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 see it in Layla, who smiles more, now that I do. When I see these subtle signs of life on my way to the hospital, my heart expands.
But there are times where it takes everything in me not to fall into despair. Inside I’m still broken, haunted by a little girl I threatened to kill.
Still, Am and I have fallen into a routine: I give him one Panadol tablet; he reassures me with updates about the boat. Though the updates never change, I cling to hope.
Kenan, however, has been losing one thread of life after another as he spends more time at the hospital. His hands shake when he holds his camera, and his eyes are always filled with tears. I’ll never forget how he looked when he saw a seven-month-old baby who had been caught in a fire from a bomb’s blast.
He’s shown me more of the comments he’s gotten on his YouTube videos. Everyone is in awe, sending prayers for us and praising him for risking his life to document what’s happening. During those moments, there’s a certain glow on his face. A serenity I don’t see at other times. Like all of this is worth it. But it only exists in these brief moments and disappears entirely when death takes his hold on the hospital once more.
It hurts to know I’ve caused this breakdown in his fighting spirit when the words he spoke to me three weeks ago atop his old home have been reviving me. Our days together are numbered and I can’t stop myself from getting to know him. It hasn’t taken long for him to become a source of happiness and comfort for me. And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to tell him about Khawf. I wonder what he’d do.
When I walk out of the hospital after today’s shift, the evening sky is a dark blue canvas and Kenan is looking up at it.
“Hey,” I say, and he beams at me.
Outside the hospital and away from the harrowing realities he documents daily, Kenan usually manages to collect himself. Even though I see the cracks he’s trying to cover. During our walks, we either stay silent, untangling the trauma that has woven another knot in our brains or, if it’s been a really bad day and we need a distraction, we discuss other things.
He’s told me about his drawing software and how he has a half-completed graphic novel saved on his laptop he wishes he could finish. I told him about my scrapbooks and flower-filled jars, and the way he looked at me with such awe made me ache for that might life. Wishing I could have shown them to him personally in my room, where he’d then press me against him, lips on mine.
A thought occurs to me as we walk back home now, and before I can rethink it, I blurt, “Imagine if you and I wrote a book together.”
He stops, gazing at me so intently, I feel its touch on my skin.
“You write?” he finally asks.
I nod, fidgeting with my sleeves. “I mean I want to. I have a couple of ideas for a children’s book. I was thinking you’d illustrate, and I’d write.”
He looks at me with wonder. “Tell me one of your stories.”
I glance away. “I’ve… never told anyone about them.”
He nods, and then smiles serenely. “All right. Then let’s make up a new one.”
My heart somersaults, grateful he isn’t trying to wheedle them out of
me. “I have a setting.”
He grins and we walk. “Go on.”
“An ocean, but instead of water it’s gigantic trees that touch the clouds.”
His grin widens. “I can absolutely draw that. Leaves that are blue instead of green? The trunks a coral pink?”
My bashfulness ebbs away slowly. “The higher you go, the bigger the leaves are. Oh! Fish that fly through air currents instead of water!”
“Yes!” he says excitedly. “A story about a girl who longs to see the water-filled oceans!”
“They’re a myth in her world but they have something she needs,” I add, nearly skipping with enthusiasm.
And we go on like this, one chaotic thought spilling after the other, unaware that we’ve long since reached my home. We stand in front of the door talking for twenty extra minutes before a distant rumble of a plane shatters our daydream. We return to reality with trembling hands and nervous eyes cast upward.
And when I look at him, I see that pain. He and I will never be able to write a book together.
And I wonder if this ache in my heart will ever fade away. Or if it’ll only grow stronger.
The next day, Am finally has new information regarding the boat.
“It will be here in ten days. Twenty-fifth of March. We meet by Khalid Mosque at ten a.m. Do you know where that is?”
I nod. Baba and Hamza prayed Juma’a prayer there every Friday. It’s a ten-minute walk from Layla’s home.
“Good. Bring the money or there’s no boat.”
