“DO YOU EVER STOP STUDYING?” SHAHED ASKED, AND I looked up from the Medical Terminology textbook I was reading.
It was a week before my first-term university exams and Shahed, Rawan, Layla, and I had decided to visit a café downtown after classes. The streets were bustling with people. The tables outside and inside the restaurants were crowded with families enjoying an early dinner of every Syrian dish imaginable. Kibbeh barbecued on coal, lamb chops skewered to perfection, tabbouleh, wara’a enab, freshly squeezed oranges picked from the countryside. There were a few passersby who looked like they were hard on their luck. Tattered clothes and gaunt faces, their hands outstretched, begging. But most people walked by without glancing at them.
We were craving sweets and we all ordered two dishes each. Every inch of our table was covered in dessert. I ordered a booza and rez bhaleeb. The booza had to be eaten fast as the ice cream was beginning to melt despite the cool breeze. The latter, the sweetest rice pudding with orange blossom water drizzled on top, was the perfect conclusion to a long day at university.
High school had always been demanding, but it was the equivalent of learning the alphabet compared to my first year in pharmacy. The difference was astounding and yet all that separated them was a summer vacation.
“Seriously, stop studying!” Rawan joined in, shaking her spoon at me.
“Enjoy the weather. The food.”
I frowned. “I can’t. I have an exam Monday morning and if I don’t know the difference between an ulna and a humerus, I’m failing.”
“I’ll break your ulna and humerus,” Shahed muttered.
I crossed my arms. “Scientific names for body parts are difficult! I will fail!”
“You’re so dramatic, drama queen.” Layla rolled her eyes. She picked up the chilled lemonade, her diamond ring glittering. “You always say that and then end up getting the highest grade.”
“Yeah, everyone stopped believing you by the time we were twelve,”
Rawan said. Then she imitated my voice: “Oh my God. The exam was so difficult. I couldn’t answer anything. I have no idea if I’m going to pass or not—”
I bit back a grin. “That’s so not how I s—”
“It totally is,” Shahed said through a mouthful of her halawet eljebn.
“And then you pass and get certificates of honor while we sit here contemplating your murder.”
I closed my textbook and dropped it onto the table rather forcefully, and the glass bowls jumped. I also startled a few people sitting around us. In particular, one boy with messy chestnut-brown hair. He looked up, blinking.
I blushed at the commotion I’d caused, and our eyes met before I hastily looked away.
Those were the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m not studying.”
I spent the rest of that afternoon trying not to look over at the boy with the greenest eyes, who was busy on his laptop. He was alone and there was a large plate with four servings of knafeh on the table. I did a double take, amazed that someone would be able to eat all of that and not fall into a sugar coma.
I tried commanding my brain not to look, but my traitorous eyes refused to listen and I caught snapshots of him in the milliseconds my gaze would stray toward him. He looked my age. Maybe a year older. Cute. I wanted to push back the hair falling over his eyes so he could see his laptop screen better.
On the seventh glance, he suddenly raised his head and looked directly at me, our eyes locking for the second time. My cheeks burned and, in that moment, a lifetime was born. There was a delicate look in his eyes, a curious interest in the way his lips curved upward, and I— I wake up with a jolt, gulping in air. My hair is plastered to my neck with sweat, and my eyelids feel heavy with leftover tears. I shiver when I get out of bed, the cool morning air freezing my bones.
Was that a dream or a memory? I shake my head, unable to find the
energy to make out the truth. I don’t have the time. I get dressed and don’t eat the stale bread Layla passes me but stuff it in my bag along with the five hundred dollars.
When I get to the hospital, Am’s in the same clothes as yesterday, his back hunched as he sits beside his sleeping daughter. The main atrium still nurses the wounded from yesterday’s sniper attack. The stench of festering lesions and rusted blood reeks but I don’t gag. Not anymore.
“Am,” I say shortly, avoiding looking at Samar.
He turns. There are shadows under his eyes and he’s in need of a shave.
He looks as if he’s aged ten years, and I ignore the guilt burning behind my
eyes.
