As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (43)

“Wait a minute,” I tell Am absently.

“What about my Panadol?” he protests.

“I’ll get it for you. One minute,” I say, not taking my eyes off Kenan as I hurry over to him.

His smile deepens when I’m in front of him, and my heart won’t calm down.

“We need to talk,” I say breathlessly.

His expression turns serious at my anxious tone, and he follows me to an empty corner on the other side of the atrium. He maintains a respectable distance from me, but not so far that I wouldn’t be able to whisper.

I cut to the chase. “There’s a way for you and your siblings to leave Syria.”

He blinks, taken aback, and his brows furrow.

“I’m… I’m leaving,” I say.

Two words are enough to shatter whatever flimsy illusion we’d built between us.

“Oh” is all he says.

One syllable in a broken voice is all it takes for the hope to shrivel in my soul. Khawf was right. There’s no happiness here.

He examines his boots, unease written in his expression, but I know he’s not judging me. He knows the terror. He lives it every day.

I bite my cheek. “A boat will leave in a month for Italy. I can negotiate three seats for you and your siblings. You don’t have to kill yourself for this cause.”

He swallows hard once. Twice. A vein pulses on his neck, and an array of emotions flit across his face. Sadness, hurt, guilt, relief.

Finally he says, “I know this is asking a lot, but I’d feel a lot better sending my siblings alone if you’re there with them. You wouldn’t have to do anything, just make sure they get to Italy. My uncle can meet them there.”

“Kenan, listen—”

He shakes his head. “Salama, please. Please don’t ask me to leave. I have to show the world what’s happening.”

His words are certain but his face has settled on one emotion. Fear. The toll of yesterday’s massacre has clearly done more damage to his resolve than the whole year combined. He’s grasping at straws, choosing to deliberately turn away from the horrific truth that’ll cost him more than his life. Conflict creates a storm in his irises, and I think I can read the dark truth at its epicenter. He wants to leave but the guilt is what’s holding him back. His duty to his country. I remember my hallucination of a broken Hamza and wonder when it’ll become Kenan’s reality.

Over his shoulder, I see Am staring at me, interested, and I snap back to Kenan. His shoulders are hunched, and I see the same misery I feel reflected in him.

“I’ll keep my promise to Baba like that,” he mumbles, and it seems it’s more directed to himself than me.

I take a deep breath. “I don’t know who told you that leaving is the cowardly thing to do, but it’s not. Saving yourself from people who want to murder you isn’t cowardly.”

He shakes his head. “It all comes down to one truth, Salama. This land is my home. I don’t have another one. Leaving is a death in itself.”

I ball my hands into fists. I’ve already died. I died the day Baba and Hamza were taken. I died the day Mama was murdered. I die every single day that I can’t save a patient, and I died yesterday when I held a little girl’s life hostage. Maybe in Germany some piece of me can be revived.

“The boat costs one thousand dollars per person,” I say. “Well, usually it’s two thousand, but I can bargain. Can you afford that?”

“Yes,” he immediately replies.

I nod. “You have a month, Kenan,” I say in a low voice. “If you don’t change your mind, I’ll make sure your siblings get to Italy, but know that I’m one girl and the road is dangerous. I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety.”

With that, I turn on my heel, catching one last glimpse of his shocked face before I go to the stockroom and fetch Am’s Panadol strip from my bag.

“Two extra seats,” I tell him.

Am frowns. “What?”

“I need two extra seats. Two thousand dollars.”

He lets out a short laugh. “No. That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“It is now,” I snap. “They’re children. They won’t be taking up much space.”

He stares at me stonily and I return it.

I fold my arms. “The gold necklace is worth more now. Probably at least three people. You’re also getting an extra two thousand dollars. Not to mention the Panadol. I think you’re profiting very well from me.”

His mouth curls into a sneer. “Fine. But I swear to God, Salama, if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain, I will make you watch the boat leave while the military drags your sister away.”

My grip tightens on my lab coat. I don’t doubt his threat for a second and I want to claw at his face for daring to bring Layla into this. Instead, I try to answer in a steady tone, “I know.”

“Good. Tell your friend to bring half of the money tomorrow.”





Only hours later, a bomb filled with shrapnel hits an apartment building and the victims are carted into the hospital in fragments. The floors soon become slick with blood and the fresh metallic smell overtakes the stale air.

I work steadily, picking out the pieces of debris wedged between flesh and bone. I bandage and soothe. I close milky-white eyes with shaking fingers, and I murmur prayers for the martyrs’ souls. I work until my limbs protest with exhaustion and then I work even harder. Anything to shut out what I did yesterday. Each person laid out in front of me is Samar and each one I don’t save is Ahmad.