As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (91)

“If you find Dr. Ziad—” Nour stops, her voice shaking. “Tell him—tell him we’ll be at his house.”

I nod and stand despite my wobbly knees. The wreckage throws me into another whirl of despair. The hospital I spent all my days in is gone.

It’s a graveyard.

The building has been reduced to rocks. The volunteers are scattered over the remains, desperately trying to remove the debris. When I get closer, I hear the faint screaming of those still trapped inside. It tears my heart in half. Their agony makes me forget the reason I’m leaving.

From the smoke, Khawf emerges, his eyebrows raised, not a wisp of the destruction touching him.

“Salama, there’s nothing you can do,” he says coldly. “Don’t you dare rethink your decision. The hospital is gone. Your workplace destroyed. There’s nothing left for you here. Your family is dead or arrested. I know you don’t want to be next.”

I look away from him, tears streaming down my face, and trudge forward despite my limbs shaking from fear.

“Dr. Ziad!” I call over the moaning. “Doctor!”

Slowly, the dust settles. The sun’s rays poke holes through the plumes of smoke. The ringing in my ears lessens, and when I scream his name for the fourth time, I hear a faint response.

“Salama!”

I look around wildly, tumbling in the direction of the main gates, to find Dr. Ziad sitting on the curb. There’s a cut on his forehead, blood trickling down his cheek. His face is ashy gray, the tips of his hair and lab coat singed.

“Doctor!” I exclaim, falling to my knees in front of him. “Are you hurt?”

He shudders in a breath, slowly extending his arms to reveal two babies tucked in the crooks. “I had to choose.” He falls quiet, his face white and his eyes void of emotion. “I ran with the ones I chose. But… I can’t hear their heartbeats.”

It hurts to swallow.

“I tried to save them,” he whispers. Tears roll down his cheeks. “I had to choose. The rest are still inside. They killed babies.”

I wipe my eyes. “They’re in Heaven, Doctor. They’re not suffering anymore.”

He raises them, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads. “Forgive us,” he whispers to them. “Forgive us for our shortcomings.”

I sit there with him, mourning. They were premature and their chances of surviving without their incubators were slim. Still… still.

After a few minutes, I say, “Nour took the other babies to your house. I think they’re alive.”

He glances up. “Thank you.”

I shake my head. “We’re doing what’s right. We don’t do it to be thanked.”

He hands me one baby. It’s a girl, swaddled in a pink blanket. I hold her closer. Would Baby Salama have been this small? I shudder and we manage to stand carefully. The baby’s face is still, and if I close my eyes, I can pretend she’s sleeping.

“Salama,” Dr. Ziad says, and I look at him. He extends one arm and I gently hand the baby back to him.

“You saved a lot of people today,” he says after a beat of silence. “Without your quick thinking—your gut feeling—I wouldn’t be in front of you now.” He exhales. “I should have known something wasn’t right when my calls to the FSA weren’t going through, but my mind was muddled after yesterday’s attack.”

“We’re only human. No one can expect you to anticipate everything.”

His smile turns sad. “If only my guilty conscience could agree.”

“What are you going to do?” I gesture at the hospital. “Where will the people go?”

His back is hunched, the years catching up to him, and in his eyes I see devastation. He looks around at the destroyed hospital, taking it all in.

“We’ll build a new one,” he whispers. Then he straightens his back and determination burns away the sorrow. “Other cities, like Ghouta, are setting up underground hospitals. We’ll build tunnels and mazes deep in the ground. They can bomb us all they want—we’ll never bow down.”

His resilience humbles me.

“May God keep you safe,” I murmur. I feel I shouldn’t leave Syria without telling him. He’d be worried sick if I just never showed up again. “Doctor, I’m leaving. Tomorrow.”

Surprise flits to sorrow, but there’s no judgment in his eyes. “It was an honor and privilege working with you, Salama. May God keep you alive and well. Please don’t forget us in your prayers.”

The backs of my eyes burn, and I manage to nod. He walks away, still carrying the two bodies as if they were his own children.





Layla’s home is haunting. It’s as if it knows I’m leaving tomorrow.

Kenan limps to the couch as soon as we walk in. We left the hospital site only when we could no longer stand. Kenan hauled debris until his arms shook. He was already weak from the beating he took yesterday, and he suppressed the pain until exhaustion claimed him.

Lama and Yusuf crowd beside him, their faces fearful. I quickly light the candles.

“I’m okay,” Kenan says, closing his eyes and breathing in quick puffs. “I just need a minute.”

“Can someone please get a glass of water?” I open my backpack and rummage through the contents for the Panadol. There’s a strip somewhere.