“You sure it wasn’t because you were protesting and got what you deserved?” the soldier says offhandedly, and horror almost stops my heart. Yusuf and Lama become statues. Even Am jolts upright before twisting in his seat.
“I wouldn’t have criminals in my car,” he says as if the very idea offends him.
Kenan’s face betrays nothing, but I can feel how tense he is. “Yes.”
“How about I search through your things to make sure none of you are a threat to this country?” the soldier asks.
We’re carrying nothing that would incriminate us, but it won’t matter to him. If he wanted, he could pass the lemons off as bombs. Claim the USB stick containing my family photos is filled with classified information.
But I know what the soldier is doing. Torture isn’t only physical.
My hands tremble as I hold up my bag, and I resign myself to this fate.
I’ll never see the Mediterranean Sea.
He snatches it and unzips it, then shakes it out violently, everything inside crashing and rolling away. Thankfully my passport, school certificate, and gold are hidden in the small pocket. He makes no comment on the strangeness of what I’ve packed for visiting family. He knows where we’re actually headed.
“All clear,” he says lazily, dropping the bag on the ground. “Get your shit.”
I throw Kenan a glance before opening the door and bending down to collect my discarded belongings.
Humiliation burns through me. My jeans are smeared with dirt and sharp pebbles prick my hands. One lemon has tumbled under the car. After grabbing it, I straighten up, pushing down the hatred in my eyes. The soldier rests one arm over the open door, his eyes roaming me from head to toe. Revulsion threatens to choke me.
I tentatively sit back down and he slams the door so forcefully we all jump.
“Give me the money,” he says to Am, and Am needn’t be told twice.
The soldier counts the bills, satisfied, and tucks them in his breast pocket. He reaches through my opened window and lightly tugs at the end of my hijab. It slips a bit, my bangs falling out.
“You’d be prettier without it.” He smiles, cocking his head to the side, expecting an answer. And from the way Kenan moves, I know he’s at his boiling point—about to do something reckless—and I have to intervene.
“Thank you,” I manage, wanting nothing more than to claw the guard’s eyes out.
“Have fun with your…family,” the soldier says and slaps the back of the car.
Am steps on the gas and the tires screech, dust billowing behind as we race off.
Once we’re far enough away, we let out a collective breath and I shudder, tucking my bangs in.
“Are you okay?” Kenan immediately asks me, and I nod, eyes closed, before resting my head on his shoulder and linking my arm through his.
“I’m fine,” I whisper. “Nothing matters as long as we get out.”
“That was a close one.” Am fumbles in his pocket, takes out another crumpled cigarette.
“How many borders are left?” I ask, breathing in Kenan’s lemon scent.
“Fifteen to twenty.”
Kenan takes in a sharp breath and I groan.
“Don’t worry. That one is usually the toughest because it’s the first after leaving Homs. The rest are closer to one another and they’re a… bit more lenient.”
I almost snort at the unconvincing tone he’s used and roll the window up, not wanting to risk a cold.
“How come you’ve never tried to get out?” I ask Am bluntly.
“None of your business.”
