As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

by Zoulfa Katouh

Either we’ll get arrested by the military or a bomb will kill us. There’s nothing to fight for because we can’t fight. No one’s helping us!

No one takes to a rickety boat on the sea if there is another choice.

“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.

It doesn't make a difference. We see how it is in Gaza

“Am I going to die?” he asks, and I see no fear. Do all six-year-olds know what death is? Or is it only children of war?

God, please guide my hand, and let me save this poor girl.

The unrest she was talking about was the government’s kidnapping of fourteen boys—all in their early teens.

We held our heads high and planted lemon trees in acts of defiance,

Ghiath Matar, gives out roses to the army soldiers. He fights guns with flowers.

Any form of protest, peaceful or not, is a threat to the dictatorship.

Hama massacre,”

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.”

If Damascus should ever fall from the dictatorship’s clutches, its grip would vanish from all of Syria.

this is where hope dies. The fact they don’t know what’s going on because how could they? They’re babies. They’re just babies.”

“I know we met yesterday. But I’d like to believe in an alternate universe, where this”—he gestures between us—“would have worked out spectacularly. If there’s anything you or she need, please tell me.”

OMG

They don’t know it’s a revolution. They have no idea we’ve been living in a dictatorship for fifty years. The news shows the military killing people. They don’t know who the Free Syrian Army is. Who the military is.

“Did you hear what happened yesterday in Karam el-Zeitoun?” His voice is hushed, a strangle of pain. My mouth goes dry and I shake my head. “The military… they mass—” He stops, pain glazing his eyes, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “Women and children with slit throats. None left alive. Not a single gunshot.

They’ll kill us all, protestors or not. To them, the idea of freedom is infectious, and we need to be put down before it spreads.

Ibrahim Qashoush was one of the roots of our revolution. A simple man from Hama who penned most of the popular songs that give us the strength to fight on.

If there’s one thing people are scared of, it’s being forgotten. It’s an irrational fear, don’t you think?”

“Empires have collapsed throughout history. They rise, they build, and they fall. Nothing lasts forever. Not even our pain.”

“You want to do this here? Now?” Dr. Ziad asks. His grin is as wide as a crescent moon. I nod. “Our next moments aren’t promised. And you’ve always been like a father to me.”

I wonder how the outside world fares, how they sleep at night knowing we’re being butchered in our sleep. How they allow this to happen.

Karam el-Zeitoun. How just days ago, children were butchered in this exact way. How they must have begged and screamed for their lives. Mere children.

“I almost lost you.” The words come out choked, dry sobs shaking his shoulders. “God, I felt so helpless. When he cut you, I… I can’t bury you, Salama. I can’t.”

“I tried to save them,” he whispers. Tears roll down his cheeks. “I had to choose. The rest are still inside. They killed babies.”

Caught in the haze of hypothermia, I dream of that Syria. 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.

I laugh. “Lemons take time, Kenan. We’re growing a tree. They need patience, just like change does.”

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

But, despite the atrocities my characters have to face, I hope you see them as more than their trauma. They represent every Syrian out there with hopes and dreams, and a life to live. We are owed that life.