As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (65)
The bits of conversation reaching my ears are full of hope and determination; people are full of pride that they’re still going strong after a year. I wonder how many more deaths, how much more trauma, until their spirits are truly crushed. Their faith is strong. In both God and the revolution. And now that they’ve tasted true freedom, they can’t go back to the dark days.
The square is supposed to be under the Free Syrian Army’s jurisdiction, so we’ll be safe for a portion of the night, but the military always comes. I pull my hoodie over my head tightly so no one can see my face. Even though the darkness makes it hard to distinguish anyone’s features, it’s better to be safe. In the end it doesn’t really matter; there are no innocents in the eyes of the military. They’ll kill us all, protestors or not. To them, the idea of freedom is infectious, and we need to be put down before it spreads.
I try not to think of Layla and our goodbye. I didn’t think she would let go of me. But whatever happens tonight, I won’t regret it.
Khawf stands tall by my side, looking like an omen of death.
“Remember our deal,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.
“I won’t talk to you with the boy here. But he’s not as oblivious as you think. He already suspects something.”
We’ve finally reached the square and I can hear the protest beginning. The voices are throaty, coming from deep within bruised souls, each finding its own footing before mingling together, strong and united. Each person knows full well that every word might be their last.
“We don’t know that. And even if he does, it’s just suspicion,” I retort, threading my way carefully between people protesting until I find where Kenan told me to meet him. It’s secluded, close to the action, but far enough away if we need to make a run for it. I lean against the wall where a huge chunk of concrete has been obliterated by a shell. Splinters of glass crunch beneath my sneakers.
“Fine. Just make sure your hood covers your face.” Khawf glances around. “Let’s be safe, not sorry.”
I crane my neck and watch the people gather as if they are one soul, one life running through everybody. I see children on the cusp of their teen years, fear stripped from their expressions. There is no room for that here. Young men, raised in the shadows of their parents’ terror, who decided to make this country their own. Old men who grew tired of the dictatorship stepping on them, waiting their whole lives for one spark to light the fire that would burn down this tyranny.
Fear dies here.
A boy about my age or younger walks by. The flashlights gleam over his bare chest. His ribs stick out where skin meets bone. FREEDOM is traced on his chest with charcoal.
“Hey!” I call out in surprise.
He turns my way.
“Aren’t you scared?” I ask loudly.
He looks at me for a second before grinning. “Always. But I’ve got nothing to lose.”
He turns around and dives into the crowd, making for the center of the protest. This place operates at a different level from the hospital, where death clings to the tiled floors. Here, life shines so strong it washes away doubt. I feel peace.
My lungs rejoice with a full breath of air. The pressure on my chest lifts, and I feel lighter. My head whirls, and my tongue itches to begin chanting and singing. Khawf lingers beside me but doesn’t say a word, watching the masses with interest.
One man in the pulse of the crowd taps on his microphone. His voice booms and people start cheering wildly. His words are half drowned by everyone else, but I can make out the gist; he’s recounting what has happened in the last year. It’s unreal to think this has been going on for three hundred and sixty-five days. Time moves differently here. Sorrow does that. Each day is a year, and as each one passes we hope tomorrow will be better.
I notice many people taking out their phones and recording. Some slip pieces of paper marked with the date and location from under their jackets, along with a few sentences: “Go to hell, Assad,” “We’re coming for you,” “We fear no one except God,” and “Assad is a murderer.”
One of them stands out to me. In perfect red-studded letters they spell out an old poem.
“Every lemon will bring forth a child and the lemons will never die out.”
The lemons are still growing, flowering, nourishing the revolution. I remember the lemonade Mama used to make for me during the summer. I can almost taste its cold, sour-sweet flavor, and my mouth waters at the thought. My heart craves those freshly picked lemons and Mama’s loving glance when she handed me the lemonade. I shake my head, banishing that longing away.
Not here.
Now my nerves are jangling like I’ve injected myself with adrenaline. My hands can’t stop shaking, so I rub them together. I take comfort in the solid slab of concrete supporting me, but when I look down, I see hints of red scratched into the gray. I inhale sharply and force myself to look ahead.
The revolution’s flag is flying high over our heads, and it makes me dream of a day when we can raise it in our schools, proudly singing the national anthem. When it will represent us worldwide. For now, this flag is our shield against the cold winters, the bombs falling from the sky, and the bullets that tear into our bodies. In death, it’s our shroud, our corpses swaddled in it as we return to the soil we vowed to protect.
The individual voices are one and louder than life. “How Sweet Is Freedom” soars into the air, captured by the cameras in low quality to be transmitted to the whole world. I’ve heard this song more times than I can count. It’s everywhere. It’s the alphabet of our revolution. Our children will be taught it as soon as they learn to speak. Patients’ weary voices rattle the walls of our hospital with it. It’s the salve against their wounds. I’ve had many on my operating table unconsciously humming it to themselves. It’s become rooted in their brain cells, and nothing can ever remove it.