As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

by Zoulfa Katouh

I know that the military siege inflicted on us is a death sentence. That our food supplies are diminishing and we’re starving. I know the hospital is about to reach a point any day now at which medications will become a myth.

the Arab Spring sparked across the region, Syria grabbed the hope awakening in the masses and called for freedom. The dictatorship responded by unleashing hell.

Insha’Allah,” she whispers, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and squeezing me to her. Bury me before I bury you. I did.

“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.”

“I’m saying what’s happening now, as horrible as it is, isn’t the end of the world. Change is difficult, and it’s different depending on what needs to be changed.

“Don’t you think the Syrian dictatorship is more like a cancer that has been growing in Syria’s body for decades, and the surgery, despite the risks, is better than submitting to the cancer? With something so deeply entrenched in our roots, change doesn’t come easy. It has a heavy price.”

I wish we were being broadcast live on every channel and smartphone in the world so everyone could see what they’re allowing to happen to children.

The government was an open wound, hemorrhaging our resources for their own gain with their greed and bribery, and yet we persisted.

Syria was once the center of the world. Inventions and discoveries were made here; they built the world. Our history is in the Al-Zahrawi Palace, in our mosques, in our earth.”

Syria isn’t just what we’re standing on. It’s Lama growing up, reaching her teens with her two big brothers right there with her. It’s Yusuf getting the highest grades and telling everyone about the lemon trees in Homs.

“Salam,” he whispers, and then he’s gone. Life comes back to the world, the leaves rustle. And I’m left yearning for more.

What

But I’m Syrian. This is my land, and just like the lemon trees that have been growing here for centuries, spilled blood won’t stop us. I have my faith in God. He’ll protect me. I’ve been force-fed oppression, but I will no longer swallow its bitter taste. No matter what.”

“Every lemon will bring forth a child and the lemons will never die out.”

My head scar and everything it represents—my grief, my PTSD—has created layers in my subconscious that I never thought were possible.