As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (14)

She squeezes my hand in reply.

As she succumbs to her dreams, I finally let my fear show, the words she said to me repeating on a loop in my mind.

With my life. And my baby’s.





“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?” KHAWF ASKS FROM the dark corner, and I jump and press a hand to my heart.

“What?”

He steps out, the shadows melting off him, eyes glinting. “What are you doing about Am?”

“I don’t know.”

“That means you’ll do nothing.”

“It means I don’t know.” I swallow down my anxiety. “Leave me alone.”

He chews his cheek, examining me from head to toe, and I press my legs to my chest in an effort to become smaller.

“I did what you wanted,” I say. “I asked Am. Is it my fault that the price is so high?”

He doesn’t answer me, simply takes out a cigarette and tucks it between his lips. His smoking mannerisms remind me of my grandfather. When asked a question, Jedo—may his soul rest in peace—wouldn’t answer until he took that drag of smoke. But Jedo had a gentle smile and such a proud way of looking at me, and there’s nothing like that about Khawf. Nothing.

“No, it’s not. But it seems like you’ve given up. Didn’t you tell Layla you’ll haggle with him?”

I shrug.

His eyes bore into mine. “While your apparent enthusiasm is admirable,” he sneers, “it’s not enough. You need to get that boat.”

“I’m at my limit here. What do you want, Khawf?” I say wearily.

A plume of silver smoke obscures him from my view.

“Why, your safety, of course.” He grins. “Don’t you believe I’m some sort of a defense mechanism?”

I manage a pathetic snort.

He stands in front of me and I instinctively jerk back. “Salama, you should know better by now. Unlike you, I don’t tire, I don’t feel pain, and I won’t stop until I get what I want. Fighting me, fighting your mind”—he twirls his fingers and my pulse races as pitch darkness envelops us until nothing is visible but his icy-blue eyes and the flash of his white teeth—“you won’t win.”

I can’t see anything. Can’t hear the faint voices of the protests outside. Nothing exists but Khawf and me in this black hole. He extends his hand to my chin and I flinch, but he doesn’t touch me. Yet his power over me is so great that I look up, shivering and frozen in place.

“I am infinite, and you are not,” he whispers. He trails a finger I don’t feel along the hollow of my throat, but my teeth still chatter as if I can sense the blade of his fingernail. “Find a way to get that boat.”





The morning sun bleeds over my shivering body. I get dressed, trying to ignore the weight of Khawf’s presence on my life. My stomach rumbles with hunger; my limbs ache. But none of my pain matters as long as I can save lives today. If I can make up for my shortcomings. For all the lives that I couldn’t save yesterday.

The year I spent in pharmacy school didn’t prepare me for any of this. Even if I had graduated, it wouldn’t have made a difference. I was never supposed to do the work I do now. My first-year classes were mostly theoretical, and my lab courses were about mixing simple formulations, laying the foundation to build on in the coming years.

My first day at the hospital was akin to being dropped with no swimming lessons into the deep end. I taught myself how to swim, to kick my legs and stay afloat before the heavy weight of the waves dragged me down.

At noon, catastrophe strikes in the form of shrapnel raining on a nearby elementary school. On children.

When they are wheeled in, the world slows down. My legs are rooted in the sticky blood staining my sneakers. I’m standing in the middle of the carnage, watching the moments between life and death unfold in front of me. My eyes catch every tear falling and every soul rising to meet its Creator.

I see a child crying for his mother, who is nowhere to be seen.

I see a tight-lipped boy no older than ten, face as white as a sheet, with a large slice of metal stuck in his right arm. He grimaces in pain but doesn’t let out a sound, not wanting to scare his little sister, who’s holding his other hand and crying te’eburnee.

I see doctors, the last few in Homs, shaking their heads at small, limp, frail bodies and moving to the next.

I see little girls with legs twisted into unnatural positions. Their eyes carry the full meaning of what’s about to happen. Amputation.

I wish we were being broadcast live on every channel and smartphone in the world so everyone could see what they’re allowing to happen to children.

A little boy starts singing with glazed eyes, staring into the ceiling. He’s shirtless, and his black hair is thin. His chest heaves with each breath; he’s struggling to fill his lungs. I can see his ribs, count each one of them. He sings one of the many freedom songs made by the rebels. His young voice is quiet but strong. It carries over the chaos and embeds itself within the hospital walls. If these walls could speak, imagine what they would say. I walk toward him in a trance, guided only by the tune of his singing. There’s no one beside him. Neither his legs nor his arms are severed. There’s no blood coming out of his mouth or dripping from his head. He’s not a priority. And yet… I clasp his hands in mine. They’re as cold as ice. His little coat must be back at the school, buried under the rubble.