THE NEXT DAY DR. ZIAD RUSHES TO ME AS SOON AS I walk in. He’s wearing a smile I haven’t seen in a long time.
“Salama!” he exclaims. “We got a medication shipment. Panadol.
Ciprofloxacin. Azithromycin. Even morphine!”
My mouth drops open, my heart lifting until it’s soaring through the clouds. If life were normal, it would have been part of my daily duties to update Dr. Ziad on the medication restock. Dispensing, counseling, and inventory would be my domain. Restocking would be boring at best. Not cause for celebration. “How?”
“The FSA was able to smuggle it,” Dr. Ziad says. He runs a hand through his hair, and there’s a certain hopeful energy coming off him. “We put the boxes in the medication stockroom for you.”
I beam. “I’m on it.” The hospital is brighter today. The patients’ faces, though still tired and pained, show some degree of happiness. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
Before I race off, Dr. Ziad holds out an arm. “You left the hospital a bit suddenly yesterday. Is everything okay? Are you eating well? Sleeping? Do you need anything?”
“I’m all right,” I say. And in this moment, surrounded by patients, it doesn’t feel like a lie. For now, I’m all right. I’m just all right.
If he doesn’t believe me, he doesn’t show it.
To distract him, I tell him about Lama and how the surgery went well.
His face brightens and he praises my quick thinking.
“Well done,” he says, smiling.
I skip to the stockroom, my steps lighter than before, forgetting all about the nightmares that dragged me down last night. Today is a good day. It will be a good day insh’Allah.
The cardboard boxes are wrinkled, the corners squished, but when I open them, the medications are all intact. They’re cool to the touch, and I hug a whole bottle of children’s acetaminophen syrup to my chest. We’ll be able to soothe their fevers.
“I heard we got a restock,” a voice says from the doorway, and I turn around to see Nour. Her round face shines with delight. Nour was part of the custodial staff for three years before she was promptly promoted to a nurse when the first martyrs were wheeled into the hospital. It was from Nour that I first learned how to stitch wounds, fashion makeshift bandages, and drain fluid out of patients’ lungs. Her nerves are made from steel, and her heart is softer than feathers.
I wave a flucloxacillin box. “You heard right!”
She ululates and I laugh. The joy sounds strange against my ears, but I welcome it.
“I have to check on a patient but I needed to see this miracle myself.”
She smiles. “If you need any help, look for me.”
“I will.”
She leaves. I stack the empty shelves for a while, then look up at the
clock. It reads 10:13 a.m.
Kenan.
I told him to be here at nine, but he still hasn’t shown up. To dispel some of the anxiety I’m feeling, I decide to take a quick spin around the hospital.
Maybe he’s here but can’t find me. I casually go from room to room but can’t find him anywhere, so I return to the stockroom. Worry reclaims its place in me and I try not to think of all the reasons he’s not here. His sister is still recovering and she probably needed him. I send a quick prayer for her health to be restored. Maybe I can pass by their apartment with a Panadol strip after my shift. A part of me—a foolish, hopeful part that has somehow survived everything—is happy I’d get to see Kenan again.
I shake my head. This is not the time for my selfish thoughts of a might life and a tall boy with warm, vivid green eyes.
“Good morning,” Kenan says from behind me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
My heart pounds like thunder. I turn around slowly, giving myself time to look calm and collected before he can read all the thoughts written on my face.
The morning chill has coaxed him into wearing a jacket over his old sweater. He leans on the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. His hair is tousled, the ends curling around his ears, and his face is flushed with the cold. An old Canon camera hangs at his side, smudged white at the edges and a bit chipped.
“Good morning,” I answer, commanding my voice to stay calm and not too eager. “You’re late. Is everything okay? How’s Lama?”
He smiles and butterflies flutter in my stomach. “Yes, thank you for asking. Lama’s fever broke, alhamdulillah. Yusuf is doing well too, now that she is. They slept in this morning, and I couldn’t leave before they woke up.”
I fiddle with the antibiotics box in my hands. “Well, I’m glad you’re all good.”
“We are.” He stares at me for a few seconds and I feel the touch of it everywhere.
