As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

by Zoulfa Katouh

We never know if we’ll see each other again. Every moment is a goodbye.

‘Your life is just as important as theirs,’

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

‘That sounds so beautiful, Layla. Very Studio Ghibli.’

Only fabric, layers of skin and placental fluid separate it from the terrors of this world.

With something so deeply entrenched in our roots, change doesn’t come easy. It has a heavy price.’

‘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?

Baba’s dead. Mama said he’s in Heaven. Will I go to Heaven too?’

‘Yes, you will. You’ll see your baba there.’ He smiles gently. ‘Alhamdulillah,’ he whispers.

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

‘This is my country. If I run away – if I don’t defend it, then who will?’

‘And I’m talking about my country. About the freedom I’m so rightly owed. I’m talking about burying Mama and Baba and telling Lama they’ll never come back home. How –’ His voice breaks. ‘How do I leave that? When for the first time in my whole life I’m breathing free Syrian air?’

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.

‘Thank you, Salama, for everything. You’ve not only saved Lama’s life, but you’ve saved mine and Yusuf’s too.’

‘It doesn’t hurt for you to think about your 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.’

‘You see the military beating people up in the streets, dragging them away and murdering them, and you see your kid siblings trying to warm themselves at night, and you think it can’t get any worse. But this, Salama, 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.’

For another moment, we stare at each other, and I finally realise that this boy with the old sweater and the dishevelled brown hair who wears his heart on his sleeve is beautiful. Standing in the middle of this ravaged, torn city, he is beautiful and real.

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The material is soft with wear and I take in his scent. Lemons. I have no idea how, but he smells like the freshest of lemons and it’s a comfort against the panic raging through me.

God, he’s beautiful.

But to us, she’s our life. I can’t leave her.’

He glances at my lips and reads the words I’m too shy to speak. I wish you’d come with me. I wish we could fall in love.

I’ll spend days and nights praying he’s safe.

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.’

Time is a luxury we can’t afford now.

Why? Why is no one helping us? Why are we left to die? How can the world be so cruel?

We will plant new lemon trees. We’ll rebuild our cities, and we will be free.’

The way he’s looking at me makes the air vanish from my alveoli. It’s a look I’ve only read about in books and seen in movies.

I’m intoxicated by the way he’s staring at me. So close, so kind, so beautiful.

‘We’ll be together. But if anything were to happen to me, you save yourself. If you see me get dragged away, you run.

‘How do your eyes always shine so brightly?’ he interrupts.

‘When I first met you, I thought it was a trick of the light. But that isn’t it. This stockroom has horrible lighting, and they still look like melted honey.’

‘This is the price of a future with freedom, Khawf. It’s a price Hamza pays every day. But I’m Syrian. This is my land, and just like the lemon trees that have been growing here for centuries, spilt blood won’t stop us. I have my faith in God. He’ll protect me. I’ve been force-fed oppression, but I will no longer swallow its bitter taste. No matter what.’

It’s unreal to think this has been going on for three hundred and sixty-five days. Time moves differently here. Sorrow does that. Each day is a year, and as each one passes, we hope tomorrow will be better.

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

‘We want freedom! We want freedom! We want freedom!’

‘Salama,’ Kenan says eerily calmly. ‘Don’t panic, and don’t let go of my hand.’

It’s the same sky other people see in their countries. But while we watch it here, hiding, not knowing if our next breath is our last, others sleep safely in their beds, bidding the moon a peaceful goodnight.

‘You can’t do this.’ The words spill out of me like a broken dam, each one tripping over the other. ‘You can’t record the protests any more because I swear to God, Kenan, if you get arrested – if you die – I will never forgive you!’

‘Because you made me fall in love with you!’

‘You can’t do this to me. My heart won’t take it.’

‘I love you too.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ He smiles. ‘You’re my Sheeta.’

‘You’re my Pazu.’

When he opens his palm, a ring sparkles on it. ‘I want to marry you. If you’ll have me.’

‘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 colour 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 any more. 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.’

‘Salama, will you marry me?’

All I know is that I love him and that even in the darkness surrounding us, he’s been my joy. In the midst of all the death, he’s made me want to live.

And then we’re married.