As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow (95)

I close my eyes briefly. Please let them kill us.

Kenan tilts his head, trying to muster any ounce of pride. I squeeze his hand, begging him silently to let this slide. “I was jumped,” he replies in a forced polite tone.

“They got you good, didn’t they?” the soldier asks.

Kenan’s jaw flexes. “Yes.”

“You sure it wasn’t because you were protesting and got what you deserved?” the soldier says offhandedly, and horror almost stops my heart. Yusuf and Lama become statues. Even Am jolts upright before twisting in his seat.

“I wouldn’t have criminals in my car,” he says as if the very idea offends him.

Kenan’s face betrays nothing, but I can feel how tense he is. “Yes.”

“How about I search through your things to make sure none of you are a threat to this country?” the soldier asks.

We’re carrying nothing that would incriminate us, but it won’t matter to him. If he wanted, he could pass the lemons off as bombs. Claim the USB stick containing my family photos is filled with classified information.

But I know what the soldier is doing. Torture isn’t only physical.

My hands tremble as I hold up my bag, and I resign myself to this fate.

I’ll never see the Mediterranean Sea.

He snatches it and unzips it, then shakes it out violently, everything inside crashing and rolling away. Thankfully my passport, school certificate, and gold are hidden in the small pocket. He makes no comment on the strangeness of what I’ve packed for visiting family. He knows where we’re actually headed.

“All clear,” he says lazily, dropping the bag on the ground. “Get your shit.”

I throw Kenan a glance before opening the door and bending down to collect my discarded belongings.

Humiliation burns through me. My jeans are smeared with dirt and sharp pebbles prick my hands. One lemon has tumbled under the car. After grabbing it, I straighten up, pushing down the hatred in my eyes. The soldier rests one arm over the open door, his eyes roaming me from head to toe. Revulsion threatens to choke me.

I tentatively sit back down and he slams the door so forcefully we all jump.

“Give me the money,” he says to Am, and Am needn’t be told twice.

The soldier counts the bills, satisfied, and tucks them in his breast pocket. He reaches through my opened window and lightly tugs at the end of my hijab. It slips a bit, my bangs falling out.

“You’d be prettier without it.” He smiles, cocking his head to the side, expecting an answer. And from the way Kenan moves, I know he’s at his boiling point—about to do something reckless—and I have to intervene.

“Thank you,” I manage, wanting nothing more than to claw the guard’s eyes out.

“Have fun with your… family,” the soldier says and slaps the back of the car.

Am steps on the gas and the tires screech, dust billowing behind as we race off.

Once we’re far enough away, we let out a collective breath and I shudder, tucking my bangs in.

“Are you okay?” Kenan immediately asks me, and I nod, eyes closed, before resting my head on his shoulder and linking my arm through his.

“I’m fine,” I whisper. “Nothing matters as long as we get out.”

“That was a close one.” Am fumbles in his pocket, takes out another crumpled cigarette.

“How many borders are left?” I ask, breathing in Kenan’s lemon scent.

“Fifteen to twenty.”

Kenan takes in a sharp breath and I groan.

“Don’t worry. That one is usually the toughest because it’s the first after leaving Homs. The rest are closer to one another and they’re a… bit more lenient.”

I almost snort at the unconvincing tone he’s used and roll the window up, not wanting to risk a cold.

“How come you’ve never tried to get out?” I ask Am bluntly.

“None of your business.”

I glare at him in the small mirror, and he glares back.

“I make good money here, okay? The refugee business is booming.”

I give him a disgusted look.

“Whatever,” he mutters, knowing exactly what’s going through my mind. “You can call me whatever you want, but it’s the truth.”

The more borders we pass, the more anxious we get. At one, we’re made to wait for two hours. At another, Am gets patted down and I’m harassed. Later, Kenan gets mocked and insulted. And at the last one, a soldier heavily implies that he’s going to take Lama away. Only her.

“She’s pretty for a girl so young.” The soldier leers and Kenan’s face turns as white as a sheet.

Lama wedges herself against Kenan, her thin arms shivering.

Am manages to distract the soldier with a few questions about the Syrian economy. Eventually he lets us go and Am peers at Lama from the rearview mirror.

“You all right?” he asks her. Lama curls into Kenan’s lap to hug him. Tremors run along him as he holds her like his life depends on it. There’s pity in Am’s eyes. Lama is about the same age as Samar.

After that last checkpoint, it takes us an hour of driving nonstop to finally reach Tartus. With the front window cracked a bit, we smell the sea before we see it.

The Mediterranean Sea.

Just on the other side, safety—not freedom. I’m leaving freedom behind, and I can feel the earth’s grief when I get out of the car. The tired weeds try to encircle my ankles, begging me to stay. They murmur stories about my ancestors. The ones who stood right where I stand. The ones whose discoveries and civilization encompassed the whole world. The ones whose blood runs through my veins. My footprints sink deep into the soil where theirs have long since been washed away. They plead with me: It’s your country. This earth belongs to me and my children.