THE SMALL HAIRS ON THE BACK OF MY NECK RISE IN anticipation as I make my way through the people rushing toward the scene of today’s protest.
Freedom Square.
The moon hovers above, showing our way with his gentle touch.
Combined with the feeble handmade battery-powered lamps and flashlights, I’m able to see everything. Young men hurry past me, some carrying large signs painted in red.
The bits of conversation reaching my ears are full of hope and determination; people are full of pride that they’re still going strong after a year. I wonder how many more deaths, how much more trauma, until their spirits are truly crushed. Their faith is strong. In both God and the revolution. And now that they’ve tasted true freedom, they can’t go back to the dark days.
The square is supposed to be under the Free Syrian Army’s jurisdiction, so we’ll be safe for a portion of the night, but the military always comes. I pull my hoodie over my head tightly so no one can see my face. Even though the darkness makes it hard to distinguish anyone’s features, it’s better to be safe. In the end it doesn’t really matter; there are no innocents in the eyes of the military. They’ll kill us all, protestors or not. To them, the idea of freedom is infectious, and we need to be put down before it spreads.
I try not to think of Layla and our goodbye. I didn’t think she would let go of me. But whatever happens tonight, I won’t regret it.
Khawf stands tall by my side, looking like an omen of death.
“Remember our deal,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.
“I won’t talk to you with the boy here. But he’s not as oblivious as you think. He already suspects something.”
We’ve finally reached the square and I can hear the protest beginning.
The voices are throaty, coming from deep within bruised souls, each finding its own footing before mingling together, strong and united. Each person knows full well that every word might be their last.
“We don’t know that. And even if he does, it’s just suspicion,” I retort, threading my way carefully between people protesting until I find where Kenan told me to meet him. It’s secluded, close to the action, but far enough away if we need to make a run for it. I lean against the wall where a huge chunk of concrete has been obliterated by a shell. Splinters of glass crunch beneath my sneakers.
“Fine. Just make sure your hood covers your face.” Khawf glances around. “Let’s be safe, not sorry.”
I crane my neck and watch the people gather as if they are one soul, one life running through everybody. I see children on the cusp of their teen years, fear stripped from their expressions. There is no room for that here.
Young men, raised in the shadows of their parents’ terror, who decided to make this country their own. Old men who grew tired of the dictatorship stepping on them, waiting their whole lives for one spark to light the fire
that would burn down this tyranny.
Fear dies here.
A boy about my age or younger walks by. The flashlights gleam over his bare chest. His ribs stick out where skin meets bone. FREEDOM is traced on
his chest with charcoal.
“Hey!” I call out in surprise.
He turns my way.
“Aren’t you scared?” I ask loudly.
He looks at me for a second before grinning. “Always. But I’ve got nothing to lose.”
He turns around and dives into the crowd, making for the center of the protest. This place operates at a different level from the hospital, where death clings to the tiled floors. Here, life shines so strong it washes away doubt. I feel peace.
My lungs rejoice with a full breath of air. The pressure on my chest lifts, and I feel lighter. My head whirls, and my tongue itches to begin chanting and singing. Khawf lingers beside me but doesn’t say a word, watching the masses with interest.
One man in the pulse of the crowd taps on his microphone. His voice booms and people start cheering wildly. His words are half drowned by everyone else, but I can make out the gist; he’s recounting what has happened in the last year. It’s unreal to think this has been going on for three hundred and sixty-five days. Time moves differently here. Sorrow does that. Each day is a year, and as each one passes we hope tomorrow will be better.
I notice many people taking out their phones and recording. Some slip pieces of paper marked with the date and location from under their jackets, along with a few sentences: “Go to hell, Assad,” “We’re coming for you,”
“We fear no one except God,” and “Assad is a murderer.”
One of them stands out to me. In perfect red-studded letters they spell out an old poem.
“Every lemon will bring forth a child and the lemons will never die out.”
