the buildings until they are sent home and become someone else’s problem.
After a few minutes of waiting in the medical centre, it’s a detainee’s turn to see the nurse.
“MIL-98?”
I just about choke when I hear it. I see my colleague sitting at the desk with a folder and a list. It contains both the detainee’s name and his alpha-numeric identifier. The name is tricky and the identifier convenient, but I just can’t believe it’s happening for real, even though we were told during training it’s how things work. Honestly, anyone with half an education and the most basic knowledge of history should know better. Shit, anyone who reads novels or watches movies should know better.
The procession of refugees called by their boat identifier continues. I’m not comfortable with it, but what can I do? At least the refugees don’t seem fazed. They just want to see the nurse or psychiatrist.
Hours tick by as I sit on my arse, getting paid, while the nameless barbarians are kind enough not to burn the building to the ground.