As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (48)

He falls into step and I notice he’s wearing the same jacket he draped on my shoulders. My fingers tingle, wanting to run along the seam and the collar.

“Did you—” I begin.

“How are—” he says.

He looks away, blushing, and I do the same. Is this a symptom of falling in love? Or a crush? I’m hyperaware of each breath he takes in and lets out.

“Sorry. You go first,” he murmurs.

I clutch the strap of my bag and take a deep breath. If this is an ailment, then there must be a cure. “I wanted to ask if you recorded today?”

He nods. “I got good footage. Two people I talked to are from Hama. It was good hearing stories about my mom’s hometown. About what’s happening there too. I’m thinking of compiling everything into a documentary and posting it on YouTube. Not too long, though. Just straight to the point.”

I give him a small smile. “That’s great.”

He scratches the back of his head and then says, “I, uh, also brought the money.”

I start. I didn’t see Am all day and I know he wouldn’t miss the chance at collecting his money. But his daughter is still in a critical condition, even if she can’t stay at the hospital.

“The man you were talking to yesterday. He’s the one who gets the boats, right?” Kenan asks.

I nod. “I don’t think he came in today.”

“Me neither. I walked through the whole hospital recording but he wasn’t anywhere.”

“I’m sure he’ll be there tomorrow.” And after a heartbeat, I add, “Do Lama and Yusuf know you’re not coming with them?”

A shadow falls on his face, and he grips his camera. “Yes. They… weren’t happy. Lama threw a fit and Yusuf… he went straight to bed and hasn’t even looked at me since.”

The sky is now an iris hue, and we begin to pass people walking in groups, all carrying handmade signs. A few have the Syrian Revolution flag draped over their necks. A nightly protest. I recognize one young woman I stitched up after she tried to escape from the guns at another demonstration. She grins when she sees me and mouths a “hello” before hurrying after the others.

“Kenan,” I begin and feel the aura around him twist with apprehension. “You can still come with us.”

Nervous energy evaporates off him and he lets go of the camera. It swings down, hitting his side. He averts his gaze, gluing it ahead. Is he too ashamed to tell me he wants to leave? I see the similarities between us so clearly. But as Layla is my weakness, his siblings are his.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I won’t forgive myself.”

“And you think I will? This isn’t an easy choice, but it’s not wrong.”

He stops walking and stares at me for a few seconds before pulling out his phone. He opens it, presses the screen, and then holds it in front of me. It’s the comments section on a YouTube video. “Look at the comments, Salama.”

I squint. There are about fifty, all of them praying for Syria’s safety and liberation. A few users talk about how the channel has been covering what’s happening better than any news outlet.

“This is my video. My channel,” Kenan says. “I’m making a difference. I’m adding English subtitles and explaining what’s going on so the world can know. Arabs know, but the rest of the world doesn’t. They don’t know it’s a revolution. They have no idea we’ve been living in a dictatorship for fifty years. The news shows the military killing people. They don’t know who the Free Syrian Army is. Who the military is. Syria is just a word to them. But to us, she’s our life. I can’t leave her.”

My heart hammers painfully.

He puts his phone back in his pocket. “I talked to my uncle yesterday. Once we know when the boat leaves, we’ll tell him, and he’ll come to Syracuse. He’ll pick up Lama and Yusuf.”

I don’t like this. I don’t like how he’s not including himself. “Kenan—”

“So there’s no need for them to go by car to Munich. My uncle will also help you, of course. I told him. He’ll make sure you and Layla are safe.”

“Kenan.”

He stops talking, stops walking, but there’s a wild desperation in his eyes. Like he’s swallowing down the words and wants threatening to spill from his lips. He’s clinging to duty like a burning coal. I ignore the stab of remorse at having a hand in this and focus on how it could save him.

“The journey to Syracuse is long,” I say. “We’re going by boat. Do you understand that? It’s not a luxurious ship with a five-course meal. You’ve seen pictures of them on the internet. We all have. The boats are old and weak, and some… some don’t even make it. They’re overcrowded. Out there in the Mediterranean, there are no laws. Everyone’s mindset will be to survive regardless of who gets hurt in the process. And people will get hurt. Lama and Yusuf are perfect candidates.”

His shoulders sag as if the world and all seven skies rest upon him. He’s tired and I don’t know him well enough to be sure if my nagging is doing more damage than good. So I decide to take a page out of Layla’s book. Remind him of the happiness. Or at least of the past, so he knows this pain isn’t eternal.

“I remember your mother,” I say, making my voice gentle, and he looks at me with surprise. He stands in front of a building charred black from a fire. I have to tilt my chin up to look him in the eyes. Those beautiful, hurting eyes of his.