The lemons are still growing, flowering, nourishing the revolution. I remember the lemonade Mama used to make for me during the summer. I can almost taste its cold, sour-sweet flavor, and my mouth waters at the thought. My heart craves those freshly picked lemons and Mama’s loving glance when she handed me the lemonade. I shake my head, banishing that
longing away.
Not here.
Now my nerves are jangling like I’ve injected myself with adrenaline.
My hands can’t stop shaking, so I rub them together. I take comfort in the solid slab of concrete supporting me, but when I look down, I see hints of red scratched into the gray. I inhale sharply and force myself to look ahead.
The revolution’s flag is flying high over our heads, and it makes me dream of a day when we can raise it in our schools, proudly singing the national anthem. When it will represent us worldwide. For now, this flag is our shield against the cold winters, the bombs falling from the sky, and the bullets that tear into our bodies. In death, it’s our shroud, our corpses swaddled in it as we return to the soil we vowed to protect.
The individual voices are one and louder than life. “How Sweet Is Freedom” soars into the air, captured by the cameras in low quality to be transmitted to the whole world. I’ve heard this song more times than I can count. It’s everywhere. It’s the alphabet of our revolution. Our children will
be taught it as soon as they learn to speak. Patients’ weary voices rattle the walls of our hospital with it. It’s the salve against their wounds. I’ve had many on my operating table unconsciously humming it to themselves. It’s become rooted in their brain cells, and nothing can ever remove it.
I sing softly, my voice a contrast against the deep resounding ones thundering into the skies above us. A prayer in song.
“Salama.”
His voice washes over me like sunlight. I turn, trying to suppress a smile. His clothes are identical to mine. Old jeans and a black hoodie. His hair is swept back and streaked with wet droplets as if he’s dunked his head in a bowl of water.
“Hey.” I nod nonchalantly, remembering the way his eyes searched me in that stockroom and how the words he said have folded themselves between my ribs, cushioning my broken heart. The heart that loves him.
“How are you?” His gaze flits bashfully from me to the ground. He’s probably thinking about that moment too.
“Fine,” I whisper.
“How’s Layla?”
His concern makes my withered heart bloom. “Scared for me, but good.” I pause, finding a topic that will bring a drop of serotonin. “How happy were Lama and Yusuf when you told them you’re coming?”
He smiles. “Happier than they’ve been in a long time. Lama burst into tears and Yusuf wouldn’t let go of me.”
“Yusuf still doesn’t—I mean he’s—” I don’t know how to say the words without sounding insensitive.
“No,” he says sorrowfully. “He still doesn’t talk.”
In some ways, Yusuf reminds me of myself. I wonder if there are hurricanes in his mind that he doesn’t know how to articulate. Khawf is a burden I don’t know how to share with anyone. I desperately want to. The loneliness makes my throat close up and tears prick in my eyes. It’s a pressure that builds and builds until it fissures through my skin and bones.
“We’ll find help for him in Germany,” I assure Kenan.
He scratches the back of his head. “We?”
My ears feel hot and I take a deep breath. Why are we dancing around this? I know exactly how I feel about him, and his expressions tell no lies. I know he feels the same. “We won’t be separated there, right?”
He turns fully toward me and his hand slips into his pocket. He looks hopeful. “Salama, I don’t ever want to—” he begins softly.
Suddenly a cheer resounds in the crowd and we jump, blushing furiously. The man holding the microphone begins a new song in his deep, somber voice. I notice Kenan didn’t bring his camera.
We stand in silence, watching emotions sizzle in the crowd. Between songs, we send prayers for the souls of the martyrs, and for the ones suffering in imprisonment. I brush a tear from my eye. How lonely Hamza must be.
After a while, Kenan asks, “Do you see the colors?”
My lips turn into a sad smile. “Yeah.” I glance at the trees lining one side of the street. Leaves pattern the trunks, spiraling around in circles to the top. “There’s life in the smallest, simplest of things. I see why this is happening. Freedom was never an easy price; it’s paid with—”
“Blood. More than we ever thought possible,” he finishes bitterly.
“Yeah,” I croak.
