As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (12)

Layla breathed in deeply, taking in the apricot scent. “I want to paint Norway.”

“Like the whole country?” I laughed.

She turned to me and raised her hand to flick my nose. I squealed and covered it.

“You’re not funny.” She rolled her eyes, but a smile played on her lips.

“I’m hilarious,” I said and turned to my side. My hijab slipped a bit and my bangs peeked out. It was all right because we were hidden away from any passerby’s eyes. I shrugged it off a bit, and my ponytail fell to the side.

Layla sat up and looked around. Spotting no one, she gathered my ponytail behind my back and slipped off the hair tie.

“I have seen all shades of blue except the one in Norway,” she said quietly. Her voice carried over the breeze. “I’ve only seen it on Google, and it was breathtaking. I want to see the real thing. I want to paint every shade and have an art exhibition. Something called Blue from Every Angle. I don’t know.”

I turned around. “That sounds so beautiful, Layla. Very Studio Ghibli.”

She smiled and began braiding my hair. Something she did whenever I was stressed. “I have dreams that will take me away from here.”

In her glance, I could see the question—would I be okay if she left? She and I had been joined at the hip ever since we were born. She was as close as a sister to me. With her being an only child and me an only daughter, we’d forged that relationship on our own.

“Salama!” we heard Hamza call from the distance. “Layla! Yalla, lunch is ready.”

Layla’s eyes sparkled at the sound of his voice, and she jumped up and ran toward him. He caught her by the waist and they nearly fell down.

I stood up. Watching them, I felt as if I were standing on the other side of a door I couldn’t walk through.

Layla’s brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

I realized my expression had been forlorn and quickly cleared it away with a smile. “Nothing.”

How childish my worries were back then. How innocent were our dreams.

Now, a pregnant, starved girl sits before me, her eyes too large for her face, while my stomach rattles about like an empty drum.

“Salama,” Layla says, and I look at her, snapping out of my daydream. “Today was full of sadness, wasn’t it?”

I pick at my sleeve. “Every day is.”

She shakes her head slightly and pats her lap. “Lay your head.”

And I do.

Layla’s fingers sink into my hair and she starts making small braids. My hijab lies discarded somewhere beside the sofa, and I sigh with relief at her gentle touch. Her pregnant belly cushions my head, and I feel the baby kicking against her stomach. Only fabric, layers of skin, and placental fluid separate it from the terrors of this world.

“Don’t focus on the darkness and sadness,” she says, and I glance up at her. She smiles warmly. “If you do, you won’t see the light even if it’s staring you in the face.”

“What are you talking about?” I mumble.

“I’m saying what’s happening now, as horrible as it is, isn’t the end of the world. Change is difficult, and it’s different depending on what needs to be changed. Look, I’ll even science it up for you. If a cancer has spread, wouldn’t whatever needs to be done to remove it be different than for something like a wart?”

A smile threatens my lips. “Since when do you know medical stuff?”

Her eyes twinkle. “As an artist, I’m a student of life. Humor me, Salama.”

“Well,” I say slowly. “With cancer, we need to perform surgery to take out the tumor, but it’s a tricky process. Chances of survival. Cutting into healthy tissue. It’s a lot to consider.”

“And a wart?”

I shrug. “Just treat it with salicylic acid.”

“And when that cancer surgery is successful, when the patient has fought for their life, wouldn’t their life be improved?”

I nod.

“Don’t you think the Syrian dictatorship is more like a cancer that has been growing in Syria’s body for decades, and the surgery, despite the risks, is better than submitting to the cancer? With something so deeply entrenched in our roots, change doesn’t come easy. It has a heavy price.”

I don’t say anything.

“There is light, Salama,” she continues. “Despite the agony, we are free for the first time in over fifty years.”

Her fingers feel heavy in my hair.

“You’re talking as if you want to stay,” I say.

She looks at me meaningfully. Like she knows exactly what I’m hiding in my heart. “The fight isn’t just in Syria, Salama. It’s everywhere. Like I told you, fighting starts here. Not in Germany or anywhere else.”

She chooses her words carefully, and each one squirms through my auditory canal, echoing over my eardrum, right through the nerve cells to my brain. They settle there like little seeds planted between the cells.

“How come you’re not as bitter as I am?” I joke weakly, but it comes out flat and rings truer than I’d like.

When Hamza was arrested, Layla went through two major changes. For the first five weeks she was inconsolable. Sobbing until her throat went hoarse, not eating or showering. Then, suddenly, she was back to her old self. Calm and loving with a smile that could power the entirety of Homs.