I pick at my sleeve. “Every day is.”
She shakes her head slightly and pats her lap. “Lay your head.”
And I do.
Layla’s fingers sink into my hair and she starts making small braids. My hijab lies discarded somewhere beside the sofa, and I sigh with relief at her gentle touch. Her pregnant belly cushions my head, and I feel the baby kicking against her stomach. Only fabric, layers of skin, and placental fluid separate it from the terrors of this world.
“Don’t focus on the darkness and sadness,” she says, and I glance up at her. She smiles warmly. “If you do, you won’t see the light even if it’s staring you in the face.”
“What are you talking about?” I mumble.
“I’m saying what’s happening now, as horrible as it is, isn’t the end of the world. Change is difficult, and it’s different depending on what needs to be changed. Look, I’ll even science it up for you. If a cancer has spread, wouldn’t whatever needs to be done to remove it be different than for something like a wart?”
A smile threatens my lips. “Since when do you know medical stuff?”
Her eyes twinkle. “As an artist, I’m a student of life. Humor me, Salama.”
“Well,” I say slowly. “With cancer, we need to perform surgery to take out the tumor, but it’s a tricky process. Chances of survival. Cutting into healthy tissue. It’s a lot to consider.”
“And a wart?”
I shrug. “Just treat it with salicylic acid.”
“And when that cancer surgery is successful, when the patient has fought for their life, wouldn’t their life be improved?”
I nod.
“Don’t you think the Syrian dictatorship is more like a cancer that has been growing in Syria’s body for decades, and the surgery, despite the risks, is better than submitting to the cancer? With something so deeply entrenched in our roots, change doesn’t come easy. It has a heavy price.”
I don’t say anything.
“There is light, Salama,” she continues. “Despite the agony, we arefreefor the first time in over fifty years.”
Her fingers feel heavy in my hair.
“You’re talking as if you want to stay,” I say.
She looks at me meaningfully. Like she knows exactly what I’m hiding in my heart. “The fight isn’t just in Syria, Salama. It’s everywhere. Like I told you, fighting starts here. Not in Germany or anywhere else.”
She chooses her words carefully, and each one squirms through my auditory canal, echoing over my eardrum, right through the nerve cells to my brain. They settle there like little seeds planted between the cells.
“How come you’re not as bitter as I am?” I joke weakly, but it comes out flat and rings truer than I’d like.
When Hamza was arrested, Layla went through two major changes. For the first five weeks she was inconsolable. Sobbing until her throat went hoarse, not eating or showering. Then, suddenly, she was back to her old self. Calm and loving with a smile that could power the entirety of Homs.
“First off, we can’t all be perfect,” she says, and I finally smile. Satisfied, she continues, “Because I see the love you have for me. I see your sacrifice and your kindness. I focus on the hope rather than counting my losses. I have love in my heart because of you. Because of all the help you gave me when… when they took him away.”
A tear blooms in the corner of her eye, slides down her cheek, and I catch it before it reaches her chin. She lost her parents when the bombs started falling. And then, in the middle of mourning her family, in the span of one week, we lost Mama, Baba, and Hamza. Worst of all, we still don’t know whether Hamza and Baba are alive.
I’d like to believe they’ve died. And I know Layla would too. Death is a far more merciful end than living every day in agony.
“If only everyone in the world were like you,” I murmur.
She lets loose a shaky laugh, and I take her hand to grip it firmly. But a thunderous noise outside makes us jump. Whatever warmth we were feeling evaporates, and the air is cold again. Layla squeezes my hand, her eyes closed. I pray with her that it’s nothing.Please God, let it be nothing. Let it not be a raid! Please!
My heart lodges in my throat for several beats, but when no screams pierce the night, Layla relaxes her grip.
“I think it’s just rain,” she whispers, trying to hide the fear from her voice.
