As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

by Zoulfa Katouh

For every life I can’t save during my shift, one more drop of blood becomes a part of me. No matter how many times I wash my hands, our martyrs’ blood seeps beneath my skin, into my cells. By now it’s probably encoded in my DNA.

It didn’t matter that I was eighteen years old. It didn’t matter that my medical experience was confined to the words in my textbooks. All of that was remedied as the first body was laid out before me to be stitched up. Death is an excellent teacher.

This is the land of your father, and his father before him. Your history is embedded in this soil. No country in the world will love you as yours does.”

Every moment is a goodbye.

“Don’t focus on the darkness and sadness,” she says, and I glance up at her. She smiles warmly. “If you do, you won’t see the light even if it’s staring you in the face.”

His eyes are glassy, and it looks like little stars are caught in his blue irises.

We held our heads high and planted lemon trees in acts of defiance, praying that when they came for us, it’d be a bullet to the head. Because that was far more merciful than what awaited in the bowels of their prison system.

When I leave, it won’t be easy. It’s going to shred my heart to ribbons and all the pieces will be scattered along Syria’s shore, with the cries of my people haunting me till the day I die.

No matter what happens, you remember that this world is more than the agony it contains. We can have happiness, Salama. Maybe it doesn’t come in a cookie-cutter format, but we will take the fragments and we will rebuild it.”

The world might be too loud or too silent. It might be neon bright or pitch black, but slowly, it’ll put itself back together. It will resemble something normal. Then you’ll see the colors, Salama.”

“But—but how will you fight?” I ask. He grins and nods to his left arm. “I still have another one, don’t I?”

We return to reality with trembling hands and nervous eyes cast upward. And when I look at him, I see that pain. He and I will never be able to write a book together.

I’ve been force-fed oppression, but I will no longer swallow its bitter taste.

“Our next moments aren’t promised. And you’ve always been like a father to me.” His exhaustion vanishes and he looks ten years younger. “It would be my honor to officiate.”

“And you married him,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “I did.” “Why? He’s always on his laptop. Sometimes I have to yell three times before he hears me.”

“Don’t go,” I beg. “Please.” She takes my hands in hers and kisses my knuckles. “You have a family now, Salama. You’re not alone.”

He and I are owed a love story that doesn’t end in tragedy.

I’m sure our souls met way before they found their way into our bodies. I think that’s where we know each other from.”