KHAWF ISN’T PLEASED ABOUT MY CONVERSATION with Kenan, but I refuse to speak to him, instead lying on my bed and facing the wall, thinking about Kenan’s eyes and our interaction today.
“Aren’t you concerned you didn’t see Am today?” he goes on, standing in front of me, so I twist to the other side. He appears there too, and I groan loudly. “What if he’s run away with your money?”
“Run away where? The only way he makes money is by taking people to the boats, and with the way food prices are, the money I gave him won’t last forever. I’ll see him tomorrow. His daughter was injured, remember?
He won’t be missing the chance at more medicine.”
Khawf purses his lips, his eyes gleaming like icicles in the dark room.
“Fine,” he finally says. “Kenan isn’t changing your mind, is he?”
I blow out a puff of air. “No. I will always choose Layla. Over anyone.”
He smiles, satisfied. “But are you choosing yourself as well?”
I frown.
He gestures at me. “You haven’t eaten anything all day.”
I clench my jaw. How annoying it is for my brain to have me in its clutches like this.
Earlier I whipped up a dinner of canned tuna immersed in olive oil and salt, which I took one bite of before my stomach threatened to expel everything. I don’t feel hungry anymore. Not with what I did to Samar.
Layla didn’t eat either, and when I asked her if she’d eaten anything, she said she wasn’t hungry. She wants to save as much food as she can for the journey.
Khawf’s voice is as deadly as nightshade. “If you’re not careful, Salama, you might become the instrument of your destruction.”
“I already changed my mind about leaving,” I grumble. “So why are you
tormenting me?”
His lips curl into a slow smile. “You did. But a lot can happen between now and the boat’s departure. I can’t have that. You’re not in control, Salama. I am. Remember: If you’re arrested, then I’m not going anywhere.
I’ll be showing you all sorts of terrible things. Kenan beaten to within an inch of his life. Hamza, a husk.” He leans forward and I stand my ground, refusing to let my lips tremble. “What’s interesting, Salama, is that you’ll be the one coming up with all these scenarios. I’m a part of your mind. You need all these horrible hallucinations. You need me.”
I scowl. “I know this is my brain trying to protect Layla and me. You made that clear. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it!”
He snaps his fingers and Layla is sprawled on the floor beside my bed.
Blood seeps onto the floorboards, and she twitches.
My heart lodges in my throat and I tear my eyes back to Khawf. He’s studying my reaction.
“It’s not her,” I say, my voice barely a rasp.
“Never forget who’s in control here.”
I close my eyes, whispering “daisies” to myself, and when I open them, hallucination Layla is gone. But she still lives in my mind.
To my utter relief, Am is at the hospital the next day. His eyes are dull, and his beard is patchy. He looks as miserable as I feel.
He stops when he sees me, eyes narrowing as I extend the hand that has
the Panadol tablet in it.
“Here.”
Am chews his cheek and opens his palm.
“Kenan is coming in later. He’ll have your money.”
He grunts.
“I want to ask you what we should pack. What do we need for the journey?”
He massages his forehead. “Important documents. Food. Your own water. Something to fight the seasickness. Nothing too heavy.”
My head spins. “Okay. Okay.”
“Is that all?”
I fiddle with the end of my hijab. “How’s—how’s Samar?”
His stare is filled with dislike. “Fine.”
“Her stitches?”
“I said she’s fine,” he snaps. “Look, this is a business transaction, all right? You give me money and I give you a boat. We don’t have to get all
personal.”
My throat is dry, so I nod.
He moves past me but halts for a second. “Don’t think about asking for forgiveness,” he says and walks away.
My stomach churns with the buildup of gastric acid and I scuttle to the medicine stockroom. I slide against the wall, my breaths irregular and a dull
ache pounding behind my eyes.
“Forget him,” Khawf says, and I start.
He stands a few feet away from me, examining a red box of aripiprazole.
“Forget what he said, Salama. He’s not the bigger picture. Germany is. Your new life with Layla and her baby.”
Hawthorn. Red berries that can be used to lower blood pressure. Have excellent antioxidant properties and strengthen the cardiac muscle.
Hawthorn. Hawthorn. Hawthorn.
I stay in the stockroom a bit longer until I can see those white hawthorn petals behind my closed eyelids. Then I walk outside to face whatever fresh hell barges through the doors.
This time when the victims from a sniper shooting are rolled in around noon, I stand strong, pushing down my terror to make up for what I’ve done. Amid the bodies and the screaming, I see Kenan standing to the side, his camera covering half his face.
