As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (63)

My heart migrates from its position in my chest cavity all the way up to my esophagus, and I stare at his long fingers grasping the top of my pocket.

“You’re right. We will come back,” he whispers, and I dare to glance up. I’m intoxicated by the way he’s staring at me. So close, so kind, so beautiful.

A newfound need rises in me to touch his cheeks, to bring him closer and feel his stubble under my hands. To just forget all this pain.

His emerald eyes drop to my lips for a few seconds, and then he looks away.

“Salam,” he whispers, and then he’s gone.

Life comes back to the world, the leaves rustle. And I’m left yearning for more.





“So you’re going?” Layla asks quietly, and I lean my head against her shoulder, my arm linked through hers. We haven’t moved from this spot on the couch since I came home, our limbs still slightly shaky from today’s terror.

“You think I shouldn’t?”

She shakes her head. “Not at all. This is your path in life, Salama. Besides, you’re Hamza’s sister, I’m not surprised. But what made you decide to go?”

I squeeze her arm, biting my lip. “I’ve been scared for so long. Of course I hate the regime, but a part of me—a cowardly part—thought that maybe if I didn’t go to the protests and, God forbid, the military won before we got on the boat, I wouldn’t be tortured. That they’d let Baba and Hamza out. But now… Baba is dead and Hamza…” I stop. “A part of me wanted things to go back to how they were. Back to living in fear. And I hate those thoughts.” I lift my head up to see the sympathy in Layla’s eyes. “I feel like a hypocrite.”

“Salama, it’s human to feel scared. And you’re not a hypocrite.”

“I hope so,” I whisper. “I would split a vein for Syria. If my blood could save her. If my death would bring our people their justice, I wouldn’t… there’s no question about it.”

“I know.”

I close my eyes. “This is the closest I’ll feel to being—it’s my way of asking for forgiveness for leaving.”

Layla rests her cheek over my head. “I know.”

After a few moments of silence, I say, “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. But if I don’t… if… please find Am. Get on that boat. Live for me and Hamza. Raise Baby Salama.” I lean back and grab both her hands fiercely. “Promise me.”

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Only if you promise you’ll do everything not to die. You will come back to me, insh’Allah.” Her voice turns soft—too soft. “Salama, please. Don’t be a martyr. Fight to stay alive.”

Her words fall like little stones at the bottom of a lake, and the back of my eyes burn. “I promise.”

Her hands loosen in my grip. “Then I promise too.”





Khawf waits for me by the window when I close my bedroom door.

“This is a mistake,” he says. He looks exasperated with me. “You’re so close to leaving. Why would you put yourself at risk?”

I sigh and sit on my bed. “I know you want me to stay out of trouble. But nowhere is safe in Syria. I could be bombed right now.”

He stands in front of me, arms folded. “You’re a fool if you think they won’t be focusing everything they have on the protests tomorrow.”

I nod. “You’re right. And you won’t give me peace the whole time. So let’s make a deal.”

He straightens his back. He doesn’t exude a terrifying aura, only interest.

I stick my chin out. “Show me the worst-case scenario.”

He laughs. “Come again?”

“Show me the worst possible outcome. You’ve been showing me the past. Show me the future. Show me Layla’s pain. If I’m able to handle it, you’ll leave me alone the whole night. You won’t threaten me.”

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes gleaming. “Show you your arrest. Kenan tortured. His siblings murdered. Everything to deter you from going tomorrow?”

Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. “Yes.”

He studies me for a minute, then raises his fingers. “Don’t blame me if it leaves you destroyed. They might be hallucinations now, Salama.” He bends down, bringing his face closer to me. “But they are very real possibilities.”

My hands tremble and I fold them into fists. “Do it,” I say, my voice wavering.

He smirks and snaps his fingers.





THE NEXT DAY PASSES IN A WHIR, MY THROAT burning with the taste of bile. I haven’t slept a wink, and my head feels like lead after what Khawf did yesterday. I rub my eyes, shutting out the tortured screams still ringing in my mind. My extraocular muscles ache from how much I cried yesterday, but I stand firm.

“Got everything packed?” Am asks me when I hand him his Panadol tablet. “Nothing too heavy. It’s a refugee boat, not a cruise ship.”

“I know,” I bite back. I look at my patients scattered all over; I see their red eyes, hear their rib-racking coughs. “How will we get through the military borders?”

He glances sideways, making sure we’re out of earshot. “I know the guards stationed there. Some want to make money. It’s no skin off their backs to let you pass for the right price.”