WHEN I SEE KENAN THE NEXT DAY, I NEARLY DROP the bag of haloperidol pills I’m carrying. He’s standing by a patient’s bed. A little boy about six who has one side of his head heavily bandaged, covering his right eye.
Kenan crouches, talking animatedly, and the little boy’s face is entranced.
As if he’s forgotten what’s happened to him. Kenan’s hands move like a maestro, weaving stories to life between his fingers.
I place the bag in a cupboard and step closer to Kenan, absentmindedly touching my ring finger. I scold myself. I may be in love with him, but is it real, or just my longing for an escape from this horror? If he were just a boy and I were just a girl, living ordinary lives, and we’d met anywhere else, would we still have fallen for each other?
Besides, even if this is real, none of it matters as long as he’s determined to become a sacrificial lamb. The pain is nothing compared to knowing what Hamza is going through.
This morning I decided I’m angry with Kenan. He has my heart and he’s breaking it. Along with Lama’s and Yusuf’s. If this past month has done nothing more than scratch his armor, how much more time is needed for it to disintegrate entirely? What will be his undoing?
“And then the boy and girl were rescued by pirates,” Kenan says. The little boy still can’t take his eyes off him. “They sailed all seven seas and
battled monsters together.”
“Then what?” the boy asks.
Kenan leans in a bit closer, his voice hushed, and I take another step forward. “Well, the girl wanted to keep the diamond her mother gave her safe. And the boy wanted to find his grandfather. The pirates had the answers to both these things, and so—” He stops and turns around, catching the look of awe on my face. “Salama. Good morning.”
“M-morning.”
If he’s still thinking about how I shouted at him yesterday, he doesn’t show it. “How are you?”
I play with the ends of my hijab. “Alhamdulillah.”
He looks at me softly. “Is there anything you need?”
You. I need you to leave with me. “No,” I reply instead.
He smiles and stands, taking something out of his pocket. He holds out his hand. It’s a neatly folded piece of paper. “Open it.”
I do and softly gasp. He’s drawn the ocean forest. Colossal trees surrounding a little girl, leaves fluttering in the wind. At her side is a small fish with stripes along its body.
“That’s a flame angelfish,” Kenan points out. “I thought she’d have a friend the color of flames. Could light the way when it gets dark.”
My pulse quickens, and I hug the paper to my chest. “Thank you.”
He scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks pink. “I wanted to cheer you up after—you know.”
“I’m going to treasure this forever.” I manage a brave smile.
He returns it and then gestures to the little boy. “Would you like to hear
the story with him?”
I laugh. “Yes.”
Standing beside the eager little boy, I tuck the drawing in my pocket and watch the way Kenan lights up. He commands the words, injecting each with wonder, and soon enough we’re surrounded by people, all huddling closer, wanting to forget their pain and escape into another world. Kenan stands up, his voice getting louder as he conjures ships that fly and magical lemons that revive you from the brink of death. He’s captivating, a natural- born storyteller.
But with each word, a heaviness falls on my heart and I slowly back away through the crowd until all I can see is his disheveled hair and broad shoulders. It hurts to see him, a dead man walking, when he has the power to influence the world.
I turn around, but before I make it out of the atrium, Kenan calls my name. The people behind him are talking among themselves and they go back to their beds and families, their eyes shining a little brighter. Two people clap Kenan on the back, and he smiles at them. He walks over to me, his brows furrowed, and I’m rooted to the spot, every cell wanting him near
me.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
There’s a dull ache reverberating behind my eyes, threatening to spill the tears.
“What do you think, Kenan?” I whisper. Everything’s written freely on my face for him to read.
He closes his eyes for a second, catching on to my thoughts. “Salama,” he begins. His tone is low, almost choked. “I—you have to realize this is difficult.”
I feel as if I’m standing on shaking ground. “You think it’s easy for me to leave? My mother is buried here! My father too. My brother—” I stop, covering my face with my hands, forcing myself to take deep breaths.
Please, God, let him die. Let him find that peace.
Kenan is still staring at me with anguish when I look back at him.
“We are stripped from our choices, so we latch onto what will ensure our survival.” I push away all my emotion. My voice comes out calculating and cold. “The world is not sweet or kind. The ones outside are waiting to eat us and pick their teeth with our bones. That’s what they’ll do to your siblings.
So we do everything to make sure we and our loved ones survive. Whatever it takes.”
Fear breaks out behind his irises, but whatever he’s about to say next disappears when his vision trails behind me, his eyes widening with horror.
I turn around to see Yusuf carrying Lama in his skeleton-like arms, and I wonder how he managed to make it all the way from their home. Kenan runs toward them, his terror infecting me. Lama’s eyes are half-closed, her dry lips hanging open. Kenan takes her from Yusuf, cradles her head against his shoulder, and looks back at me wildly.
“Bring her here.” I gesture to an empty yellow bed, and he sets her down gently, murmuring words of love while brushing her hair back before taking her hands in his and pressing them to his lips, praying. Yusuf stands beside him, his own face white with terror and his lower lip trembling.
“What happened?” Kenan asks Yusuf, who shakes his head, motioning with his hands.
