They arrive in formation but disperse into cubicles, converted gymnasiums, and hastily built processing tents. Their uniforms, once symbols of defense against foreign threats, now blend into the background of detention centers and holding facilities. They are told they are only there to support—no arrests, no raids, no physical contact. Yet each keystroke, each verified document, each completed checklist becomes another cog turning in a machine that decides who stays and who disappears onto a manifest.
Outside, the country applauds “order” and “control,” comforted by charts that rise and fall in the right direction. Inside, a mother rehearses her story in a language she barely knows, a child counts the days by meal trays, and a soldier stares at a screen, wondering when “just paperwork” began to feel like complicity. Between prosperity and pain, a question lingers: if suffering is hidden well enough, does anyone still feel responsible?
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