“How is she?” I croak.
He fixes me with a hard look. “Better. She can’t move her neck yet, but she’s going home today. Not enough beds here.”
“I… I see. She has to hold on for a bit until we can remove the sutures.”
“I know. Did you bring everything?”
I look around but I don’t spot Dr. Ziad or Kenan, so I take out the wad of bills and quickly pass it to him. His gaze creases with concentration as he counts, and then it turns ugly.
“What are you playing at here, Salama?” he says with a hiss. “This is only five hundred dollars. And where’s the gold? Are you tricking me?”
I straighten my back, digging my hands in my pockets. “No. I’ll give you the rest when you take us to the boat.”
He stares at me for a second before barking out a laugh. A few heads turn our way, and I clutch my stomach to curb my panic. They look away, each too engrossed in their own worries to care about a laughing man.
“I keep underestimating you. All right, there’s a boat coming in a month.
It’s a standard route, one taken many times. Through the Mediterranean to Syracuse, where a bus will drive you to Munich. You’ll be setting sail near Tartus. I’ll drive you there myself.”
It all sounds simple enough, though it’s far from that. Tartus, which overlooks the Mediterranean, was once an hour away from Homs. But that was without the new borders and the military swarming the route like poisonous ants. Now it takes hours. All I know about Syracuse is that it’s on Italy’s coast and that Munich is a city in Germany. I have no idea how far they are from each other.
“How will we get to Tartus with all the checkpoints?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the terror behind it.
He shrugs. “Don’t worry about the military. That’s where the money comes in. I’ve never been detained before.”
A headache, the result of the never-ending stress, originates in the center of my brain, producing a dull throb. This journey feels impossible.
Germany and Italy feel impossible. As of now, they’re just words I’ve read in books and heard on the news. I can’t even picture them in my mind.
I clear my throat. “Why does the boat need four weeks? Isn’t there one sooner? Layla will be in her eighth month.”
He clicks his tongue. “It’s returning in a few days, but it’ll take some time before it reaches port here. The men will need to make sure everything is working well. Besides, you’re not the only one who’ll be sailing on it. I’ll know more within a week or so. These things take time.”
Helpless. I feel helpless and shackled to events I can’t control. Ones that determine Layla’s fate.
The hospital’s doors slide open, and I stand on alert, ready to witness another lifeless body, but it’s only Kenan. His eyes are sparkling and he’s wearing a different sweater under the worn-out brown jacket. His camera swings at his side. My heart catches at the sight of him.
I know I could easily love him. In a might life with the fantasies I orchestrated for myself, it would be so easy to fall for his lopsided smile and passionate dreams. I think about Layla’s words. I wonder if it’s worth finding happiness in Homs before I leave. Or if that happiness will lead to heartbreak and losing someone I might want to share my life with.
Layla can preach about a rosy world, but Khawf and his cynicism are the reality.
When Kenan’s eyes fall on me, he smiles, his whole face brightening like the sun on a spring day, and my heart speeds up.
“Wait a minute,” I tell Am absently.
“What about my Panadol?” he protests.
“I’ll get it for you. One minute,” I say, not taking my eyes off Kenan as I hurry over to him.
His smile deepens when I’m in front of him, and my heart won’t calm
down.
“We need to talk,” I say breathlessly.
His expression turns serious at my anxious tone, and he follows me to an empty corner on the other side of the atrium. He maintains a respectable distance from me, but not so far that I wouldn’t be able to whisper.
I cut to the chase. “There’s a way for you and your siblings to leave Syria.”
He blinks, taken aback, and his brows furrow.
“I’m… I’m leaving,” I say.
Two words are enough to shatter whatever flimsy illusion we’d built
between us.
“Oh” is all he says.
One syllable in a broken voice is all it takes for the hope to shrivel in my soul. Khawf was right. There’s no happiness here.
He examines his boots, unease written in his expression, but I know he’s not judging me. He knows the terror. He lives it every day.