And no matter how much I try to beat death, he still wins. I close five pairs of eyes today. Three children, one young woman, and one young man.
Their faces smeared with blood, their mouths hanging open, an expression of betrayal forever etched on their faces.
I recite Al-Fatiha for their souls and feel Kenan standing beside me.
“Everything okay?” he murmurs.
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the corpses.
“Salama,” Kenan says gently. “Let’s go. Take me to Am.”
I don’t move.
His fingers tentatively brush the cuff of my sleeve and I inhale sharply.
“You did everything you could. This isn’t your fault.”
My lips quiver and I swallow my cries.
“Yalla,” he says, and I allow myself to turn away.
The main atrium is filled with new and old faces. We find Am standing beside the back door, where the martyrs are transported to the cemetery.
I don’t even hear what Am and Kenan talk about, my thoughts becoming too dark and twisted, blaming me that I was too slow, too pathetic to save lives.
“Salama.” Kenan’s voice cuts through the air and I look up at him.
He looks stricken, and Am is watching me curiously. I glance down and see I’ve been digging my nails into my palms while shaking all over.
“I’m fine,” I say in a hollow voice.
Am makes a disgruntled sound, and before Kenan can say anything, he says, “We’ll provide you with the life jackets, but that’s it. Carry little.
Everything but your lives can be replaced.”
“I have to go,” I say suddenly, and Kenan turns to me.
“Okay.” He moves toward me. “Let me get—”
I shake my head, holding up a hand. “It’s fine.”
I twist around, hurrying away and out of the hospital as my heart thunders in my ears. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take another dead body.
I can’t take this guilt. I’m tired and my stomach is ripping itself to shreds with hunger. My palms are red from my nails, my scars horrendous. I need to breathe in something that isn’t blood and bile and guts. I need to hold
Layla and remind myself she’s alive.
I want to scream.
I want Mama.
By the time I reach my home, I’m out of breath and wheezing.
“Layla!” I call out, slamming the door behind me.
“Salama?” Her surprised voice answers from the living room. She appears a second later, hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her washed-out mustard dress stretches over her bulging stomach, and I throw myself in her arms, hugging her.
“Hey, is everything all right?” She holds me closer. “Oh my God, did something happen? Is Kenan okay?”
“N-no,” I stammer. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I just needed to see you.”
She holds me back, eyes searching me. “The circles under your eyes are darker.” She grips my arm. “Your face is thinner. Something’s happened.
Salama?”
“I’m fine,” I repeat weakly.
She doesn’t believe me. “It’s nearly four o’clock. Your shift isn’t over until five.”
I tear myself from her and plod toward the couch, where I all but collapse. I shrug my lab coat off and remove my hijab, throwing it over the couch’s arm. “I’m tired. Please, can you play with my hair?”
She exhales and sits down, and I lay my head in her lap. Her touch is gentle as she untangles the knots in my tresses. I feel the blood moving in the vessels in my scalp and sigh with relief.
I close my eyes and whisper, “Thank you.”
“Anything for you, silly.”
We stay silent for a while and I remember how dramatic I used to get if a pimple popped up unbidden on my face. My bookshelf was stacked with homemade concoctions I’d whipped up from all the herbs and flowers I’d gathered, neatly arranged beside one another alphabetically. Jam jars filled with sprigs of tea tree, buds of witch hazel, dried rose petals. I would make pastes out of them.
“Dab it under your eyes,” I remember saying once to Layla, who would always volunteer as my guinea pig. She was perched on my bed, drinking coffee from a huge blue mug. She put it down on my desk and opened the jar.
“Mmm.” She smeared the pink cream on her cheekbones and under her eyes. “It smells so good. What is it?”
“Arabian jasmine, daisies, and a dash of almond oil.” I went through the jars’ labels. “It’s supposed to make your skin smoother and erase your dark circles.”
Layla huffed, feigning offense. “Are you saying I don’t take care of my skin?”
I laughed. “Layla, you owe half your beauty to me.”
She flicked her hair to the side. “I won’t comment on that.”
Now, my skin is dry and flaky, my lips chapped, and the dark circles
under my eyes have become permanent. The old Salama wouldn’t recognize me.
“Salama,” Layla says, and I crack my eyes half open. “Talk to me.”
I sort through the problems, trying to decide which will distract me enough from my pain and won’t be a burden on Layla.
“I think,” I whisper, “I might like Kenan.”
