As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

by Zoulfa Katouh

We will come back home one day

‘We fight while we’re still here, Salama, because this is our country. 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.’

Gold is passed on through our families. Deep beneath its glittering surface, it holds our history and stories in its thick braided strands.

I wanted to take these experiences and write children’s books with pages etched in magic and words that whisk the reader away to other realms.

‘And don’t forget to pray. Prayers are answered when rain falls,’ she reminds me.

Do all six-year-olds know what death is? Or is it only children of war?

‘Auntie – don’t cry – when I go to Heaven – I’ll tell God – everything,’ he chokes out.

‘How do I leave that? When for the first time in my whole life I’m breathing free Syrian air?’

For my entire life – my whole nineteen years – I’ve known no other. I’d be cutting out my heart by leaving. This land is me and I am her. My history, my ancestors, my family. We’re all here.’

Like she has one foot in the afterlife and one foot here.

It doesn’t. Time doesn’t forgive our sins, and it doesn’t bring back the dead.

Please, God, let him die. Let him find that peace.

‘I would split a vein for Syria. If my blood could save her. If my death would bring our people their justice, I wouldn’t … There’s no question about it.’

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.

‘Salama, you’ve done everything. The rest is up to God. To fate. If you’re meant to be in Munich, you will be, even if the whole military rips this place apart. And if you’re not, then not even a private plane landing in the middle of Freedom Square to whisk you away will do that.’

‘Bury me before I bury you,’

Please don’t forget us in your prayers.’

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

And in those final hours of our time in Homs, my bruised heart quietly heals. Cell by cell.

We don’t blink; we don’t look away until we can’t see her any more.

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

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

To S.K. Ali for all that you do for us. Thank you, thank you, thank you for Zayneb and Adam. Thank you for all your kind messages about Lemon Trees. They mean the world!

To Sabaa Tahir, whose existence makes the world a better place. We’re all so blessed to be able to read your stories. Thank you for extending a helping hand to a bébé like me. To Hafsah Faizal, who welcomed me in her DMs, answering question after question. Thank you for your patience – for all that you do.

To Suzanne Collins for the blueprint that is Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. Without Everlark, there would be no Lemonblossom.

Lastly, but most importantly, I thank the One Whose Eyes don’t sleep for watching over me, guiding me with His Gentle Hand and giving my heart the peace and pride it feels. To You, I owe it all.

This is for the love story they are owed.

‘In this eye of the storm, his words come alive in my mind. I see us strolling around Berlin, hand in hand, while he balances his art supplies on his shoulder. I’d pick carnations from the local florist and fashion them into a crown. On certain days, when the sun shines through the clouds, rays scattering over the fields, it would remind us of Homs. Of home.’ – from As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow, Chapter 34