I grind my teeth. “I know.” But before I can ask about Samar, he shakes his head and walks away. My stomach feels queasy, and I hide out in my medication stockroom until Dr. Ziad needs me.
My mind wanders to the boat, and an anticipation builds in me, my fingers tingling with the promise of safety. For Layla to finally be able to sleep in a bedroom that doesn’t remind her of her incarcerated husband.
Where Baby Salama would take her first steps in a house filled with flowers and the aroma of freshly baked fatayer.
My daydreams scatter with a quick knock on the stockroom door.
Kenan smiles. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Dr. Ziad is looking for you.”
I jump to my feet. Dr. Ziad is in his office and when I walk in, he stands.
“Salama.” His face is white, his expression twisted with a silent pain.
Immediately I’m on edge. “What?”
Dr. Ziad looks at Kenan. “Can you give us a moment?”
Kenan glances at me before nodding slowly and closing the door behind him.
Dr. Ziad rests his hands on the desk. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this, Salama, because it’s not fair to you, and you have the right to know.” He takes a deep breath and I begin trembling. “One of the Free Syrian Army soldiers was here with information concerning detainees in the military’s detention facilities. The ones who are alive. Your brother is on the list.”
The wind has been knocked out of me.
Dr. Ziad massages his forehead, his eyes shining with tears. “He’s alive, but your father passed away.”
I’m detached from my body, my mouth uttering in a voice I don’t recognize, “Where is he?”
Dr. Ziad’s eyes don’t meet mine. “Sednaya Prison.”
The floor is falling apart, and I sway before catching the door’s handle.
Sednaya Prison is one of the most brutal detention facilities in Syria.
Located near Damascus—a two-hour drive from Homs. The place is worse than a death sentence. Its prisoners are stacked atop one another in cells too small to breathe in.
“I’m sorry, Salama,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. Please, take care—”
“I need to leave,” I interrupt, flinging the door open and rushing out. My feet pick up the pace until I’m outside and I collapse over the hospital’s steps. My breaths heave in and out.
“Salama!” a voice calls, and I look back to see Kenan standing at the top of the steps. “My God, you’re shaking.”
He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it across my shoulders before sitting beside me. I close my eyes, breathing in the lemon scent of it, praying it’s enough to put the darkness back in its place. Minutes or hours pass, I don’t know, but he stays beside me on the broken steps, waiting.
He doesn’t ask but I need to form the words. I need to tell someone. The words need to spill out before they drown me.
“My brother,” I begin hoarsely. “Hamza. When he was arrested with Baba… Layla and I—we thought they’d both died. We wanted to believe
that. But Hamza is still alive.”
I hear Kenan’s sharp intake of breath.
Hamza is alive right this second being tortured while I’m outside, planning on running away from Syria. My hands shake and I clutch my
head, trying to calm down.
“Jasmine,” I murmur. “A tea made from its leaves eases body aches and helps with anxiety. Jasmine. Jasmine. Jasmine.”
In my heart of hearts, I know we still must leave or Layla and I will face a fate like Hamza’s. I know that. I know. Yet… My chin snaps up. Layla. This is too big of a secret for me to hold in my heart. I can’t stack it atop my tower of lies.
Khawf materializes on the pathway leading up to the hospital stairs and watches me with an impassive expression. There’s a calculating look in his eyes and he’s gauging my reaction.
“I need to go home,” I choke out, and stand, catching Kenan’s jacket before it falls. I don’t want to give it back yet; I need the feeling of security
it’s giving me to last a bit longer.
“I’m so sorry,” Kenan whispers.
When I look at him, his pained eyes are still on me, and a thought awakens in my brain. My grief can be used to persuade him. Khawf smiles.
“Don’t you see the reality, Kenan?” I keep my voice from trembling.
“Torture. Death. This is happening. It will happen to you if you don’t
leave.”
“Salama—” he begins, standing.
