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.”

“Auntie—don’t cry—when I go to Heaven—I’ll tell God—everything,” he chokes out. I look up, and his face has gone still. His eyes are glassy, and it looks like little stars are caught in his blue irises.

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.

With whatever is left of my heart, I love Kenan and the hope he’s given me, and I’m not ready to let go of him.

Tears in my eyes omg

“Insh’Allah, we will come back home. We will plant new lemon trees. We’ll rebuild our cities, and we will be free.”

“Because I might be arrested?” His voice breaks. “Because you made me fall in love with you!” I retort, my heart beating harshly.

whisper, “You can’t do this to me. My heart won’t take it.” He lowers his arm, eyes shining. “I love you too.”

My heart

“I want to marry you. If you’ll have me.”

I stare at him. With every other situation in my life, I dissect all outcomes to the bone before deciding. But with this? The decision is as easy as breathing. It feels like how peace probably does.

“You know I’m in Heaven. You know I’m safe and happy. So is Baby Salama.”

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. There’s reverence and awe in his tone. In his touch. In his eyes. “So beautiful.”

“Layla,” I murmur, watching the first stars begin to twinkle. “Mama. Baba. I hope Hamza is with you. I imagine you’re all sitting beside one another laughing and eating and drinking. I love you and miss you so much. But… I don’t want to join you just yet. I want you to meet Kenan later. When he and I have grown old and had a lifetime together. I still have more in me. I can still go on. I know I can. Because I know that’s what you’d want me to do.”

I am sobbing

“Know that even in death, you’re my life.”

“Have faith, my love,” he whispers.

“Salama, love of my life. My sky, my sun, my moon, and my stars, would you grant this mortal wish of mine?”

Yes.

He smiles sadly. “Because you’re human. Because no matter what, you have a heart so soft it easily bruises. Because you feel.”

“You’ve grown this past year, Salama. I’m rooting for you, you know. You’ve overcome so many struggles and I’m humbled by them. You might not consider me a friend, but I think of you as one.”

A Syria whose soul isn’t chained in iron, held captive by those who love to hurt her and her children. A Syria Hamza fought and bled for. A Syria Kenan dreams about and illustrates. A Syria Layla wanted to raise her daughter in. A Syria I would have found love and life and adventure in. A Syria where, at the end of a long life, I’d return to the ground that raised me. A Syria that’s my home.

It reminds me that as long as the lemon trees grow, hope will never die.