As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

by Zoulfa Katouh

“Te’eburenee, we’ll be okay. Insha’Allah,” she whispers, wrapping one arm around my shoulders and squeezing me to her. Bury me before I bury you.

“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.”

ears. All I hear, stuck on repeat like a broken cassette: I will tell God everything.

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.

future. We don’t have to stop living because we might die. Anyone might die at any given moment, anywhere in the world. We’re not an exception. We just see death more regularly than they do.”

“Promise me you’ll look for the joy.” She smiles sadly. “The memories are sweeter that way.”

Time is the best medicine to turn our bleeding wounds to scars, and our bodies might forget the trauma, our eyes might learn to see colors as they should be seen, but that cure doesn’t extend to our souls. It doesn’t. Time doesn’t forgive our sins,

“We are stripped from our choices, so we latch onto what will ensure our survival.”

Fear is a cruel thing. The way it distorts thoughts, transforming them from molehills into mountains.

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.

No one will remember our names. No one will know our story.