“No!” I shout, balling my hands into fists instead of shaking him. “Why isn’t this getting through your head? Your siblings will never heal. You will die for a cause no one outside Syria cares about. Those YouTube comments are great, but no one is helping us. You’ll rot in jail and be tortured for the rest of your life with no one to save you. Are you seriously leaving your siblings to the wolves? Do you even realize what’s happening to the refugees in Europe?”
He clears his throat roughly. “I’ve… heard.”
Tears blur my vision, and he shudders in a breath.
“Kenan, you think you’re being selfless.” My voice breaks this time.
“But you’re not. Imagine Lama and Yusuf have reached Syracuse and something happens and I’m separated from them. They never find your uncle. I can’t guarantee their safety. I don’t even know what I’m doing.
They could so easily be kidnapped and sold. Imagine that happens and you’re here, stuck in a detention facility, your life sliced away from you piece by piece.” My nails dig into my sleeves. “Is this what you want?”
“No, of course not!” he says loudly, and he breaks his gaze to rub an arm over his watery eyes.
“The boat leaves March twenty-fifth,” I say, praying the seeds of doubt are working their way into his mind. That they’ll grow like cress. “Think about whose lives you’re risking here.”
My brain’s synaptic signals are malfunctioning, and I can’t focus on anything except getting back to Layla. I want to be far away from people
and scream and cry and mourn.
“I’m going home,” I say.
He nods. “I have your bag.”
Before I can say anything, he walks down the steps. I’m lost in my own agony, relying on muscle memory to take me home as tears stream down my cheeks. Tremors run up and down my skeletal system, fissuring my bones. A war rages inside me and it seems I’m the only casualty.
“We’re here,” he says, and I nearly slam into his back.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, offering him his jacket back, and a part of me considers asking if I can keep it for a day. My shock at that thought eases some of the sadness I’m feeling. He takes it and hands me my bag.
He notes the tear tracks on my face, a realization unclouding in his eyes.
“Salama,” he says softly, and my eyelashes flutter. The way he says my name, pronouncing each vowel and consonant, even now makes me feel
like flowers are growing in my veins.
“Yes?” I say, matching his tone.
He bites his lip. “Please take care of yourself.”
I wrap my arms around my middle. “I am.”
He smiles sadly. “Are you?”
His gaze dips from my sharp cheekbones to my bony wrists. I may have started seeing the colors, believing in Layla’s and Kenan’s words, but that has no power over my guilt. It’s as if I’m being slowly poisoned. Finding happiness is merely treating the symptoms and not the cause of the disease that grows stronger by the minute. My stomach can’t hold food down long enough, and I spend my nights either tossing helplessly to the nightmares or suffering from insomnia. The result is a frail body holding a brittle mind, waiting for a whisper of a catastrophe to fall apart.
Kenan takes a step closer, crossing whatever chasm of intimacy lies between us, and, as the laws of physics go, the pressure increases. A halo,
courtesy of the afternoon sun, rests on his chestnut hair. He’s saturated in gold, and I feel my breath catch.
“There are enough people hurting you,” he whispers. “Don’t be one of them.”
He raises his hand, and his fingers skim my sleeve. His breaths are low, he’s closer than ever before, and I glance up at him. Longing drips from his gaze and I have one foot over the edge of a cliff.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks, his voice a mix of hope and anxiety.
“Yes,” I say breathlessly, and the next second his back is to me as he walks away.
My heart is still pounding dangerously when I close the front door and slide against it. In the few seconds of quiet before Layla discovers me, the shock transforms to reality. I sob big fat tears. I sob like the tears have been building up behind my eyes for months, waiting for one more drop to flood out. Frustration cleaves my heart.
A thudding of footsteps rushes down the corridor, and Layla skids to a halt in front of me.
“Salama!” she exclaims. “What happened?”
I can’t speak, covering my face with my hands, drawing my knees to my chest. She sits beside me, immediately pulling me to her warmth.
She holds me close, hugging my head to her chest. “Tell me what happened.”
