As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (62)



I hug my knees, propping my head between my arms. “I’m exhausted,” I whisper.

“Me too,” Kenan replies.

I shake my head. “No. I’m exhausted from all of this. I’m exhausted we’re suffocating and no one gives the slightest bit of a damn. I’m exhausted we’re not even an afterthought. I’m exhausted we can’t even have basic human rights. I’m exhausted, Kenan.”

I feel his eyes on me, but when I lift my head, I stare at the sky’s horizon peeking through the demolished buildings instead. At the blue and gray.

“I’m also angry,” I continue.

And I realize the anger was always there, growing slowly and surely. It began long ago when I was born under the thumb of a dictatorship that kept on applying pressure until my bones fractured. It kindled into a small flame when Mama and I held hands and prayed as the protestors’ throaty voices ricocheted off our kitchen walls. It fused with my bones, its flames licking through my myocardium, leaving decayed cells in its wake, when Baba and Hamza were taken. It built and built and built with each body laid in front of me. And now, it’s a roaring fire crackling along my nervous system.

“Tomorrow’s the revolution’s anniversary,” I say, and Kenan shifts. “I want to go.”

Those four words fall from my lips, and I wait for the familiar feeling of terror to rip through me, souring my wish. But it doesn’t happen. No. Enough is enough.

Khawf appears in the corner of my eyes, but I refuse to look in his direction, knowing I won’t find support there. This is my choice, not one governed by him. Instead, I glance at Kenan, whose eyes are heavy with emotion.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and I almost smile.

I nod. This decision clears my mind. I want my voice to join my people’s. I want to sing my sorrows away. I want to mourn our martyrs. This may be the last time I’ll ever feel as if I’m a part of Syria before the boat whisks me away. I don’t want this fear anymore.

Kenan stands, looking away, and then he says in a rather rough tone, “You called it a revolution.”

I glance at my sneakers. “Well… that’s what it is.”

He fidgets with his jacket’s sleeve before turning to me. “Let me take you home.”

I look up. “Your siblings?”

“Trust me. I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t sure they’re all right,” he says. “Insh’Allah.”

“Let me get my bag, then.” I pick myself up and move toward the doors, but my hand grips the handle tightly, my muscles freezing me. The anger is there, but it hasn’t erased the weight the dead leave on my shoulders.

“I’ll get it. It’s in the stockroom, right?” Kenan says softly. I nod. When he opens the door to slip inside, the coughs and soft cries of the injured make my throat constrict before the door falls shut, muting them.

Our walk back is filled with silence, and I allow myself to stare at him, taking notice of the way his shoulders are slumped. I sense a storm raging in his mind as well. What he’s seen today is quickly splintering his resolve to leave. But he must know that in this equation, there’s no right answer. Leaving is the lesser of two evils. The outside world isn’t safe for his siblings to venture to on their own, and Kenan would be destroyed if anything happened to them. But I need to know—need to hear the words once more.

When we reach my front door, he leans his head against the bullet-riddled wall.

“You’re still coming with us, right?” I whisper, and he looks at me.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

He pushes himself off, runs a hand through his hair. There’s a glassy look in his eyes, and he kicks a stray pebble. It bounces away, clattering pathetically against some debris.

“I just—” he begins, blowing out forcefully. “Salama, I feel so helpless. I’m leaving them behind. And after what happened today?” Pain sears in his eyes. “Syria needs me, and I’m abandoning her.”

I shake my head. “No you’re not. What our people are doing here—the protests? That’s beautiful and much needed, but whose minds are you changing here? You can do so much from the outside. You can physically reach the people leaving the comments on your videos. With your talent for weaving stories, we need your voice to amplify those here. That’s how you fight.”

He stares at me, a faint pink blush dusting his cheeks.

“And we will come back,” I say, my voice wavering. “Insh’Allah, we will come back home. We will plant new lemon trees. We’ll rebuild our cities, and we will be free.”

I turn to look at the dying sunset and then up at the twilight blue eating away the light. Night approaches fast, but I know it’s not eternal. This blanket of darkness isn’t our forever. Their evil isn’t forever. Not as long as we have our faith and Syria’s history running in our veins.

“Salama,” Kenan whispers.

The way he’s looking at me makes the air vanish from my alveoli. It’s a look I’ve only read about in books and seen in movies. Never one I thought I’d experience in real life, and certainly not in these circumstances.

He comes closer, his fingers touching the edge of my lab coat, and everything stills. The dead leaves dancing beside our feet, the cold breeze, the chirping birds. Everything. Even my mind.

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