As Lama settles back to sleep, I wrap another blanket around her.
He stares at his sister’s face, taking her small hand in his, engulfing it completely. When he speaks, it’s dreamlike.
“She’s the youngest in the family. We were all so happy when she was born. Two boys are a handful, and then this angel came into the world. I remember the sound of Baba crying with joy when the nurse told him she was a girl. She was so spoiled. A butterfly touching her skin was a catastrophe. We never let any harm come to her. How could we call ourselves her brothers then? Her protectors? And now… her body is hurt by hatred.” His voice breaks, frustrated and angry. “I failed. I couldn’t protect her. Yusuf hasn’t even spoken since my parents died, and he flinches at the slightest sound. She and I were the ones who were able to keep it together. Not letting the cracks show. But… they’re finally making her suffer. I promised Baba I’d protect them with my life and… I’ve let him down.”
With shaking hands, he tucks the blanket around her more securely. I think of Baba and Hamza. And Layla.
Please be okay, Layla, I pray.Please.
“What do you do during the day?” I ask, trying to change a horrible subject to one less horrible by a fraction.
“For money? I have family in Germany. They send some whenever they can.”
I fiddle with my fingers. “The hospital doesn’t pay, but it’s something to help the people. Although who knows if I’m staying long en—”
I immediately stop talking, and Kenan looks up, his brows furrowed. It’s easy for him to piece it together from the mortification on my face. I press my hands against my chest, recitingdaisies, daisies, daisies. I can’t believe I let that slip. Thismustbe the lack of sleep and today’s horror catching up with me.
“You’re going to leave?” he asks.
I ponder for a minute. “I don’t know.”
He looks confused. “You don’t know?”
I chew my tongue. “Wouldn’tyouleave, given the chance?”
He has two very malnourished siblings under his care as reasons to leave, so what’s stopping him? The hospital is the only thing holding me back.
“No,” he says without hesitation, looking me straight in the eye.
“What—what about Yusuf and Lama?”
He inhales sharply and glances at Lama. Her face is scrunched with pain, her mouth parted as she breathes. Strands of hair are plastered to her forehead, and Kenan brushes them away, his fingers shaking. “I’d—I’d probably send my siblings alone if it were safe for them, but it’s not. Yusuf is thirteen. She’s nine. They… they can’t make it on their own.”
I stare at him. “Then why don’tyouleave with them?”
The sadness disappears from his eyes, replaced with a ferocious intensity. “This is my country. If I run away—if I don’t defend it, then who will?”
I can’t believe the words I’m hearing.
“Kenan,” I begin slowly, and I don’t know if it’s the wavering candlelight, but his cheeks look flushed. “We’re talking about your siblings’ lives.”
He swallows hard. “And I’m talking about my country. About the freedom I’m so rightly owed. I’m talking about burying Mama and Baba and telling Lama they’ll never come back home. How—” His voice breaks. “How do I leave that? When for the first time in my whole life I’m breathing free Syrian air?”
How can he be so obstinate? I want to shake him.
“I don’t get it. How is your staying here helping thiswar? Is it just bybreathing free Syrian air?”
Kenan frowns at my word choice, but he doesn’t comment on it. He takes in a deep breath and says, “I record the protests.”
I lose all feeling in my knees and my stomach plummets. “You… you what?” I whisper.
He shudders and his hold tightens on Lama’s hand. “It’s why I can’t leave. I’m showing the people—the world—what’shappeninghere.” He nods to his laptop. “I upload the videos on YouTube when the electricity is back.”
My nails drag nervously against the floor. “Why are you telling me this? You do realize if you were found out, you’d be worse than dead? If the Free Syrian Army fails to defend us from the military, you’ll be arrested.”
Kenan laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “Salama, they’re arresting people for no reason. They’ll torture me for answers I don’t have, knowing full well I don’t have them. And I’m not the only one who’s recording. There are so many of us protesting in our own way. In Daraya, one man, Ghiath Matar, gives out roses to the army soldiers. He fights guns with flowers. And I know in my heart they see that as a threat. Any form of protest, peaceful or not, is a threat to the dictatorship. So it doesn’t matter to them if I record or not. I live in a place the Free Syrian Army protects. We’re all in the same danger, because we’re all in Old Homs. I’m complicit just by existing here. If I’m guilty either way, I might as well protest.” He looks at my hands, and I cover them again with my sleeves. He’s too far away for me to read the flash of emotion searing in his eyes. But it looks like pain.
My mouth is dry, and I stare at him. I don’t believe he’s that indifferent to the threat of being arrested. My gaze slips to the side, to the bedroom’s doorway, and I see Yusuf’s eyes peeking out beneath his messy hair. He’s a thirteen-year-old boy; he’s supposed to be on the brink of leaving behind the innocent wonder he enjoyed in his childhood as adolescence shapes his mind and stretches his limbs. But I don’t see that in him. I see a frightened boy regressing into a child. Desperate to return to a time that was safe. Back when his parents were alive and his greatest worry was whether he’d be allowed to watch an extra hour of cartoons. His eyes are huge and full of tears. He fully understands the choices his brother is making. And the consequences.
