As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (32)

I wonder if he’s thinking that.

He clears his throat. “So, uh, where’s the doctor whose permission I need?”

I blink. “Right.”

I put down the antibiotics and motion for him to follow me. He falls into step as we walk back through the hallways to the main atrium, where Dr. Ziad usually is in the morning.

“Okay, listen,” I begin, taking a deep breath, and he glances at me. “I know it was my idea for you to do this, but it doesn’t come without risks. We live in dangerous times and you don’t know how this might affect you.”

He frowns. “As in someone snitches?”

I nod. “Everyone here—as far as I know—shares your ideals, but those could just be words. So if you don’t want to do this, it’s—”

“I want to,” he interrupts. “I’ve thought about it long and hard. And I told you, it doesn’t matter to the military if you’re recording or not. If you’re healing people or not. We’ll all be tor—we’ll all face the same fate. And you’re putting yourself in the same danger as I am.”

I shudder. He’s right. As a pharmacist I’d face exactly what Hamza faced. Dr. Ziad would probably have it the worst of us, seeing as he’s the head surgeon.

“So, might as well go down fighting,” Kenan finishes. “I won’t let them own my fears.”

His words strike a chord with me and I quickly look away so he doesn’t catch my expression.

I won’t let them own my fears.

When we find him, Dr. Ziad is beside a man whose arms and legs are heavily wrapped with bandages and whose left eye is swollen shut. He’s lying on a bed, alone, staring vacantly ahead. We wait until Dr. Ziad is finished checking up on him.

When he turns toward us, he’s smiling sadly.

“Uh, Dr. Ziad, do you have a moment?” I ask, trying not to look at the injured man.

He glances from me to Kenan. “Sure.” He nods and leads us into what functions as his office and an extra room for high-risk patients. There are two patient beds propped against the wall; Dr. Ziad’s desk is cluttered with stray papers. Light filters in from the yellow-tinted window.

“Something I can help with?” he asks after closing the door.

I catch hold of the ends of my hijab. “Dr. Ziad, this is Kenan. The boy whose sister needed my help.”

“How is she?” Dr. Ziad asks Kenan.

“Good, alhamdulillah. Thanks to Salama’s effort. She’s brilliant.” He smiles at me, and my internal temperature rises a few degrees.

“We’re very lucky to have her,” the doctor agrees.

“That’s very kind of both of you to say,” I murmur, feeling self-conscious. Then, in a louder voice, I continue, “Doctor, Kenan here”—I look at him and he nods—“he records the protests, and I was wondering if he could also record the patients coming in, to document their stories so the whole world can see what’s happening.”

“And I’d like your permission, sir,” Kenan says.

Dr. Ziad looks interested and he scratches his chin, thinking. The wrinkles around his eyes are more pronounced, the crow’s feet digging deeper.

“You have my permission,” he says. “If you’re doing individual stories, you’ll need their approval first. But if a large bombing happens and they bring in the victims, show it all.”

Kenan grins as he shakes Dr. Ziad’s hand, thanking him. Dr. Ziad bids us goodbye before leaving to complete his rounds.

“I like him.” Kenan stares after Dr. Ziad admiringly.

“He’s a superhero.” There’s no word to describe Dr. Ziad other than that. “Yalla. Let me show you around the hospital.”

Kenan’s eyes light up with an equal amount of sadness and happiness, and the effect of it plays on my silly notions of hope. On that might life. He listens intently to every word I say as I explain the different departments and how we divide the patients based on the severity of their cases. I tell him about the more common cases we have. Sometimes the shock of seeing bloodied bodies, especially the children shot by snipers, is enough to make me break down. I don’t tell him about the many times that has happened. How often I’ve had to rush out of the hospital and vomit.

We pass the maternity ward on our way back to the main hall.

“This is where the pregnant women stay. We can’t use any sedatives on them because we wouldn’t have enough for surgeries. We’ve lost—some didn’t make it. The worst is when the mother dies but the baby lives. The babies are there.” I point toward the other room adjacent to the hall.

He grimaces in sympathy and turns around, sees the babies inside.

“They’re in incubators?”

“Yes. I—um—I don’t like coming here. Seeing them so small and defenseless, it’s too much. Some were pulled out of their mothers’ wombs and need the incubators to survive. Others are a few months old and sick.”

“What happens when they get better?”

I grimace. “The lucky ones have family. The others either stay here until an orphanage can take them…” I shudder. “I don’t want to bury babies.”

My heart races.

Lotus. Pinkish leaves. Stabilizes blood pressure. Heals inflammations. Lotus. Lotus. Lotus.