“But you knew that all along.” He stares ahead. “Do you think it’s worth
it?”
Five more verses of the song float up.
I remember the blond Free Syrian Army soldier who was at peace with his right arm being amputated. I still have another one, don’t I?
“I don’t know. I want it to be worth it. I want to know the grass growing over the martyrs’ graves will give life to a generation who can be whoever they want to be. But we don’t know when that will happen. It could be tomorrow or decades from now.”
“That’s why we have our faith, Salama. It’s our duty to fight, live, and pave the way.”
I admire the way he says it confidently.
“Which is your favorite song?” he asks suddenly.
I’m taken off guard. “Um…‘How Sweet Is Freedom.’”
“Me too.”
“It’s what Baba used to sing all the time before they took him. He had this look about him every time he sang it, and it didn’t hurt that his voice was like a canary.”
“Ibrahim Qashoush was pretty smart to come up with it.”
“All his songs are amazing.”
Ibrahim Qashoush was one of the roots of our revolution. A simple man from Hama who penned most of the popular songs that give us the strength to fight on.
Kenan’s voice is quiet. “May God rest his soul.”
My heart mourns for his loss as if I’ve just received the news. The military caught him. They cut his voice box from his throat so violently his whole head was nearly decapitated. Then he was thrown in the Orontes
River for us to discover.
“Ameen,” I whisper.
“We want freedom! We want freedom! We want freedom!”
The crowd starts chanting each word with the force they’ve been cultivating for fifty years. Kenan joins them, singing in a steady, strong voice, holding an iPhone high to capture each second. I lean closer to him, spellbound by his beautiful voice.
In the corner of my eye, I see Khawf with his arms folded. He notices
me staring and winks.
I grimace.
“This is going on longer than I thought it would,” I say to Kenan. He pauses his recording and leans down to hear me. “When are we supposed to run for our lives? How long until they come?”
“We’re under the Free Syrian Army’s jurisdiction. If the military comes, the FSA will be their first line of attack, and trust me, we’ll know if that happens.”
I nod, but my ears are straining to catch the planes’ death frequencies. I can’t lie to myself and pretend I’m confident I’ll make it to see tomorrow’s sunrise.
I raise my hand to my throat, feeling the way the muscles contract when I swallow. The act makes me feel alive and more aware of my surroundings.
I could hear a butterfly’s wings if I wanted to.
“You okay?” Kenan’s voice echoes everywhere.
I nod. Thankfully he doesn’t press the matter.
“This is inspiring,” I say before he has time to expose my white lie. “I honestly didn’t expect myself to feel so encouraged.”
“Yeah, every time I post footage of a protest on YouTube and read all the comments, I feel like I’m part of a huge change. I’m not a big-shot politician or a well-known activist or anything. If I die, I doubt anyone in
the world would know. I’d just be a number, but still, I feel like I’m changing people’s thoughts. Making them see the truth. Even if it’s one view. Does that make sense?” He glances shyly at me.
“It does.” I smile. “Every time I stitch a person and ease their pain— even if it’s temporary—I feel like I did something. That these people aren’t numbers. They have lives and loved ones, and maybe I helped them in the right direction. If there’s one thing people are scared of, it’s being forgotten.
It’s an irrational fear, don’t you think?”
He scratches the back of his head and breaks into a half smile that could inspire books, and my stomach flips. When his eyes slip to my scarred hands, I don’t cover them with my sleeves. I haven’t thought of them in weeks. Before, I hated how they were a reminder of what I lost, but now they’re a testament to my strength.
I take a deep breath, relishing the fact that the air isn’t stained with blood. A cleansing breeze blows past us, and I catch a glimpse of the world Kenan sees. I see and love it. Truly. But it’s like loving the ocean. It’s unpredictable, the blue sparkling water turning from heavenly to horrifying in a second.
“I think—” I begin, but I don’t have the chance to finish my sentence. I feel the warning before my ears register the noise. Death has a unique tone.
“We need to—” I try again, but I can’t even finish my words.