In our might life where he and I are promised to each other, he’d be standing in front of me now, holding up two fresh halloumi mana’eesh, the melted cheese on the warm bread seeping through the paper wrapping, while supporting two cups of zhoorat tea, the mint leaves filling the air with their freshness. A quick breakfast before we both go on with our day. He’d joke with me and tell me about the dream he had last night. And before he left, he wouldn’t kiss my hand or my cheek because we’re not officially engaged, but he’d give me a smile that feels like he had.
I wonder if he’s thinking that.
He clears his throat. “So, uh, where’s the doctor whose permission I
need?”
I blink. “Right.”
I put down the antibiotics and motion for him to follow me. He falls into step as we walk back through the hallways to the main atrium, where Dr.
Ziad usually is in the morning.
“Okay, listen,” I begin, taking a deep breath, and he glances at me. “I know it was my idea for you to do this, but it doesn’t come without risks.
We live in dangerous times and you don’t know how this might affect you.”
He frowns. “As in someone snitches?”
I nod. “Everyone here—as far as I know—shares your ideals, but those could just be words. So if you don’t want to do this, it’s—”
“I want to,” he interrupts. “I’ve thought about it long and hard. And I told you, it doesn’t matter to the military if you’re recording or not. If you’re healing people or not. We’ll all be tor—we’ll all face the same fate.
And you’re putting yourself in the same danger as I am.”
I shudder. He’s right. As a pharmacist I’d face exactly what Hamza faced. Dr. Ziad would probably have it the worst of us, seeing as he’s the head surgeon.
“So, might as well go down fighting,” Kenan finishes. “I won’t let them own my fears.”
His words strike a chord with me and I quickly look away so he doesn’t
catch my expression.
I won’t let them own my fears.
When we find him, Dr. Ziad is beside a man whose arms and legs are heavily wrapped with bandages and whose left eye is swollen shut. He’s lying on a bed, alone, staring vacantly ahead. We wait until Dr. Ziad is finished checking up on him.
When he turns toward us, he’s smiling sadly.
“Uh, Dr. Ziad, do you have a moment?” I ask, trying not to look at the injured man.
He glances from me to Kenan. “Sure.” He nods and leads us into what functions as his office and an extra room for high-risk patients. There are two patient beds propped against the wall; Dr. Ziad’s desk is cluttered with stray papers. Light filters in from the yellow-tinted window.
“Something I can help with?” he asks after closing the door.
I catch hold of the ends of my hijab. “Dr. Ziad, this is Kenan. The boy
whose sister needed my help.”
“How is she?” Dr. Ziad asks Kenan.
“Good, alhamdulillah. Thanks to Salama’s effort. She’s brilliant.” He smiles at me, and my internal temperature rises a few degrees.
“We’re very lucky to have her,” the doctor agrees.
“That’s very kind of both of you to say,” I murmur, feeling self- conscious. Then, in a louder voice, I continue, “Doctor, Kenan here”—I look at him and he nods—“he records the protests, and I was wondering if he could also record the patients coming in, to document their stories so the whole world can see what’s happening.”
“And I’d like your permission, sir,” Kenan says.
Dr. Ziad looks interested and he scratches his chin, thinking. The wrinkles around his eyes are more pronounced, the crow’s feet digging deeper.
“You have my permission,” he says. “If you’re doing individual stories, you’ll need their approval first. But if a large bombing happens and they bring in the victims, show it all.”
Kenan grins as he shakes Dr. Ziad’s hand, thanking him. Dr. Ziad bids us goodbye before leaving to complete his rounds.
“I like him.” Kenan stares after Dr. Ziad admiringly.
“He’s a superhero.” There’s no word to describe Dr. Ziad other than that.
“Yalla. Let me show you around the hospital.”
Kenan’s eyes light up with an equal amount of sadness and happiness, and the effect of it plays on my silly notions of hope. On that might life. He listens intently to every word I say as I explain the different departments and how we divide the patients based on the severity of their cases. I tell him about the more common cases we have. Sometimes the shock of seeing bloodied bodies, especially the children shot by snipers, is enough to make me break down. I don’t tell him about the many times that has happened.
How often I’ve had to rush out of the hospital and vomit.
We pass the maternity ward on our way back to the main hall.
“This is where the pregnant women stay. We can’t use any sedatives on them because we wouldn’t have enough for surgeries. We’ve lost—some didn’t make it. The worst is when the mother dies but the baby lives. The babies are there.” I point toward the other room adjacent to the hall.