Her fingers still and I brace myself for her inevitable shrieks of joy, but she doesn’t do that. I glance up to see a sad smile on her lips.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“Cry?” I joke weakly even though I’m trying my best to stifle the tears in my ducts. Now that the words are out in the open, they refuse to be ignored any longer. It seems I’ll be leaving Syria hurt in every possible way.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“I thought you’d be screaming and jumping up and down.”
She shakes her head lightly. “I know I’ve been excited for the day you fall in love but I never thought it would be like this.”
“Is it okay that I hate him a little because he wants to stay here?”
She lets out a small laugh. “Yes, it’s perfectly fine.”
I groan, rubbing at my wet eyelashes. “I know we’ll be apart in a month, but Layla, I don’t want to stop meeting him. I’m thinking… anything is better than nothing. I know it’ll hurt so much in Germany. I know I’ll spend days and nights praying he’s safe. I know that and still I can’t—don’t want to—stop.”
Layla stares at me for some time. “That’s okay too, Salama. I know what you mean. Anything is better than nothing. I told you to find bits of happiness in Homs. Kenan is a happy moment.”
I swallow thickly.
A knock on our front door startles us and we exchange a glance. I stand, wrapping my hijab around my head before tiptoeing slowly to the door.
Through the eyepiece, I see Kenan. He’s staring at the ground, hands in his pocket.
“Who is it?” Layla asks in a hushed voice.
“Kenan,” I mouth.
Her mouth drops with astonishment and she silently claps her hands, looking giddy. “Open the door,” she mouths back, miming the action.
I exhale deeply, commanding myself to stay calm and open the door,
wearing—what I hope is—a casual smile that feels weird on my face.
“Kenan,” I say, and he looks up. “Hello.”
His expression is stunned but he recovers quickly. “You—um—I’m sorry to come over like this, but—you left the hospital pretty quickly and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
I play with the hem of my sweater, feeling all warm at his concern. “Yes.
I’m fine. It was—I’m fine, I promise.”
“I’m glad.”
He scratches the back of his head, and the movement presses his sweater against his body.
He steels himself, rocking on his heels, and he cracks his knuckles. “I was wondering if you’d go with me somewhere.”
Oh.
Oh!
Layla gasps from the living room and I try to remember how to breathe.
Kenan panics when he sees me staring at him dumbfounded. “If—it’s all right if you don’t want to.”
“No,” I say too quickly. I blush, hugging myself. “I—yes.”
He looks relieved, his chest expanding with air, and a smile lights up his face. It’s as if I’m gazing at the sun.
“Just a second.” I hurry to the living room, where Layla is still crouched on the sofa, her mouth dropped open, and she quickly takes my hands in hers.
“Oh my God,” she exclaims, shaking me. This feels like a hint of our old life seeping through the pain. It almost makes me dizzy with nostalgia.
Anxious thoughts take over. “Is this a bad idea? Will this hurt my heart?
Should I pretend I’m suddenly sick?”
She laughs. “No, dummy. It’s still happiness. And you deserve to be happy.”
Samar sprawled on the hospital bed flashes in front of my eyes.
“You deserve it,” Layla repeats firmly. “Now go.”
I nod and she lets go. “I won’t be late.”
She smiles. “I know.”
I glance at the sea painting, taking strength from the feeling it gives me, and walk back toward the door. I pass my reflection in the mirror hanging in the corridor and sigh. In my might life, I’d be dressed in my favorite dark
blue jeans, a soft rose-colored blouse with a matching fleece coat, and ankle boots. My hijab would be ironed and spilling across my shoulders like a waterfall. A casual outfit Layla and I had ready in case a spontaneous date ever happened.
But in the mirror stares back a girl wearing an old pair of washed-out jeans and a black sweater with fraying edges. She’s sad and skeleton-like, her eyes dim with despair and hunger.
I look away and walk out of the house, closing the door behind me.
Kenan is leaning against the wall, looking up at the sky, his jawline
more pronounced. “Let’s go?” he asks.
“Where to?”
He pushes himself off the wall, eyes gleaming with a secret. The clouds have parted, allowing the sun’s last tangerine rays to peek through the holes in the hollowed buildings of my apocalyptic city.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, and walks in the opposite direction of the
hospital.
I hurry after him. “Surprise?”
He smiles. “You don’t like surprises?”
“I… I don’t know.”
He stops for a second, giving me a confused look. “You don’t know?”
I shrug. “I used to like them. Now they make me anxious, I guess.”
He nods solemnly. “That’s fair. This will be a good one. I hope.” Then he adds, “But… if you want, I can tell you.”