I check the wound on her stomach, but it’s mostly healed, the skin pink, with no sign of pus or infection.
“Lama, habibti.” I press my stethoscope to her heart. It’s hammering
against her rib cage. “How are you feeling? Where’s the pain?”
She stirs, eyelids fluttering. “I feel… sick. And my head hurts.”
I lay a hand on her forehead. It’s cold. Flushed skin. Chapped lips.
Headache. Everything comes together.
“She’s dehydrated.”
Kenan looks up at me with shock, silent tears running down his cheeks.
“What?”
“Give me her hand,” I say, and he does. I pinch her nailbed for a few seconds until it’s all white and Lama shifts uncomfortably. When I ease the pressure, it takes a while for it to regain its pink color. “Yes. Dehydration.”
I run to the medical store, grab one of the IV bags, and race back to hook it into her vein. She doesn’t even protest when I nudge the needle’s tip into her skin.
“Kenan, go find her a cup of water,” I instruct him, and he looks at me, disoriented. “She’s going to be fine, insh’Allah. But she needs to drink.”
He nods and returns with water shortly, helping her take small sips.
Nour has heard what happened and brings Yusuf a chair to sit on. She pats his back while he looks on. No one should live like this. Worrying if their sister will die from lack of water.
“The IV will replace what she’s lost.” I bite my lip. “Alhamdulillah it wasn’t something worse.”
Kenan’s jaw is tight, his shoulders shaking silently. He gets up and walks toward the front doors. I blink, taken aback, before following. He hurries down the steps, running his hands in his hair.
“Kenan,” I say hesitantly.
He turns around, looking like he’s in physical pain.
His voice sounds broken. Defeated. “Yesterday, after you brought up what happens to the refugees in Europe, I went back home and researched more of it.” He stops, blowing out a forced breath of air. “People are getting tricked, robbed—left alone in the middle of nowhere. Girls are… being trafficked or married off. And boys are forced into child labor.”
He sinks to the ground like his legs can’t carry him anymore and I rush
to him.
“Kenan!” I kneel beside him.
A strangled sound escapes his throat. “You’re right. I promised my father I’d take care of them. That I’d carry them in my eyes. I can’t
guarantee they’ll find my uncle when they land in Italy. I can’t even guarantee that Lama will survive being dehydrated. But—I also have a duty to my country.” He threads his hands through the dirt, and the dull red- brown stains them, smearing itself into his nailbeds and the cracks in his skin. “Salama, you have to at least acknowledge that this isn’t right.”
“Of course it isn’t!” I exclaim. “It’s not fair and it’s not right. But you can’t abandon Lama and Yusuf.”
“One by one, everyone leaves,” he whispers, and rubs his eyes, streaking Syria on his forehead, smearing himself with the land of our ancestors.
“Soon enough there won’t be anyone left to defend Syria.”
“Not true. You, more than anyone, can change the world. Do you have any idea what your imagination can do? Didn’t you see how the people looked at you in there?” A glimmer shines through his dark green eyes.
“The fight isn’t over, and it’s not only here. Syria’s entire history has become faded in people’s memories. They don’t know what a gem she is.
They don’t know the love this country has. You owe it to them. You owe it to us,” I say fiercely.
He runs a hand over his face, then clears his throat. “What about the guilt?”
“Your love for Syria will drive you. The guilt is just a side effect.” I smile sadly. “Without that love, your stories would lose their meaning.”
He blinks a few tears before wiping them with his sleeve.
“I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” he whispers.
My heart softens, breaks. “Kenan. Syria isn’t just what we’re standing on. It’s Lama growing up, reaching her teens with her two big brothers right there with her. It’s Yusuf getting the highest grades and telling everyone about the lemon trees in Homs. It’s you, making sure we never forget our reason to fight. It’s you and—” I stop, catching myself before I say something stupid. Something about a might life.
A small smile finally settles on his lips, and I feel myself blush.
“You’re right,” he whispers.
I sigh with relief.
We stay kneeling in our soil, rubble digging into our knees, mud smearing our jeans. And in that moment, enclosed by the harsh truths we have to live with, somehow the future doesn’t feel so bleak anymore. The colors are vibrant.
“I’ll find Am tomorrow,” I say. “He left early.”
He bites his lip. “What if it’s too late? What if all the seats are taken?”
I shake my head. “Money buys everything, Kenan. And if it doesn’t, I’ll smuggle you on the boat if it’s the last thing I do.”
He stares at me, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. If my feelings for him are bared so freely on my face I don’t need to say the words.
In his eyes, something changes. He doesn’t smooth his expression; he lets me glimpse every thought he’s had about me since the day we met.
They’re in the crease between his eyebrows, in the gentle lift of his lips, in the longing in his eyes.
I clear my throat. “You should go back to Lama.”
I thought it would be enough to break the spell over us, but Kenan smiles, leaning closer, and my breath catches, the scent of lemons enveloping my nose. “Is it okay if I skip walking you home today?”
I nod.
“But may I tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
Satisfied with my answer, he stands and heads toward the hospital, but before he disappears inside, I ask without thinking, “How come you smell like lemons all the time?”
He pauses and turns around slowly, surprised. “It’s Baba’s cologne.”
