As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (64)

Disgust leaves an aftertaste worse than bile on my tongue.

Am shrugs. “It’s business, Salama.”

I snort. “Call it whatever you want, but don’t lie to me.”

During my break, I retreat to the stockroom, read the labels on the medications to help me calm down.

“Hey,” I hear Kenan say from the doorway.

My heart skips a beat and I banish the image of him beaten, blood pouring from his eye sockets. “Hey.”

“May I join you?” He plays with the hem of his sweater. His face is lined, his hair is in disarray, and he looks like he hasn’t slept either. The weight of his decision to leave must have taken a toll on him.

“Sure,” I say, and I wave my hand to the empty space in front of me. “How’s Lama?”

He sits down and leans back against one of the cabinets. “She’s much better. Alhamdulillah. Her heartbeat is normal—I counted it myself. We’re making sure she’s drinking lots of water. Yusuf breathes easier now that she is.” He stretches his fingers and after a heartbeat says, “About tonight. You need to promise me something.”

“What?”

“We’ll be together. But if anything were to happen to me, you save yourself. If you see me get dragged away, you run. Understood?”

No. I don’t like this. “Kenan—”

His expression is fierce. “Salama, you promise me this.” When I don’t say anything, he repeats more firmly. “Salama.”

“Fine,” I whisper, hating even thinking about it. “I’ll—I’ll make sure your siblings find your uncle if…” I go quiet. I can’t even say it. “And if anything happens to me, please take care of Layla.”

“I will.” He cracks his knuckles.

“I’ve told Yusuf where Layla lives, in case both of us…” And his words die out as well.

“Right.”

His eyes study me, and I fight the urge to cover my face. Instead, I clear my throat and grab a medication box.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“My favorite,” I answer, happy to focus on something other than the way he’s staring at me. “Epinephrine. Magic drug of the heart. It saves so many lives.”

“How is it given?” he asks, his voice low, and I feel like I might need a shot of it myself.

“Straight to the heart. But it doesn’t matter really. It’s intravenous and works instantly.”

He nods but doesn’t stop staring, and I start to wonder if there’s something on my face. “Um, is—”

“How do your eyes always shine so brightly?” he interrupts.

“What?” I laugh.

“When I first met you, I thought it was a trick of the light. But that isn’t it. This stockroom has horrible lighting, and they still look like melted honey.”

My breath catches in my throat. His face turns red, and he breaks the stare, glancing toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, fidgeting with the epinephrine box. Me? Beautiful eyes? Haven’t heard that one in a while.

Voices drift through the open door. “They killed him. The man with the roses.”

“Ghiath Matar?” an old woman says, shocked.

“Yes. All he did was give the military flowers. His wife is pregnant with their son. It’s right here on Facebook. He’s been tortured to death.”

The epinephrine box slips from my fingers and falls to the ground with a thud. Kenan closes his eyes, and his features become pained with grief. When he finally opens them, he stands and stops at the door. “We’ll meet at the Al-Ameer bakery, okay?”

I nod and he walks away. My heart goes back to beating normally, but the sadness erupts into tears. I tilt my head back and take a deep breath.

“Thinking of backing out?” Khawf asks, appearing in front of me.

“No,” I whisper, and my voice shakes. Not from terror this time. “I hate them.”

“I know,” Khawf replies kindly. “And I must say, it’s a wonderful look on you.” He pauses. “What I showed you last night, Salama… all of those scenarios could come true.”

It hurts to swallow, but my desire to be stronger than the horrors I face far outweighs anything else. It steadies my heart.

“I can’t say I’ll be thrilled if you go today. So are you absolutely ready to face those consequences?”

I nod slowly. “This is the price of a future with freedom, Khawf. It’s a price Hamza pays every day. But I’m Syrian. This is my land, and just like the lemon trees that have been growing here for centuries, spilled blood won’t stop us. I have my faith in God. He’ll protect me. I’ve been force-fed oppression, but I will no longer swallow its bitter taste. No matter what.”





THE SMALL HAIRS ON THE BACK OF MY NECK RISE IN anticipation as I make my way through the people rushing toward the scene of today’s protest.

Freedom Square.

The moon hovers above, showing our way with his gentle touch. Combined with the feeble handmade battery-powered lamps and flashlights, I’m able to see everything. Young men hurry past me, some carrying large signs painted in red.