My heart glows. “No, that’s okay.”
We pass by a mosque still standing strong after everything that’s happened. A huge corner is missing from a blast, the green carpet inside muddied. DOWN WITH THE GOVERNMENT! is spray-painted across one of the walls.
Puddles of murky rainwater are everywhere. A couple of children zoom past us, their shoes worn and their cheeks thin. I want to call after them to put on something warmer because it’s still February.
Some men stand in front of a supermarket on the other side of the street, deep in conversation, while other people walk about, carrying groceries or in a hurry to be somewhere. I know this area, and if we take the upcoming right, my home—my old home—would be a five-minute walk away. I’ve only been back once, when I tried to salvage what I could from the rubble.
But Kenan doesn’t turn right. He walks straight ahead and then takes a left turn into a narrow alleyway. The road is uneven here; one building’s floors have collapsed on top of each other like upset dominoes.
“Here!” he finally says, and ducks inside a building. Its dusty red doors have been torn from their hinges and lie cracked on the floor. I hesitate for a second before following. He’s climbing a set of ceramic stairs. His legs are longer than mine, and he’s at least five steps ahead of me.
“Yalla!” he calls, an entire level above me. “To the roof!”
I glance upward and can estimate there’s more than five floors to go.
“I’m trying!” I shout back.
After what feels like decades, I make it to the roof, where Kenan’s already standing outside. Despite the cold, I’m sweating and out of breath. I stumble out the doorway, feeling my heart pumping against my throat.
“What’s this place?” I manage to huff out.
Kenan smiles. He doesn’t look the least bit bothered by climbing eight flights of stairs. “This is my old home. I used to come to the roof after school and do my homework.”
I look around. It’s a simple, standard building roof, and the floor is bare save for three broken satellites swept to the side. The view is Old Homs and the sunset. There are no other buildings obscuring it, and I’m able to witness the sun begin her descent on the horizon.
Kenan swings his legs over the edge and I stifle a cry of warning.
Slowly, I come up beside him and gingerly near the edge but don’t swing my legs over.
He turns toward me, his smile serene. “When was the last time you saw
the sunset, Salama? Properly saw it.”
I frown. “I don’t remember.”
“With all the destruction happening down there, it’s easy to forget the beauty that’s up here. The sky is so beautiful after rainfall.”
The most beautiful sunsets are always the ones that come after a rain, I had said to Layla once when we were at her family’s summer house in the countryside. We’d been stuck inside all day, watching a storm rage against the windows, unable to go swimming in the river beside the gardens. Layla played with my hair while we watched Castle in the Sky from Baba’s laptop. It was the perfect comfort movie when the clouds were gray and the raindrops chased each other on the windows.
And I was right.
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 colors 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 center 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.”
He points to the ground below and I peek over the ledge, my nerves electrified with the fear of falling. I squint and see two little boys and three girls laughing, playing some sort of game.
“Look at them,” Kenan says. “Look how even the agony hasn’t stripped their innocence.”
Then he points to a tree situated at the street’s side. Its three thick trunks twist through each other, the branches brittle-looking, a hint of green leaves surfacing through its pores. “That lemon tree’s been here forever. I used to climb it all the time when I was younger. I think there’s a picture Baba took of me sitting atop it, with Yusuf hanging to my side.”
I stay silent and glance at him. His tone is full of melancholy, his eyes capturing the golden light.
He sighs, shaking away the memories, and looks at me, smiling.
“There’s still beauty, Salama. Still life and strength in Homs.” He nods toward the sun. “There’s color.”
Slowly, I dangle my legs over the brink, keeping a few inches between us. It gives me a rush of adrenaline, being balanced between something solid and air. A sweet breeze tickles my nose and I close my eyes, inhaling it deeply.
When I open them, I’m taken aback by the magic unfolding in front of me. A few stars twinkle through the wisps of cloud. Decorating them like sapphires, precious gifts for those who would gaze upward. Eight levels above the ground brings a unique kind of peace. A quiet that accompanies a late winter night. It’s as if we’re floating in the cosmos, detached from
everything weighing us down.
It’s a Studio Ghibli movie.
“Do you see the colors, Salama?” Kenan whispers.
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. Pink, orange, yellow, purple, red. Finally settling into an azure blue. It reminds me of Layla’s painting. A color so stark it would stain my fingers were I to touch it.
As the sun sinks, in those few precious moments when the world is caught between day and night, something shifts between Kenan and me.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes.”
