As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (55)

The floor is falling apart, and I sway before catching the door’s handle. Sednaya Prison is one of the most brutal detention facilities in Syria. Located near Damascus—a two-hour drive from Homs. The place is worse than a death sentence. Its prisoners are stacked atop one another in cells too small to breathe in.

“I’m sorry, Salama,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. Please, take care—”

“I need to leave,” I interrupt, flinging the door open and rushing out. My feet pick up the pace until I’m outside and I collapse over the hospital’s steps. My breaths heave in and out.

“Salama!” a voice calls, and I look back to see Kenan standing at the top of the steps. “My God, you’re shaking.”

He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it across my shoulders before sitting beside me. I close my eyes, breathing in the lemon scent of it, praying it’s enough to put the darkness back in its place. Minutes or hours pass, I don’t know, but he stays beside me on the broken steps, waiting.

He doesn’t ask but I need to form the words. I need to tell someone. The words need to spill out before they drown me.

“My brother,” I begin hoarsely. “Hamza. When he was arrested with Baba… Layla and I—we thought they’d both died. We wanted to believe that. But Hamza is still alive.”

I hear Kenan’s sharp intake of breath.

Hamza is alive right this second being tortured while I’m outside, planning on running away from Syria. My hands shake and I clutch my head, trying to calm down.

“Jasmine,” I murmur. “A tea made from its leaves eases body aches and helps with anxiety. Jasmine. Jasmine. Jasmine.”

In my heart of hearts, I know we still must leave or Layla and I will face a fate like Hamza’s. I know that. I know. Yet…

My chin snaps up. Layla. This is too big of a secret for me to hold in my heart. I can’t stack it atop my tower of lies.

Khawf materializes on the pathway leading up to the hospital stairs and watches me with an impassive expression. There’s a calculating look in his eyes and he’s gauging my reaction.

“I need to go home,” I choke out, and stand, catching Kenan’s jacket before it falls. I don’t want to give it back yet; I need the feeling of security it’s giving me to last a bit longer.

“I’m so sorry,” Kenan whispers.

When I look at him, his pained eyes are still on me, and a thought awakens in my brain. My grief can be used to persuade him. Khawf smiles.

“Don’t you see the reality, Kenan?” I keep my voice from trembling. “Torture. Death. This is happening. It will happen to you if you don’t leave.”

“Salama—” he begins, standing.

“No!” I shout, balling my hands into fists instead of shaking him. “Why isn’t this getting through your head? Your siblings will never heal. You will die for a cause no one outside Syria cares about. Those YouTube comments are great, but no one is helping us. You’ll rot in jail and be tortured for the rest of your life with no one to save you. Are you seriously leaving your siblings to the wolves? Do you even realize what’s happening to the refugees in Europe?”

He clears his throat roughly. “I’ve… heard.”

Tears blur my vision, and he shudders in a breath.

“Kenan, you think you’re being selfless.” My voice breaks this time. “But you’re not. Imagine Lama and Yusuf have reached Syracuse and something happens and I’m separated from them. They never find your uncle. I can’t guarantee their safety. I don’t even know what I’m doing. They could so easily be kidnapped and sold. Imagine that happens and you’re here, stuck in a detention facility, your life sliced away from you piece by piece.” My nails dig into my sleeves. “Is this what you want?”

“No, of course not!” he says loudly, and he breaks his gaze to rub an arm over his watery eyes.

“The boat leaves March twenty-fifth,” I say, praying the seeds of doubt are working their way into his mind. That they’ll grow like cress. “Think about whose lives you’re risking here.”

My brain’s synaptic signals are malfunctioning, and I can’t focus on anything except getting back to Layla. I want to be far away from people and scream and cry and mourn.

“I’m going home,” I say.

He nods. “I have your bag.”

Before I can say anything, he walks down the steps. I’m lost in my own agony, relying on muscle memory to take me home as tears stream down my cheeks. Tremors run up and down my skeletal system, fissuring my bones. A war rages inside me and it seems I’m the only casualty.

“We’re here,” he says, and I nearly slam into his back.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, offering him his jacket back, and a part of me considers asking if I can keep it for a day. My shock at that thought eases some of the sadness I’m feeling. He takes it and hands me my bag.

He notes the tear tracks on my face, a realization unclouding in his eyes. “Salama,” he says softly, and my eyelashes flutter. The way he says my name, pronouncing each vowel and consonant, even now makes me feel like flowers are growing in my veins.

“Yes?” I say, matching his tone.

He bites his lip. “Please take care of yourself.”

I wrap my arms around my middle. “I am.”