As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (25)

I clear my throat. “Although I disagree with you. On staying here, that is.”

He considers me for a second before saying, “Aren’t you a pharmacist at the hospital bandaging the wounded who are protesting?”

“That has nothing to do with anything. I’m upholding my Hippocratic oath. You’re putting yourself and your siblings in the crossfire.”

He shrugs. “I guess I love Syria so much that the consequences don’t matter.”

Something snaps inside me. “And by telling you to leave, I don’t?”

He becomes alarmed. “No! No, that isn’t what I meant at all! I… Salama, this is my home. For my entire life—my whole nineteen years—I’ve known no other. I’d be cutting out my heart by leaving. This land is me and I am her. My history, my ancestors, my family. We’re all here.”

His fierce resolution reminds me of Hamza and the spirited speeches he’d give when he came back from the protests with Baba. He would have definitely liked Kenan. The thought makes my stomach constrict.

I shake my head, focusing on the promise I made Hamza. Focusing on Layla’s happiness when I tell her I was wrong and I’m sorry. That I’ll save her and myself. Even though I know Kenan is right.

When I leave, it won’t be easy. It’s going to shred my heart to ribbons and all the pieces will be scattered along Syria’s shore, with the cries of my people haunting me till the day I die.





I WAKE UP WITH A JOLT, AND MY HANDS FLY TO MY hijab. It had gotten tangled and nearly fallen off during the night. I hold a hand against my head, trying to remember what’s going on. Kenan woke me up for Fajr prayer, and then I instantly fell back asleep.

“Ugh,” I groan, rubbing my forehead and quickly adjusting my hijab.

I notice Lama’s little body shifting beside me. I hurriedly crawl over to her and let out a sigh of relief when I touch her cheeks. She’s not as feverish anymore. Kenan walks out of the kitchen with two mugs of hot tea and hands one to me. His hair is ruffled, sticking up from all sides, courtesy of sleep. The sight of the pink blush on his cheeks and his starry eyes makes me feel flustered.

My God, I spent the night here. In his apartment.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Thank you.” I accept the tea gratefully. “Lama is more than fine, alhamdulillah.”

It’s hot and I take a sip. Mint tea. Yum, Layla loves mint tea.

Layla.

I choke on my tea, and Kenan looks up, worried. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” I gasp, my eyes smarting from the tea scalding my tongue. “I forgot about Layla. I need to leave. What time is it? I need to get to the hospital. My God, how long was I asleep? It doesn’t matter. I need to go back to Layla! Keep an eye on your sister, okay? She’s fine, but make her take the antibiotics. Thank you for the tea.”

I gulp it down in one swig, grimacing as it burns, and jump to my feet.

“Kenan, what time is it?” I say, distracted, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. God, I look horrible. I grab my lab coat, hurry over to the destroyed balcony, and peer outside. Kenan has taken down the blanket to let the breeze in, and the fresh air is what I need for my overheated body.

“Is it safe?” I put on my lab coat. “Are there snipers? I’m worried about Layla. She better be okay. Kenan, what time is it? I have a shift at the hospital.” I snap my fingers behind my back to get his attention while watching the roads outside. They’re half empty and it seems no one is trying to hide on the rooftops.

I realize Kenan hasn’t said anything for quite some time. Turning around, I see him sipping his own tea, watching my outburst with an amused look.

“Why aren’t you answering me?” I demand. He takes another sip and puts his mug on the floor.

“Didn’t give me a chance there with your monologizing. It was too entertaining to stop.” He grins.

“Glad you’re enjoying this.” I glare. He doesn’t look fazed at all.

“Are you always like this?”

“This?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“Panicky with a hint of control freak?”

“Most days.”

“That’s good,” he says, still grinning, and I don’t know if he’s being sarcastic or not. He doesn’t sound sarcastic. Anyway, I don’t have time to analyze his tone or features.

“Okay. I need to go now. Are there snipers outside?” I pull my bag tighter on my shoulder. I hate that I feel self-conscious about how I look, with my chapped lips and wrinkled hijab.

“How should I know?” he says. “They always change their timing. The FSA pushes them back sometimes.”

I sigh. I’m going to have to wing this.

“All right, I’ll manage,” I say half-heartedly and move toward the door.

He holds up an arm against the doorway. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Um, home?”

“You honestly think I’d let you walk alone? When there could be snipers?”

“Do you have a secret invisible airplane I can take?”

“Ha. I’m coming with you,” he says, putting on his jacket.

“No you’re not. Your sister needs you.”

“I’m sorry, are you my mother?” he argues. “I make my own decisions, thank you very much. Let’s go.”