As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (60)

He waves the tablet in front of me. “You only have so much leverage, Salama. The Panadol won’t be enough for a discount.”

“You’re already getting my gold!”

He half shrugs and flicks the cigarette butt to the ground before grinding it under the heel of his boot. “Not enough. What’s more important? Gold or a person’s life?”

I want to scoff, to strike him across the face for the hypocrisy coating his tongue. Instead, I mutter, “A ring.”

He mulls it over. “Fine.”

The faraway sound of a crash makes us both start, but the moment passes and outside, a few birds take to the cloud-speckled sky.

Am fiddles with a cigarette. When he looks at me again, it’s like he’s seeing me for the first time.

“What?” I say defensively, folding my arms.

“Have you always been so”—he gestures at me—“hollow?”

Self-consciously, I fuss with my hijab, tugging it across my other shoulder. I’m sure it would delight him to know that the guilt of what I’ve done has turned me into skin and bone. But before I can answer, Dr. Ziad calls my name and I turn around to see him waving me over, a frantic look in his eyes.

I hurry to him, my heart beating wildly in my throat.

“Doctor, what is it?” I ask, and he glances around quickly before leading me to a corner of the atrium.

“Did you hear what happened yesterday in Karam el-Zeitoun?” His voice is hushed, a strangle of pain.

My mouth goes dry and I shake my head.

“The military… they mass—” He stops, pain glazing his eyes, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Women and children with slit throats. None left alive. Not a single gunshot. The children… they were—” He loses his composure once more, his eyes glistening, and mine burn with tears. “They were hit with blunt objects, and one girl was severely mutilated. The neighborhoods beside them heard the screams. The Free Syrian Army confirmed it to me just now.”

My stomach churns and I manage to whisper, “What… we’re next, aren’t we?”

He runs a hand through his hair and straightens his back, all traces of horror fading from his expression. He’s our head doctor—from him we get our strength. If he crumbles, we all fall. “The FSA was able to get vital intel about an attack planned nearby for this morning and they’ve warned all the hospitals. It’s worse than anything we’ve had.”

“Worse than missiles?” I ask, unable to imagine what else they could use.

He nods and I notice the vessels in his eyes are more pronounced—redder.

“Like what?”

He takes a deep breath that gets lost somewhere in his lungs. “Attacks that violate the Geneva Convention.”

I frown. “So everything they’ve done up till now is legal?”

“No, of course not!” he exclaims, rubbing his eyes, and his hands tremble. “But this is taboo.” Sweat glistens on his forehead.

“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out strangled.

“It may not happen,” he says, but I can hear the lie in his tone.

“Doctor, this is the regime we’re talking about. If they want, they could drop a nuke on us.” I laugh humorlessly and press a hand to my forehead.

Gardenias. Alleviate depression and anxiety and stress. Gardenias. Gardenias. Gardenias.

His eyes flit from the doors to me and back again. “Salama, I consider you my daughter. So please, don’t run away from the hospital if this happens. None of us are prepared to deal with it, but we’re going to be fine.”

“If what happens?” I nearly shout. “What did the Free Syrian Army tell you?”

But he doesn’t have to tell me. A scream rips the air, and I turn around, shocked. I’ve never heard a scream like that in my life. The doors open to a horde of victims swarming in, but I don’t see any injuries.

“What’s happening?” I shriek, trying to understand.

Dozens of casualties on stretchers or on the ground are convulsing like someone electrocuted them.

Teenagers with their heads stretched back, arms and legs shaking uncontrollably.

Little children with foam at their mouths, looking up, trying to make sense of what’s happening to them.

My feet are rooted to the ground. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand.

“Chemical attack,” I hear Dr. Ziad say. “They’ve finally used sarin.”





MY HANDS FLY TO MY MOUTH IN HORROR. MY MIND races through a list of medications, a list of anything to combat sarin, but I come up short. No one is ever prepared for a chemical attack.

“How—how the hell do I treat this?” I ask with nails in my throat.

“Atropine,” he yells so the rest of the staff can hear, as they move toward the victims. “Diazepam for convulsions.”

He looks back and sees me rooted to the spot.

“Salama!” he says sharply. “We need to act now! They’ll die within minutes, do you understand? An incredibly small amount of sarin is enough to kill a grown man. These are kids. Go!”

My mind activates and all fear shuts down, except that which will motivate my feet to run and my hands to work. Nour drops a handful of atropine syringes into my arms, and I make a break for it. We don’t have anything to protect ourselves against the gaseous nerve agents in the patients, so gloves will have to do.