I bite my cheek. “A boat will leave in a month for Italy. I can negotiate three seats for you and your siblings. You don’t have to kill yourself for this cause.”
He swallows hard once. Twice. A vein pulses on his neck, and an array of emotions flit across his face. Sadness, hurt, guilt, relief.
Finally he says, “I know this is asking a lot, but I’d feel a lot better sending my siblings alone if you’re there with them. You wouldn’t have to do anything, just make sure they get to Italy. My uncle can meet them
there.”
“Kenan, listen—”
He shakes his head. “Salama, please. Please don’t ask me to leave. I have to show the world what’s happening.”
His words are certain but his face has settled on one emotion. Fear. The toll of yesterday’s massacre has clearly done more damage to his resolve than the whole year combined. He’s grasping at straws, choosing to deliberately turn away from the horrific truth that’ll cost him more than his life. Conflict creates a storm in his irises, and I think I can read the dark truth at its epicenter. He wants to leave but the guilt is what’s holding him back. His duty to his country. I remember my hallucination of a broken Hamza and wonder when it’ll become Kenan’s reality.
Over his shoulder, I see Am staring at me, interested, and I snap back to Kenan. His shoulders are hunched, and I see the same misery I feel
reflected in him.
“I’ll keep my promise to Baba like that,” he mumbles, and it seems it’s more directed to himself than me.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know who told you that leaving is the cowardly thing to do, but it’s not. Saving yourself from people who want to murder you isn’t cowardly.”
He shakes his head. “It all comes down to one truth, Salama. This land is my home. I don’t have another one. Leaving is a death in itself.”
I ball my hands into fists. I’ve already died. I died the day Baba and Hamza were taken. I died the day Mama was murdered. I die every single day that I can’t save a patient, and I died yesterday when I held a little girl’s life hostage. Maybe in Germany some piece of me can be revived.
“The boat costs one thousand dollars per person,” I say. “Well, usually it’s two thousand, but I can bargain. Can you afford that?”
“Yes,” he immediately replies.
I nod. “You have a month, Kenan,” I say in a low voice. “If you don’t change your mind, I’ll make sure your siblings get to Italy, but know that I’m one girl and the road is dangerous. I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety.”
With that, I turn on my heel, catching one last glimpse of his shocked face before I go to the stockroom and fetch Am’s Panadol strip from my
bag.
“Two extra seats,” I tell him.
Am frowns. “What?”
“I need two extra seats. Two thousand dollars.”
He lets out a short laugh. “No. That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It is now,” I snap. “They’re children. They won’t be taking up much space.”
He stares at me stonily and I return it.
I fold my arms. “The gold necklace is worth more now. Probably at least three people. You’re also getting an extra two thousand dollars. Not to mention the Panadol. I think you’re profiting very well from me.”
His mouth curls into a sneer. “Fine. But I swear to God, Salama, if you don’t hold up your end of the bargain, I will make you watch the boat leave while the military drags your sister away.”
My grip tightens on my lab coat. I don’t doubt his threat for a second and I want to claw at his face for daring to bring Layla into this. Instead, I
try to answer in a steady tone, “I know.”
“Good. Tell your friend to bring half of the money tomorrow.”
Only hours later, a bomb filled with shrapnel hits an apartment building and the victims are carted into the hospital in fragments. The floors soon become slick with blood and the fresh metallic smell overtakes the stale air.
I work steadily, picking out the pieces of debris wedged between flesh and bone. I bandage and soothe. I close milky-white eyes with shaking fingers, and I murmur prayers for the martyrs’ souls. I work until my limbs protest with exhaustion and then I work even harder. Anything to shut out what I did yesterday. Each person laid out in front of me is Samar and each one I don’t save is Ahmad.
I don’t feel the time passing. Not until my brachii muscles scream and I let my scalpel clatter to the medical basin. It clangs loudly, spraying flecks of blood over my lab coat. My arms shake and my neck feels stiff. When I look up, my eyes cross and I sway a bit.
“Whoa!” I hear someone exclaim, and a hand grabs my arm before I collapse on the floor.
