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.

“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.”

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.

The Arab proverb has never been truer: The worst of outcomes is what is most hilarious.

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.”

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

I don’t mean to, but I snort. “Where? In Germany? I’m not sure I’ll see colors there like I used to.” And even then, people like me don’t deserve to see them. No matter how much I want to. Kenan stretches each finger, flexes his wrists. “It might be difficult at first. 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.”

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

Kenan bites his lip and says, “I thought you’d say something like that. Salama, you and I live our lives second by second. We might live to ride that boat to Syracuse. We might settle in Munich. We might learn German, paint our apartment in vibrant shades of color we haven’t seen in Homs in a long time, and build a life. An amazing life. You’d become a pharmacist all the hospitals would trip over themselves to hire, and I’d draw our stories. We’d have our own adventures.” He looks away bashfully, stumbling on his words. “We’d write a book. Together. But… we also might not survive these six days. We might be buried here. Anything can happen, and I don’t want to wait anymore. No one knows the future. But I know how I feel. I know how you feel. So let’s find our happiness here in Homs. Let’s get married in our country. Let’s make a home here before we make one somewhere else.”

He smiles. “It might sound cheesy, but 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.”

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

“Know that even in death, you’re my life.” My heart skips a beat. Then another. I have no words to fashion into an everlasting promise that defies the world.

Grief isn’t constant. It wavers, tugging and letting go like the waves on the sea.

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