As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (9)
“Salama, get to the children first,” Dr. Ziad says sharply, already running toward the patients. “Nour, you make sure none of them bleed out. Mahmoud, don’t let them run out of bandages. Use the bedsheets if you must. Go!”
Five victims are transported on stretchers while the rest are carried by volunteers from the scene. There’s a huge crowd gathering around them, everyone screaming and shouting. Dr. Ziad continues yelling orders to the rest of the staff, and once again I’m grateful for his calm in the face of these atrocities. He’s the one who grounds us. The reason we’re able to save lives.
Khawf stands tall, watching the chaos unfold with a satisfied smile, and begins to hum a tune, one that ricochets over the din: “How Sweet Is Freedom,” the protestors’ anthem. But I don’t have time to tell him off. Death doesn’t wait for anyone.
For me, bandaging patients, trying to heal them, comes with more challenges than just keeping them alive. Sometimes they see me and demand an older, more experienced doctor. At first I used to flinch, try to stop my trembling, and stutter an explanation of how all the doctors are busy. That I’m just as capable. But now, if anybody tries to cost me precious seconds, I just tell them This or death. That helps them reach their decision pretty quickly.
Working here has hardened and softened my heart in ways I never guessed it would.
As I’m bandaging my fifth patient, I spot someone looking frantic, carrying a little girl in his arms. He doesn’t look much older than I am. Late teens. The girl’s head has lolled to the side, and blood drips from her shirt onto the floor. My eyes follow the boy, watching the hospital’s flickering light bounce off his messy, tawny curls. He looks familiar. But before I can try and place him, Dr. Ziad calls me to help him with another patient. This survivor’s ulna is fractured, tearing through his arm. The sight of bone jutting from skin makes the acid in my stomach rise to my throat, burning. I swallow it down, feeling its descent as it melts my gastric mucosa instead. And I set to work on returning the bone to where it belongs.
While I rest after three back-to-back surgeries, I spot Am passing. I have to talk to him. Today. And I feel Khawf’s gaze drill into the back of my head, his threat echoing in my brain.
I will tear your world apart.
He’s adamant about my leaving Syria and would do anything to make that happen. In all the months I’ve known him, I’ve never understood his desperation. But today, a whisper echoes in my brain. A result of my conversation with Layla.
What’s the harm in asking? You’re only getting information. Just to know how much it costs. Do it for her.
“Am,” I blurt out, and he stops, turning toward me.
“Yes?” he says, surprised. He’s younger than he looks, but with everything going on, it’s no surprise that a man in his late thirties would begin to gray.
“I—uh… I was wondering about—” I stutter and chastise myself. I should have thought of what to say.
“You want a boat, Salama?” he says, cutting to the chase, and my face becomes hot.
I clutch at my ruined lab coat, wrinkling the rough fabric. He thinks I’m a coward. Of all the people to ask him for a way out, it’s me. The last and only pharmacist in three neighborhoods.
“Do you?” he repeats, raising his eyebrows.
Hamza’s anxious expression flashes in my mind. “Yes.”
He turns to the side, checking if anyone is within earshot before saying, “All right. Meet me in the main hallway in ten minutes.”
I can spare a few minutes before Dr. Ziad or Nour come looking for me. Dr. Ziad always insists I take a break. But still my palms break out in a sweat. A whole lot can happen in ten minutes. A sudden respiratory failure, cardiac arrest, another patient vomiting blood and bile. Anything. But I promised Hamza. Layla is my sister, my only family. She’s pregnant with my brother’s child. One he didn’t know of and will never meet. And I need to at least know if we can afford it. I don’t want to test Khawf’s limits either. If he makes good on his threat, today could be my last day working at the hospital.
“Daylilies,” I whisper as I walk to the main hall, training my eyes on the muddied floors. “Relax muscle spasms and cramps. Can cure arsenic poison. Daylilies. Daylilies…”
The main hall is filled with patients, and I understand why Am chose this place. It’s free publicity to anyone within earshot. They’d know who Am is, what he does, and what he’s promising them: a chance to live.
Am comes around to the hospital every day to look for people who might take him up on his offer. Payment in the form of a lifetime’s savings to sail away on a boat to another continent that many of us have only read about in books. Everyone at the hospital knows Am, even Dr. Ziad, who strongly believes more people should stay in Syria. Though he’d never stop anyone who chose to leave, seeing as he sent his own family away. As long as Am doesn’t get in the way of saving patients’ lives, he’s free to spread his agenda. And Am does just that. He stays away from all the doctors, focusing on the patients. He makes sure everyone knows about the successful passages by showing people pictures of those who finally reached European shores. No one would be willing to risk drowning without the assurance that this has worked. At some point. But then, perhaps, even without evidence a sliver of a chance at survival is better than living at the mercy of genocide.