I see two Kenans wavering above me. Their hair sticks up from all sides, a sheen of sweat glistening on their foreheads and worry coating their eyes.
“Salama?” they ask, their voice distant and echoey. “Oh my God.”
I blink and Kenan’s one face refocuses. He’s near, so near. He looks up, searching the atrium for help, and I’m suddenly aware he’s half supporting me, one hand on my back. My feet find the ground, and it gives me the boost I need to push myself up and away from him. The lingering heat of his fingers is still pressed against my back, burning through the fabric into my skin.
“I’m sorry.” He raises his hands, embarrassed and pink. “You were falling and I—”
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice raspy and throat rough. From misuse, from tightening its muscles the whole day, I don’t know. I look around and all I see is red and gray, figures slumped over one another and the miasma of
despair clinging to the air. My head feels light from the lack of food and exhaustion, and I sway once again.
“Salama!” Kenan extends an arm and I hold on to it, my stomach twisting. I’m choking on the blood my hands are soaked in and I turn around to wash it away. My clothes stick to me like a second skin, and I need my brain to stop shouting at me.
“I need—” I say, then stop, feeling like I’m about to vomit.
He nods, quickly steering me away through the patients and flinging the front doors open. I’m confronted with the late winter wind, freezing the sweat on my face.
I’m supporting myself on his arm, gripping him tightly, trying to breathe through my nose and focus on anything but the gnawing sound of amputated bones.
Peonies. Fragrant flowers. A tonic from the petals can be used as a muscle relaxant. Peonies. Peonies. Peonies.
My legs still can’t carry me and I almost trip, but Kenan’s arm slips under mine, hauling me upward so my cheek is pressed against his jacket.
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.
I’ve never been held close by a boy before, certainly not one I might actually like. Not someone to whom, in a might life, I would be married by now. I glance up at him. He’s staring straight ahead. A faint, light brown scruff dusts his jaw and cheeks, and I have this sudden urge to touch it. The thought shocks me, stabilizes me. I press a quivering hand against my chest.
Oh, it would be so easy to fall in love, I think wistfully. So easy.
He glances down. “Are you okay?”
My breath hitches in my throat. I try desperately to gather at anything scientific to explain the act of falling in love. How long does it stay in the body incubating before I begin to show symptoms? Is it chronic or fleeting?
Are the circumstances with the war a factor in speeding up the process?
Will my heart even care that I’ll be parted from him within a month?
“Salama?” he asks again when I haven’t said anything in a minute.
“Y-yes,” I whisper.
He studies my features, and my synapses fire neurotransmitter after neurotransmitter. He analyzes my expression, and some emotion sears
through his eyes.
I catch it before it disappears and fold it into my heart to replay later when I’m alone.
He sets me down on the cracked steps of the hospital’s gates overlooking the main road. There are a few scattered twigs on the cracked pavement. We’re far away from the front doors so we can’t hear the voices of those inside. He sits beside me, leaving a few inches between us, and rubs his hands together as if trying to get rid of the cold. His fingers are long, delicate. Like an artist’s fingers. I stare at them and imagine that might life: We’d be sitting right here, huddled in thick scarves and coats. He’d lace his fingers through mine and I’d marvel at how much bigger his hand is. He’d kiss my knuckles and I’d feel like I was floating on a cloud.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, biting his lower lip. “I know I shouldn’t have touched you. I—we’re not promised to each other, and—I—” He messes his hair, looking guilty, and drags a hand down his face. “I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage or anything. Salama, I’m not—”
“Stop talking,” I say, and he falls silent, cheeks still red with remorse.
“I’m not upset.”
My teeth chatter and I pull the edges of my sweater’s sleeves over my frozen hands and hug my lab coat firmly to me.
“May I give you my jacket?” he asks, and I stare at him.
He seems shocked by his question, but he’s determined.
I nod.
He shakes it off and looks slimmer without it.
No. Starved.
He drapes it over my shoulders, and I sink into the body heat still clinging to its insides. Lemons. It puts a damper on the regret, quieting the screams of those I couldn’t save, and blurs the image of Samar bleeding on the hospital bed.
