As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (58)

He closes his eyes for a second, catching on to my thoughts. “Salama,” he begins. His tone is low, almost choked. “I—you have to realize this is difficult.”

I feel as if I’m standing on shaking ground. “You think it’s easy for me to leave? My mother is buried here! My father too. My brother—” I stop, covering my face with my hands, forcing myself to take deep breaths.

Please, God, let him die. Let him find that peace.

Kenan is still staring at me with anguish when I look back at him.

“We are stripped from our choices, so we latch onto what will ensure our survival.” I push away all my emotion. My voice comes out calculating and cold. “The world is not sweet or kind. The ones outside are waiting to eat us and pick their teeth with our bones. That’s what they’ll do to your siblings. So we do everything to make sure we and our loved ones survive. Whatever it takes.”

Fear breaks out behind his irises, but whatever he’s about to say next disappears when his vision trails behind me, his eyes widening with horror.

I turn around to see Yusuf carrying Lama in his skeleton-like arms, and I wonder how he managed to make it all the way from their home. Kenan runs toward them, his terror infecting me. Lama’s eyes are half-closed, her dry lips hanging open. Kenan takes her from Yusuf, cradles her head against his shoulder, and looks back at me wildly.

“Bring her here.” I gesture to an empty yellow bed, and he sets her down gently, murmuring words of love while brushing her hair back before taking her hands in his and pressing them to his lips, praying. Yusuf stands beside him, his own face white with terror and his lower lip trembling.

“What happened?” Kenan asks Yusuf, who shakes his head, motioning with his hands.

I check the wound on her stomach, but it’s mostly healed, the skin pink, with no sign of pus or infection.

“Lama, habibti.” I press my stethoscope to her heart. It’s hammering against her rib cage. “How are you feeling? Where’s the pain?”

She stirs, eyelids fluttering. “I feel… sick. And my head hurts.”

I lay a hand on her forehead. It’s cold. Flushed skin. Chapped lips. Headache. Everything comes together.

“She’s dehydrated.”

Kenan looks up at me with shock, silent tears running down his cheeks. “What?”

“Give me her hand,” I say, and he does. I pinch her nailbed for a few seconds until it’s all white and Lama shifts uncomfortably. When I ease the pressure, it takes a while for it to regain its pink color. “Yes. Dehydration.”

I run to the medical store, grab one of the IV bags, and race back to hook it into her vein. She doesn’t even protest when I nudge the needle’s tip into her skin.

“Kenan, go find her a cup of water,” I instruct him, and he looks at me, disoriented. “She’s going to be fine, insh’Allah. But she needs to drink.”

He nods and returns with water shortly, helping her take small sips. Nour has heard what happened and brings Yusuf a chair to sit on. She pats his back while he looks on. No one should live like this. Worrying if their sister will die from lack of water.

“The IV will replace what she’s lost.” I bite my lip. “Alhamdulillah it wasn’t something worse.”

Kenan’s jaw is tight, his shoulders shaking silently. He gets up and walks toward the front doors. I blink, taken aback, before following. He hurries down the steps, running his hands in his hair.

“Kenan,” I say hesitantly.

He turns around, looking like he’s in physical pain.

His voice sounds broken. Defeated. “Yesterday, after you brought up what happens to the refugees in Europe, I went back home and researched more of it.” He stops, blowing out a forced breath of air. “People are getting tricked, robbed—left alone in the middle of nowhere. Girls are… being trafficked or married off. And boys are forced into child labor.”

He sinks to the ground like his legs can’t carry him anymore and I rush to him.

“Kenan!” I kneel beside him.

A strangled sound escapes his throat. “You’re right. I promised my father I’d take care of them. That I’d carry them in my eyes. I can’t guarantee they’ll find my uncle when they land in Italy. I can’t even guarantee that Lama will survive being dehydrated. But—I also have a duty to my country.” He threads his hands through the dirt, and the dull red-brown stains them, smearing itself into his nailbeds and the cracks in his skin. “Salama, you have to at least acknowledge that this isn’t right.”

“Of course it isn’t!” I exclaim. “It’s not fair and it’s not right. But you can’t abandon Lama and Yusuf.”

“One by one, everyone leaves,” he whispers, and rubs his eyes, streaking Syria on his forehead, smearing himself with the land of our ancestors. “Soon enough there won’t be anyone left to defend Syria.”

“Not true. You, more than anyone, can change the world. Do you have any idea what your imagination can do? Didn’t you see how the people looked at you in there?” A glimmer shines through his dark green eyes. “The fight isn’t over, and it’s not only here. Syria’s entire history has become faded in people’s memories. They don’t know what a gem she is. They don’t know the love this country has. You owe it to them. You owe it to us,” I say fiercely.