As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (24)

“Kenan,” I begin slowly, and I don’t know if it’s the wavering candlelight, but his cheeks look flushed. “We’re talking about your siblings’ lives.”

He swallows hard. “And I’m talking about my country. About the freedom I’m so rightly owed. I’m talking about burying Mama and Baba and telling Lama they’ll never come back home. How—” His voice breaks. “How do I leave that? When for the first time in my whole life I’m breathing free Syrian air?”

How can he be so obstinate? I want to shake him.

“I don’t get it. How is your staying here helping this war? Is it just by breathing free Syrian air?”

Kenan frowns at my word choice, but he doesn’t comment on it. He takes in a deep breath and says, “I record the protests.”

I lose all feeling in my knees and my stomach plummets. “You… you what?” I whisper.

He shudders and his hold tightens on Lama’s hand. “It’s why I can’t leave. I’m showing the people—the world—what’s happening here.” He nods to his laptop. “I upload the videos on YouTube when the electricity is back.”

My nails drag nervously against the floor. “Why are you telling me this? You do realize if you were found out, you’d be worse than dead? If the Free Syrian Army fails to defend us from the military, you’ll be arrested.”

Kenan laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “Salama, they’re arresting people for no reason. They’ll torture me for answers I don’t have, knowing full well I don’t have them. And I’m not the only one who’s recording. There are so many of us protesting in our own way. In Daraya, one man, Ghiath Matar, gives out roses to the army soldiers. He fights guns with flowers. And I know in my heart they see that as a threat. Any form of protest, peaceful or not, is a threat to the dictatorship. So it doesn’t matter to them if I record or not. I live in a place the Free Syrian Army protects. We’re all in the same danger, because we’re all in Old Homs. I’m complicit just by existing here. If I’m guilty either way, I might as well protest.” He looks at my hands, and I cover them again with my sleeves. He’s too far away for me to read the flash of emotion searing in his eyes. But it looks like pain.

My mouth is dry, and I stare at him. I don’t believe he’s that indifferent to the threat of being arrested. My gaze slips to the side, to the bedroom’s doorway, and I see Yusuf’s eyes peeking out beneath his messy hair. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy; he’s supposed to be on the brink of leaving behind the innocent wonder he enjoyed in his childhood as adolescence shapes his mind and stretches his limbs. But I don’t see that in him. I see a frightened boy regressing into a child. Desperate to return to a time that was safe. Back when his parents were alive and his greatest worry was whether he’d be allowed to watch an extra hour of cartoons. His eyes are huge and full of tears. He fully understands the choices his brother is making. And the consequences.

I see Layla in him. I see her fear every time I evade the topic of fleeing.

Oh God. Oh God! If anything were to happen to me, she’d be destroyed. She’d be worse than dead.

My hands shake, and I cover my face, commanding myself to take a deep breath. Is this how I sound to her? So stubborn I can’t see the way my actions are devastating those around me? Honorable as they may be, it doesn’t lessen their destruction.

I have to leave. I have to take Layla and leave, or she won’t survive this. Not the pregnancy, but me. She won’t survive my death. And I won’t survive hers.

If Layla died, my last family member—my sister—I would become a husk of a person. We came too close back in October. What would I do if she was gone? Khawf’s low chuckle draws my eyes to him, and he shakes his head, smiling humorously.

“Now you see,” he says.

I bang a fist against my forehead, cursing myself at my stupidity and naivety. Khawf was right. What price wouldn’t I pay for Layla’s safety?

I have to leave.

The decision blooms an ache inside my heart and the backs of my eyes burn with tears that refuse to fall. How did I not see it? I look up once again to see Khawf standing behind Kenan, leaning against the wall, wearing a satisfied grin.

He winks. “Now all that’s left is to grovel to Am.”

My head feels dizzy.

He straightens up, dusting off his glossy suit jacket. “And true to my word, I’ll leave you alone now. But I’ll see you later.”

When I blink, he’s gone.

My gaze falls, and Kenan is staring at me uncertainly, twiddling his fingers.

“Uh, Salama,” he says, treating each word as if it were a delicate vase he was holding in his hands. “Is everything all right?”

I start. Not at the words but at his tone. “Yes,” I answer a bit too fast. “Why?”

He scratches the back of his head. “I don’t know. You were looking behind me as if the devil himself were standing there, and I’m too scared to turn around and check myself.”

His voice comes out easy, his lips turned into a tentative, joking smile.

I smile back but it feels forced. “I’m great, thank you.” It’s the best I can do right now.

Kenan’s confusion settles in, and I realize I must have been silent for a while. And my smiling right after such a long silence must be nothing short of unnerving.