He grimaces in sympathy and turns around, sees the babies inside.
“They’re in incubators?”
“Yes. I—um—I don’t like coming here. Seeing them so small and defenseless, it’s too much. Some were pulled out of their mothers’ wombs and need the incubators to survive. Others are a few months old and sick.”
“What happens when they get better?”
I grimace. “The lucky ones have family. The others either stay here until an orphanage can take them…” I shudder. “I don’t want to bury babies.”
My heart races.
Lotus. Pinkish leaves. Stabilizes blood pressure. Heals inflammations.
Lotus. Lotus. Lotus.
When he doesn’t say anything, I glance at him. His eyes are still glued to
the metal boxes, the ones keeping the babies alive, and a flicker of emotion passes across his face. He grits his teeth, and a vein flexes on his neck.
“You feel helpless, Salama. But I…” His tone is quiet but livid. “No one deserves this. Here babies are starving, while in cities like Damascus people are throwing away their leftover lunch because they’re full.”
I can feel him shaking without touching him. I don’t spare much thought for the people in Damascus, where a few protests were quickly squashed under the boot of the government and people returned to their “normal” lives. If Damascus should ever fall from the dictatorship’s clutches, its grip would vanish from all of Syria. Damascus is the capital. Every decision made there has effects that ripple all over the country. She is their stronghold. Victories for our ancestors throughout history are embedded in her soil. But she belongs to the people who are laying down their lives to free her.
It amazes me how there’s only a two-and-a-half-hour drive between Homs and Damascus. In one city, people are being pulled from the ruins of bombed-out buildings, and in the other, people sit in cafés drinking coffee and laughing. I try not to think about that. I have distant family there. As do most people in Homs. In the end, we’re all somewhat related.
“There’s no use being angry about that,” I say sadly. “We all have different paths to walk. For what it’s worth, at least we’re doing the right thing.”
He taps his fist against his forehead a few times. “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 remember Ahmad, the way his body was hollowed out like a shell. His labored breaths and the vast calm in his eyes as he accepted death. He was also just a baby.
Kenan’s not done either. “Salama, that’s not even the worst part. How can you guarantee the bombs won’t hit the hospital? How—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. He faces me and catches the terror on my face.
“Don’t say it.”
He shudders, nodding.
This time, we’re both thinking the same horrible thoughts.
That our days at the hospital are numbered. That it’s only the Free Syrian Army in Old Homs who are defending us against the military. We are surrounded from all corners and the sky. Any day now the military could drop a bomb and obliterate this flimsy shelter of ours to fragments.
That if, God forbid, Layla gives birth here with no hospital, her chances of survival would be almost nonexistent. That is, if everything else doesn’t get her first.
My eyes dart all over, searching for Khawf, waiting for him to threaten me or magnify the fears as a punishment for not finding Am first thing this morning. But he isn’t here. Kenan follows my gaze, his sadness changing to
confusion.
“What are you looking for?”
“No one,” I answer rather too quickly.
“No one?” he repeats, and I chastise myself.
“Nothing,” I amend. “I mean nothing.” Before he can say anything, I continue, “I have to go. You know where the patients are.”
He opens his mouth, reconsiders, and then nods.
I turn away from his bewildered expression, walking fast. I don’t go back to the stockroom but head toward the main atrium to search for Am.
It’s the same as I left it, patients strewn all over, surrounded by what’s left of their families. Those without anyone break my heart the most. I scan the gaunt faces but Am is nowhere to be found.
I sigh, rubbing my arms, and think about checking the other rooms, when muffled voices leak through the closed entrance doors. Gooseflesh erupts all over my skin and my body stands on alert.
The doors burst open and an avalanche of people swarms in, blood soaking their clothes and dripping to the floor. Limp bodies are being carried in rescuers’ arms; shouting and yells clang against the ceiling. I know they’re victims from a sniper attack when I see no dismembered
limbs but blood fountaining out.
And they’re all children.
From the crowd, Am runs in, carrying a bleeding little girl in his arms.
His face is torn with anguish and fear.
“My daughter!” he yells to anyone who will listen. “Help me!”
Khawf stands beside me now and presses a finger I don’t feel to my
forehead. A horrible thought comes to life.
“Do it,” he says, and Layla’s tearstained face flashes in my mind.