Through a blubber of tears, I gasp out each word. I can’t look at her. Her arms go slack around me and she stiffens. For a long time she doesn’t say anything. Muffled voices from outside filter through the door. I don’t dare look at her, lost in the burning feeling inside my chest.
“Should we stay?” I say between hiccups.
“Salama.” Her voice is quiet, defeated. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, I drag my eyes to hers and see them, ocean blue, leaking tears down her cheeks.
“We’re leaving,” she says in a strange voice.
“But—”
“Please. We have to leave. He would want this.” Her voice is fractured with the pain she’s trying to hold back.
I bang my head against the door. Yes, he would. I promised him.
“If we die here, it’ll destroy him even more,” she says. “Salama, we
hoped he was dead. But it was just a wish. A part of us always suspected he
wasn’t.”
I clear my throat.
She shakes her head. “I can’t… I can’t think about that now, Salama. If I do—” Her voice breaks. “I don’t think I can convince myself to be okay.”
She takes hold of my hands. “Let’s talk about something else.”
There’s desperation in her face; she’s wildly looking for something to distract her before she succumbs to the grief.
“Tell me about Germany,” I breathe. “Tell me what we’ll do in Munich.”
She closes her eyes briefly and inhales deeply, and her grasp tightens. “I was thinking we should have our own restaurant there.”
The surprise freezes my tears. “What?”
She nods, gaining strength from that dream. “Our food is delicious, and I read once on Facebook about a Syrian restaurant in Germany that was successful with the locals. We can make money for your university, an apartment, and stuff the baby needs. It’s also a way to spread the word about what’s happening here.”
I’m astounded, taken aback by her endless optimism. “And finding happiness?” I smile weakly.
She doesn’t return the smile but kisses my knuckles. “Finding happiness.”
Her eyes are bloodshot but she stares right back at me and I don’t want this moment to end. “But you know I’ll be the one to make the knafeh, right?”
A short laugh escapes her lips. “Of course. You don’t have the approval of every Syrian grandmother because of your charm.”
The smiles come easier now. “You know I think that’s why Kenan—” I
stop.
Layla’s brows furrow. “What?”
“I… remember Mama asking me repeatedly to make it when they were coming over,” I say slowly, snippets of my old life floating out of reach around me. “She was asking if I had all the ingredients. Being so insistent.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “I didn’t even… Wow! Takes a war and one whole year for me to realize: I think Kenan really likes knafeh!”
She squeezes my hands. “He really missed out.”
The thought makes me sad. Yeah, he did.
Layla goes to sleep early, wanting to be alone, and I tuck the blanket around her firmly. She turns away from me and collapses in on herself; I watch her for a minute before going to my room.
Khawf stands in the middle of it. Since Kenan showed me the sunset, it’s become easier for me to deal with Khawf. The visions he shows me feel less all-encompassing now, and we spend most of the time talking, working through worst-case scenarios. The talks have helped with my guilt, giving my heart the motivation it needs to leave.
“Don’t worry,” I say tiredly, slumping down on my bed and shaking out my hair. “I’m still leaving.”
He taps his fingers over an elbow, looking almost sympathetic. “Good.
You might not get your money back. Not to mention that if you’re—”
“Caught,” I interrupt, falling over the bedspread. “Waterboarded.
Electrocuted. Raped. Layla’s baby ripped from her uterus and left to die.
Yes, I know the horrors. We’ve been over them.”
He watches me silently. “A shame that could happen to the boy you love.”
My fingers curl around the paper-thin covers and I twist to the side, finally surrendering to the fear that has proliferated in my body. Will I be able to appreciate all the colors in Germany without him? Will I want to?
With whatever is left of my heart, I love Kenan and the hope he’s given me, and I’m not ready to let go of him.
I hug my pillow to my chest, focusing my thoughts on his easy smile
and kind eyes. On his words.
On him.
Because if I don’t, if I think about Hamza, I won’t be able to breathe. I won’t be able to live.
