As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (33)
When he doesn’t say anything, I glance at him. His eyes are still glued to the metal boxes, the ones keeping the babies alive, and a flicker of emotion passes across his face. He grits his teeth, and a vein flexes on his neck.
“You feel helpless, Salama. But I…” His tone is quiet but livid. “No one deserves this. Here babies are starving, while in cities like Damascus people are throwing away their leftover lunch because they’re full.”
I can feel him shaking without touching him. I don’t spare much thought for the people in Damascus, where a few protests were quickly squashed under the boot of the government and people returned to their “normal” lives. If Damascus should ever fall from the dictatorship’s clutches, its grip would vanish from all of Syria. Damascus is the capital. Every decision made there has effects that ripple all over the country. She is their stronghold. Victories for our ancestors throughout history are embedded in her soil. But she belongs to the people who are laying down their lives to free her.
It amazes me how there’s only a two-and-a-half-hour drive between Homs and Damascus. In one city, people are being pulled from the ruins of bombed-out buildings, and in the other, people sit in cafés drinking coffee and laughing. I try not to think about that. I have distant family there. As do most people in Homs. In the end, we’re all somewhat related.
“There’s no use being angry about that,” I say sadly. “We all have different paths to walk. For what it’s worth, at least we’re doing the right thing.”
He taps his fist against his forehead a few times. “You see the military beating people up in the streets, dragging them away, and murdering them, and you see your kid siblings trying to warm themselves at night, and you think it can’t get any worse. But this, Salama, this is where hope dies. The fact they don’t know what’s going on because how could they? They’re babies. They’re just babies.”
I remember Ahmad, the way his body was hollowed out like a shell. His labored breaths and the vast calm in his eyes as he accepted death. He was also just a baby.
Kenan’s not done either. “Salama, that’s not even the worst part. How can you guarantee the bombs won’t hit the hospital? How—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. He faces me and catches the terror on my face. “Don’t say it.”
He shudders, nodding.
This time, we’re both thinking the same horrible thoughts.
That our days at the hospital are numbered. That it’s only the Free Syrian Army in Old Homs who are defending us against the military. We are surrounded from all corners and the sky. Any day now the military could drop a bomb and obliterate this flimsy shelter of ours to fragments. That if, God forbid, Layla gives birth here with no hospital, her chances of survival would be almost nonexistent. That is, if everything else doesn’t get her first.
My eyes dart all over, searching for Khawf, waiting for him to threaten me or magnify the fears as a punishment for not finding Am first thing this morning. But he isn’t here. Kenan follows my gaze, his sadness changing to confusion.
“What are you looking for?”
“No one,” I answer rather too quickly.
“No one?” he repeats, and I chastise myself.
“Nothing,” I amend. “I mean nothing.” Before he can say anything, I continue, “I have to go. You know where the patients are.”
He opens his mouth, reconsiders, and then nods.
I turn away from his bewildered expression, walking fast. I don’t go back to the stockroom but head toward the main atrium to search for Am. It’s the same as I left it, patients strewn all over, surrounded by what’s left of their families. Those without anyone break my heart the most. I scan the gaunt faces but Am is nowhere to be found.
I sigh, rubbing my arms, and think about checking the other rooms, when muffled voices leak through the closed entrance doors. Gooseflesh erupts all over my skin and my body stands on alert.
The doors burst open and an avalanche of people swarms in, blood soaking their clothes and dripping to the floor. Limp bodies are being carried in rescuers’ arms; shouting and yells clang against the ceiling. I know they’re victims from a sniper attack when I see no dismembered limbs but blood fountaining out.
And they’re all children.
From the crowd, Am runs in, carrying a bleeding little girl in his arms. His face is torn with anguish and fear.
“My daughter!” he yells to anyone who will listen. “Help me!”
Khawf stands beside me now and presses a finger I don’t feel to my forehead. A horrible thought comes to life.
“Do it,” he says, and Layla’s tearstained face flashes in my mind.
MY LEGS MOVE ON THEIR OWN, MAKING A BEELINE toward Am, who’s still yelling for help. The scarcity of the medical staff plays in my favor. He’s pressing a dirty shirt against the girl’s neck with one hand, but the blood is soaking through the material and onto the child’s yellow shirt. I need to act fast before I lose her.
“Follow me,” I call, and his eyes focus on me. We run between the sprawled screaming patients, finally finding an old operating table.
“Put her down slowly.” I sound so emotionless I almost don’t recognize my voice.
Quickly, I rip out gauze and press it against the gaping wound on her neck while checking for a pulse. It’s there, but weak. The bullet must have missed her artery by millimeters. I can do this. I can save her. I’ve done it before.