The sky is now a burst of purple and pink fragmenting through the tangerine orange, the clouds taking on a lavender tinge. ‘You asked me if you could see colours again, Salama. If we deserve to see them,’ Kenan says quietly. ‘I think we do. I think you can. There’s too little of it in death. In pain. But that’s not the only thing in the world. That’s not all that Syria has. Syria was once the centre of the world. Inventions and discoveries were made here; they built the world. Our history is in the Al-Zahrawi Palace, in our mosques, in our earth.’
