As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (83)

When I finally stumble into the main atrium, I find Dr. Ziad alone, and it strikes me as strange.

“Doctor, is everything all right?” I ask. I haven’t told him I’m leaving, not knowing how to put it into words, and guilt twists in my soul.

He grimaces. “The chemical attack has weakened the FSA’s defenses greatly. They’re finding it difficult to hold up against the military’s tanks.”

Air vanishes from my lungs. “What does that mean?”

“It means we need to pray. The FSA is doing everything they can, but we have no one but God now.”

I close my eyes, my lips mouthing a supplication.

Dr. Ziad smiles sadly. “If we die, Salama, at least we die doing the right thing. We die as martyrs.”

And I’ll see Layla, Baby Salama, Mama, and Baba again. Hopefully Hamza as well.

“Death doesn’t scare me, Doctor,” I whisper. “It’s being taken alive.”

He shudders, nodding. “Insh’Allah it doesn’t come to that.”

A patient calls for him and he walks away, leaving me stewing in my thoughts. It’s clear Dr. Ziad thinks we have but days, if not moments, of fragile safety before the walls come crashing down.

I have to find Am. I search all the patients’ rooms before locating him at the back door, chewing on a toothpick.

“Am,” I say, and he straightens.

“What?”

I let out a breath. “Have you heard what the people are saying?”

He must have. People talk. Members of the Free Syrian Army live among us. He gives me a half shrug. “I’ve heard enough.”

“What if the military breaches before the twenty-fifth?” I ask in a low voice lest I invoke the breach myself.

He sighs. “Salama, I’m the person who gets the boat. I’m not a military man or someone with influence. I stand to lose more than money if that were to happen, but some things are outside my control. This is one of them.”

“Can’t we leave earlier?” I ask. “Like today?”

He shakes his head. “I know the guards stationed at the borders. I know their timing and shifts. The ones letting us through will be there on the twenty-fifth. We risk all our lives if we gamble with guards I don’t know. There are ones who’ll take you and your money. No law holds them accountable.” Flashes of the horror Khawf showed me the day before the protest appear before my eyes and I stifle a terrified gasp.

Am steps toward me, and it surprises me to see his face full of pity. “Salama, you’ve done everything. The rest is up to God. To fate. If you’re meant to be in Munich, you will be, even if the whole military rips this place apart. And if you’re not, then not even a private plane landing in the middle of Freedom Square to whisk you away will do that.”

I’m taken aback. These are words I believe to my core, as does every Muslim. Fate has his strings, but we’re the ones who twist them together with our actions. My belief in what’s meant to be doesn’t make me a passive player. No. I fight and fight and fight for my life. Layla fought for hers. Kenan fights for his. And whatever happens, we accept the outcome, knowing we did everything. I haven’t heard these words in a while and it jerks something awake in me to hear them from Am of all people.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I consider telling him it’ll just be four people on that boat, but somehow the words can’t make it past the haze of grief.

“Khalid Mosque, ten a.m.,” he reminds me. “It’s just three more days.”

I nod, feeling my resolve strengthen. Am’s words sustain me for the rest of the day until exhaustion wobbles my knees.





When the sky becomes a bright orange, I sit on the broken steps of the hospital, letting my thoughts find one another. There’s a serenity in this silence. Thankfully, there have been no victims from bombs or military attacks today. It unnerves me for a few seconds; we’ve never had a pause on the attacks before. A horrible thought whispers to me that the military might be planning something, but I banish it away when I see Kenan walking out of the hospital.

He lights up when he sees me, and I can’t stop the smile on my face. He sits beside me, stretching his long legs in front of him, and I lean my head against his shoulder.

“Long day?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He links his fingers in mine and raises my hand to his lips. His breath is warm against it, and he kisses my scars.

“Thank you for your hard work. Thank you for saving lives,” he whispers, and my eyes sting with tears. I’ve had people thank me before, but it’s always when terror was running high, and I’ve never had the capacity to absorb their words. No one’s ever said it to me during the quiet moments. No one who knows the horrors I go through, the fight I put up every single day, has truly seen me and said those words.

My soul expands with love for him.

He notices the tears and becomes alarmed. “What happened? Did I say something wrong?”

I shake my head, rubbing my eyes. “No. I’m fine.”

He still looks worried, so I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him. “I really am fine. But you’ve made me think of something.”

“What?” he replies, his voice muffled in my shoulder.

“I think I want to stay at the hospital these last three days. Help as many people as I can before I leave.”