I pull the lapels of his jacket even closer, focusing on my breathing until the nausea subsides.
“Salama,” he says, and my gaze settles on him. His camera is in his hands and he’s fiddling with the buttons and flaps before catching my eye, looking as if he can read my mind. But I know my emotions are displayed on my face for all to see. “Tell me something good.”
“Why?”
He gives me a half smile. “Why not?”
He wants to busy my mind with something other than the hospital. This won’t end well for my heart, but at this moment, I don’t care. He’s here beside me and for a while I want to pretend.
I want to believe in Layla’s words.
I throw the end of my hijab over my shoulder and look up at the sky, watching the way last night’s thick clouds refused to scatter. They look like a healing scab. There are dark gray ridges between the clusters, and slivers of the late-afternoon sun’s rays lighten the mass in between.
“I—” I clear my throat. The wind blows against us, and a stray piece of wrinkled paper dances along the road. No one’s walking on the pavement.
There’s an abandoned car at the end of the street that’s been burned down to the frame, the flames having scorched the path beside it black.
Kenan is staring at me, but I can’t bring myself to look at his gravitational gaze, so I reach down and pick up a twig. It’s slightly wet from the touch of winter. I run my fingers over the protrusions and rough edges.
“I used to dream about the color blue,” I say, and I feel his surprise. He leans in a bit closer, and I don’t think he realizes it. The twig’s scars mirror the ones on my hands. No longer able to sustain new life. “Layla had painted a shade so unique, I thought it would bleed into my hands. It was a painting of a quiet sea and gray clouds. I’ve never seen a color like that before in my life. And the more I looked at it, the more I wanted to see the real thing.”
I chew my tongue, focusing on the twig. “Back then, Syria felt too small for me. Homs felt too small. And I wanted to see the world and write about the blue in each country because I’m sure they’re special and different in their own way. That not one shade looks like another. I wanted to see Layla’s painting in real life.”
I shudder in a breath, reopening coffins of dreams I long sealed shut. I give a small laugh, realizing. “The ‘something good’ doesn’t come for free, Kenan. Now it’s tainted with sadness. There’s no blue here, not one that inspires anyway. Just the one that decays the victims’ skin from frostbite and hypothermia. All the colors are muted and dull and there’s no life in them.”
I grip the twig tightly and turn to him. He’s smiling. It’s gentle and it
makes my heart ache.
“That’s still a beautiful dream, Salama,” he says. “One that can happen.”
I don’t mean to, but I snort. “Where? In Germany? I’m not sure I’ll see colors there like I used to.” And even then, people like me don’t deserve to see them. No matter how much I want to.
Kenan stretches each finger, flexes his wrists. “It might be difficult at first. The world might be too loud or too silent. It might be neon bright or pitch black, but slowly, it’ll put itself back together. It will resemble something normal. Then you’ll see the colors, Salama.”
My lips part and a desire awakens in my heart. “Do we even deserve to see them, Kenan?” I whisper after a minute, and from his expression, I know he understands I’m not talking about colors. Survivor’s remorse is a second skin we are cursed to wear forever.
He looks away, his lips drawn tight, because this isn’t an easy question to answer. Time is the best medicine to turn our bleeding wounds to scars, and our bodies might forget the trauma, our eyes might learn to see colors as they should be seen, but that cure doesn’t extend to our souls.
It doesn’t. Time doesn’t forgive our sins, and it doesn’t bring back the dead.
I fidget with the twig. “You don’t have to answer that.”
He looks at me guiltily. “Salama—”
I shake my head. “Let’s sit here for a while, okay? Before the next storm hits.”
He cracks his knuckles and nods, stray strands of his hair catching in his eyelashes.
We sit side by side, resting our hands on the pavement, fingers inches away from one another. And I can’t remember the last time my mind was so quiet, comfortable in the unspoken words filling the silence.
And it’s in this silence I replay the fleeting look in his eyes when he held
me.
Longing.
