As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

by Zoulfa Katouh

But then, perhaps, even without evidence, a sliver of a chance at survival is better than living at the mercy of genocide.

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

Indecision is a poison germinating in my blood vessels.

‘Your life is just as important as theirs,’ he interrupts, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. ‘Your. Life. Is. Just. As. Important.’ I close my eyes, trying to hold on to his words, trying to believe them; but each time I try to catch the letters, they vanish from my grasp.

‘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.’

It’s as if we’re floating in the cosmos, detached from everything weighing us down.

The sunset is gorgeous, but it pales in comparison to him. He’s drenched in the dying day’s glow, a kaleidoscope of shades dancing on his face.

A colour so stark it would stain my fingers were I to touch it.

In a historic city plagued by bombs, life has persisted. I see it in the green vines waking up from their winter slumber, squirming through the rubble. Daffodils blooming, their petals opening bashfully.

‘I’ve thought so much about the time stolen from us,’ he whispers, and I nearly sigh. His voice is so close. ‘If things weren’t like they are, we’d be long married. I would take you all over Syria on a road trip. We’d visit every city and village. See the history that lives in our country. I’d kiss you on the beaches of Latakia, pick flowers for you in Deir ez-Zor, take you to my family home in Hama, have a picnic under the ruins of Palmyra. People would look at us and they’d think how they’ve never seen two people more in love.’

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

The boat starts to rock away gently, the waves lapping against its body, trying to find holes through which to enter.

can see history woven between his irises. ‘Everywhere. Since the beginning of time, I have awoken in people’s hearts. I’ve been given many names in countless languages. In yours, I’m Khawf. In English, Fear. In German, Angst.

you have a heart so soft, it easily bruises.

No one cares about a bunch of Syrian refugees stranded in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. We aren’t the first or the last people to do this. So what if a hundred or so meet their deaths? It’ll make a nice headline to spur a small protest or donation campaign before we’re forgotten again like foam on the sea. No one will remember our names. No one will know our story.

We weave distractions between the bouts of agony. Reminding the other we’re still here.

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