As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (67)

“We’re under the Free Syrian Army’s jurisdiction. If the military comes, the FSA will be their first line of attack, and trust me, we’ll know if that happens.”

I nod, but my ears are straining to catch the planes’ death frequencies. I can’t lie to myself and pretend I’m confident I’ll make it to see tomorrow’s sunrise.

I raise my hand to my throat, feeling the way the muscles contract when I swallow. The act makes me feel alive and more aware of my surroundings. I could hear a butterfly’s wings if I wanted to.

“You okay?” Kenan’s voice echoes everywhere.

I nod. Thankfully he doesn’t press the matter.

“This is inspiring,” I say before he has time to expose my white lie. “I honestly didn’t expect myself to feel so encouraged.”

“Yeah, every time I post footage of a protest on YouTube and read all the comments, I feel like I’m part of a huge change. I’m not a big-shot politician or a well-known activist or anything. If I die, I doubt anyone in the world would know. I’d just be a number, but still, I feel like I’m changing people’s thoughts. Making them see the truth. Even if it’s one view. Does that make sense?” He glances shyly at me.

“It does.” I smile. “Every time I stitch a person and ease their pain—even if it’s temporary—I feel like I did something. That these people aren’t numbers. They have lives and loved ones, and maybe I helped them in the right direction. If there’s one thing people are scared of, it’s being forgotten. It’s an irrational fear, don’t you think?”

He scratches the back of his head and breaks into a half smile that could inspire books, and my stomach flips. When his eyes slip to my scarred hands, I don’t cover them with my sleeves. I haven’t thought of them in weeks. Before, I hated how they were a reminder of what I lost, but now they’re a testament to my strength.

I take a deep breath, relishing the fact that the air isn’t stained with blood. A cleansing breeze blows past us, and I catch a glimpse of the world Kenan sees. I see and love it. Truly. But it’s like loving the ocean. It’s unpredictable, the blue sparkling water turning from heavenly to horrifying in a second.

“I think—” I begin, but I don’t have the chance to finish my sentence. I feel the warning before my ears register the noise. Death has a unique tone.

“We need to—” I try again, but I can’t even finish my words.





FIRST, A BOMB FALLS TWO BLOCKS FROM WHERE we’re standing, and the ground rumbles and breaks.

Second, the singing stops, as if someone shut off a TV, and panic ensues.

Third, memories rush past my eyes as my body refuses to believe I’m reliving last year. Even though I was expecting it, my body doesn’t care.

I shake my head quickly. I can’t shut down or I’ll die. Hesitation is my death sentence.

“We have to get out of here now!” I hear Kenan yelling, but so many shapes are rushing past my eyes, they begin to blur. A hand latches on to my arm and drags me in the opposite direction from where the bomb fell. I stumble after Kenan, praying he doesn’t let go. Bodies swarm past us, trying to push us apart in their urgency, but his grip doesn’t weaken. I try my best not to trip over my feet as urgency turns into desperation.

“Salama!” Kenan’s voice rises above the din of chaos. He can’t turn his head in my direction or we’ll both stumble.

“Keep going!” I yell before he stops.

“I have to get out of here,” one man keeps screaming, moving against the current. “I have to go, please. The bomb fell on my home!”

I keep pressing forward despite the hysteria choking me.

Another one falls, lighting up the sky. Closer this time. Screams rip the night apart, and my knees buckle.

“Salama!” Kenan’s hand tightens around my wrist, and he stops in the middle of a stampede to help me up. People curve around us now, running. Kenan grabs me by my shoulders and hoists me up. His eyes burn determination into mine.

“Salama,” Kenan says eerily calmly. “Don’t panic, and don’t let go of my hand.”

I nod. His hand slides into mine, and we make a run for it with the crowd once again. I hear guns going off and another bomb falling. It must be an all-out clash with the Free Syrian Army now. Kenan turns right, separating us from the mob, and ducks into alleyways. The shouting doesn’t stop, and it’s not only coming from the protest. Buildings have crumbled onto sleeping children, and mothers are crying desperately for someone to pull their babies out. Guilt tears my gut for not turning back and helping, but I know I’d be as good as dead if I did.

I know where we are. Layla is still a bit far from here, but there’s another place we can seek refuge.

“Wait!” I shout, and Kenan pauses for a second. I dash in front of him, taking his other hand, and run. “I know where to go.”

“Where?” he shouts over the din.

“My old home.”

“We need to run faster. The FSA might have lost their ground here.”

“Snipers.” A pit drops in my stomach.

“Or the military.”

I glance back. “You need to get rid of your phone.”

God forbid if we’re caught and they find the videos on his phone. They’d skin him.