As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (66)

I sing softly, my voice a contrast against the deep resounding ones thundering into the skies above us. A prayer in song.

“Salama.”

His voice washes over me like sunlight. I turn, trying to suppress a smile. His clothes are identical to mine. Old jeans and a black hoodie. His hair is swept back and streaked with wet droplets as if he’s dunked his head in a bowl of water.

“Hey.” I nod nonchalantly, remembering the way his eyes searched me in that stockroom and how the words he said have folded themselves between my ribs, cushioning my broken heart. The heart that loves him.

“How are you?” His gaze flits bashfully from me to the ground. He’s probably thinking about that moment too.

“Fine,” I whisper.

“How’s Layla?”

His concern makes my withered heart bloom. “Scared for me, but good.” I pause, finding a topic that will bring a drop of serotonin. “How happy were Lama and Yusuf when you told them you’re coming?”

He smiles. “Happier than they’ve been in a long time. Lama burst into tears and Yusuf wouldn’t let go of me.”

“Yusuf still doesn’t—I mean he’s—” I don’t know how to say the words without sounding insensitive.

“No,” he says sorrowfully. “He still doesn’t talk.”

In some ways, Yusuf reminds me of myself. I wonder if there are hurricanes in his mind that he doesn’t know how to articulate. Khawf is a burden I don’t know how to share with anyone. I desperately want to. The loneliness makes my throat close up and tears prick in my eyes. It’s a pressure that builds and builds until it fissures through my skin and bones.

“We’ll find help for him in Germany,” I assure Kenan.

He scratches the back of his head. “We?”

My ears feel hot and I take a deep breath. Why are we dancing around this? I know exactly how I feel about him, and his expressions tell no lies. I know he feels the same. “We won’t be separated there, right?”

He turns fully toward me and his hand slips into his pocket. He looks hopeful. “Salama, I don’t ever want to—” he begins softly.

Suddenly a cheer resounds in the crowd and we jump, blushing furiously. The man holding the microphone begins a new song in his deep, somber voice. I notice Kenan didn’t bring his camera.

We stand in silence, watching emotions sizzle in the crowd. Between songs, we send prayers for the souls of the martyrs, and for the ones suffering in imprisonment. I brush a tear from my eye. How lonely Hamza must be.

After a while, Kenan asks, “Do you see the colors?”

My lips turn into a sad smile. “Yeah.” I glance at the trees lining one side of the street. Leaves pattern the trunks, spiraling around in circles to the top. “There’s life in the smallest, simplest of things. I see why this is happening. Freedom was never an easy price; it’s paid with—”

“Blood. More than we ever thought possible,” he finishes bitterly.

“Yeah,” I croak.

“But you knew that all along.” He stares ahead. “Do you think it’s worth it?”

Five more verses of the song float up.

I remember the blond Free Syrian Army soldier who was at peace with his right arm being amputated. I still have another one, don’t I?

“I don’t know. I want it to be worth it. I want to know the grass growing over the martyrs’ graves will give life to a generation who can be whoever they want to be. But we don’t know when that will happen. It could be tomorrow or decades from now.”

“That’s why we have our faith, Salama. It’s our duty to fight, live, and pave the way.”

I admire the way he says it confidently.

“Which is your favorite song?” he asks suddenly.

I’m taken off guard. “Um…‘How Sweet Is Freedom.’”

“Me too.”

“It’s what Baba used to sing all the time before they took him. He had this look about him every time he sang it, and it didn’t hurt that his voice was like a canary.”

“Ibrahim Qashoush was pretty smart to come up with it.”

“All his songs are amazing.”

Ibrahim Qashoush was one of the roots of our revolution. A simple man from Hama who penned most of the popular songs that give us the strength to fight on.

Kenan’s voice is quiet. “May God rest his soul.”

My heart mourns for his loss as if I’ve just received the news. The military caught him. They cut his voice box from his throat so violently his whole head was nearly decapitated. Then he was thrown in the Orontes River for us to discover.

“Ameen,” I whisper.

“We want freedom! We want freedom! We want freedom!”

The crowd starts chanting each word with the force they’ve been cultivating for fifty years. Kenan joins them, singing in a steady, strong voice, holding an iPhone high to capture each second. I lean closer to him, spellbound by his beautiful voice.

In the corner of my eye, I see Khawf with his arms folded. He notices me staring and winks.

I grimace.

“This is going on longer than I thought it would,” I say to Kenan. He pauses his recording and leans down to hear me. “When are we supposed to run for our lives? How long until they come?”