As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (87)

I’ll either die or get to Germany, but I will not be touched by this animal.

He stumbles back, howling with pain and clutching his forehead while I collapse on the bed, my head swimming. Is it enough? Hazy thoughts trickle like honey, thick and disoriented. My blood thunders against my skull, pounding against the bones. Every ounce of energy forsakes me. I can’t think or move, and I’m too scared Kenan will be shot if I try anything. Kenan’s shouts and the soldiers’ yells dim and my vision blurs.

But once it steadies, I see the soldier is seething, all hints of his humor gone. An angry welt swells on his forehead. I almost laugh. He takes out a blade from his holster and jerks me by the shoulders before pressing its sharp edge under the pulse on my neck.

“You should be put down like a bitch,” he snarls and drags it along my throat.

Time slows. It comes apart at the seams one red thread at a time. And with each strand, I remember Karam el-Zeitoun. How just days ago, children were butchered in this exact way. How they must have begged and screamed for their lives. Mere children.

I think of Baba and Hamza and how they’d rather die a thousand deaths than see me tortured like this.

I think of Mama and her soft hands brushing my hair back, calling me her eyes and heart.

I think of Layla and her larger-than-life laugh, her ocean eyes.

And I think, This is it. This is how I die.

I’ll finally smell the daisies.

But his hands loosen and I fall once more against the bed. Everything goes black.





I wake up with a jolt, something heavy on my throat, and I frantically scrape at it.

“Whoa!” a voice says, alarmed, and someone grabs my arms. “Careful, Salama!”

I squint, my surroundings sharpening in front of me. Kenan’s worried face comes into view.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re all right.”

I gasp in a breath; there’s a rough fabric around my throat. It’s gauze. My stomach lurches when I remember how easily the soldier’s blade sliced against my skin. Cutting me open. I shake my head, willing the image to disappear.

My hands fly to my bare head, shock coursing through me.

“My hijab,” I gasp, shaking.

Kenan hesitates before gently taking my hands in his. “Dr. Ziad bandaged your cut. It needed small stitches. You’re in his office and it’s just us, don’t worry. No one’s coming in.” He exhales loudly. “Alhamdulillah you’re fine.”

My breaths steady. I turn my head slowly as I examine the room, which is empty save for Kenan and me. Dr. Ziad’s desk, still cluttered with yellow papers and a few syringes, is pushed against the wall, and the bed I’m lying on is in the middle of the floor. The door is closed and so are the blinds. It’s nighttime.

Kenan sits back on the plastic chair beside me, relief and exhaustion in his features. His left eye socket is a deep scarlet. He has a cut on his lower lip that’s been stitched and a mottle of budding bruises is scattered carelessly across his face. His eyes are glassy with the residue of the adrenaline, and he’s wearing a forest-green sweater free of any blood.

“What happened?” I whisper, scared to speak any louder. I can’t stop staring at his face. They hurt him. “Are—you’re hurt.”

He shifts in his seat. “Dr. Ziad checked me. I have a minor concussion, but that’s all.”

His voice is casual; he’s trying to lighten what he’s saying.

“Minor?” I repeat loudly. “They hit your back. Your chest. Are you okay?”

He doesn’t reply, instead taking in a deep breath. I notice that his hands are shaking. “Are you thirsty?” he asks.

I cough, suddenly aware of how parched I am. I nod.

He stands and gingerly fetches a water bottle from Dr. Ziad’s desk, then helps me drink.

“You’ve been asleep nearly the whole day.” He holds the bottle. “After that soldier—There was blood everywhere. I thought… I thought you died. But Dr. Ziad burst in at that moment with about ten Free Syrian Army soldiers. He had slipped through the back door and contacted them. Three surrendered, but the one who hurt you and another didn’t. But they were outnumbered.” A cold, satisfied tone takes over his voice. “They’re dead.”

He reaches over and squeezes my fingers. “Dr. Ziad rushed to you and was able to stop the bleeding. You woke up then, do you remember?” I don’t answer, so he continues. “Dr. Ziad gave you something to sleep. Your cut isn’t deep. It didn’t sever an artery, alhamdulillah, but you needed blood. One of the Free Syrian soldiers was able to give you his.”

I shudder. I was a whisper away from being six feet underground. “Why were they here?”

“They were able to find a way through a weakened spot at the borders with the Free Syrian Army. Go on an easy murder spree at the hospital before the rest of the military joined them.”

“So the fight is getting closer?” I ask.

He nods sadly. “The FSA have high hopes. Their faith is strong and they have their weapons, but… I worry.”

“Me too.” Then I gasp. “Lama? Yusuf?”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, calming me. “They’re okay. The soldiers didn’t make it to their room. They’re sleeping now and—” He stops, his voice breaking, tears trickling down his cheeks.