“No you’re not. Your sister needs you.”
“I’m sorry, are you my mother?” he argues. “I make my own decisions, thank you very much. Let’s go.”
“You can’t—” I begin, shaking my hands for emphasis.
“Yusuf can take care of things until I’m back. He’s not incompetent.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to answer before he’s out the door.
Dammit!Now I have to worry about his life and whether his soul will be on my conscience.
Yusuf is out of his room, glancing shyly at me before sitting next to Lama.
“Take care of her, okay? And yourself,” I say. He nods, and I ignore the pang in my stomach at the sight of his tattered shirt and narrow frame.
Kenan has to leave, I decide,before these children bury their brother too.
I peek outside, equally pleased and scared to see the sun shining down on us. On one hand, it provides warmth against the last traces of winter, while on the other, it provides perfect conditions for snipers.
There are a few men standing in front of Kenan’s building, holding chipped mugs of tea, deep in discussion, while a couple of children zoom about, shouting excitedly. I even hear a few laughs and clutch that shred of innocence that’s still alive and fighting, tucking it safely in my heart.
Loose gravel crunches under our shoes as we make our way to my home. We pass by a run-down bakery still operating. A long line is outside, people warming their hands and pulling tightly on their coats. They wait patiently, although there’s an edginess in their eyes, all worrying the bread will run out and they’ll have to return to their families empty-handed.
With each step we take, I come to terms with the decision I made last night. Enveloped in the darkness and illuminated by feeble candlelight, it was easy to make. It was a secret I was able to whisper to myself. But now in the blazing sunlight that lays my soul bare, it feels like a permanent stain of shame.
I glance at Kenan’s tall form. Not even the baggy jacket can hide the sharp edges of his elbows or his bony hands. He’s not supposed to look like this. He and his siblings should be healthy and safe and happy. He should be working on his Japanese and trying to get into Studio Ghibli.
He can’t stay here.
“Are you really staying in Homs?” I whisper. “Are you really going to die here?”
He stops walking and turns around to look at me with surprise.
“I’m not planning on getting killed,” he says slowly.
I shake my head. “At the rate you’re going, with your ambitions and dangerous thoughts, thatwillbe how your story ends. Would your parents be okay with that? If you were taken away and your siblings were left alone to suffer and mourn for you? What about the promise you made to your father?”
He stares at me, a deep sadness settling on his expression.
“I was the only girl in my family,” I say. “An older brother, Hamza. He was my world. My best friend. My everything. He and Baba were at a protest, and they couldn’t get away when the military swooped in. A week later, Mama died when a bomb fell on our building.”
“Salama,” he says. His tone is soft, almost frightened of what I’m about to say.
But I continue. “I lost my family and you still have yours. I see it every day at the hospital: People would sell their souls for another minute with their loved ones. I would.”
The backs of my eyes burn, but I stop myself from breaking down.
Daisies. Daisies. Sweet-smelling daisies.
“I tried to visit them in prison. But I wasn’t allowed to see them. I was about to be arrested myself, and it was a miracle they let me walk free. They warned me not to come back.”
He takes in a shuddering breath and I quickly brush away the tear falling down my cheek.
I remember it all, the stench of oxidized blood, the faint screams echoing against my ears. It was a few weeks before the siege on Old Homs happened. The prison isn’t in Old Homs, and I was able to walk into the detention facility with trembling limbs. The wound on the back of my head was in the early scarring stages and Khawf was beginning to plague my nights. Layla hadn’t the slightest idea of what I was doing because she was bedridden with grief, her eyes vacant, tears streaming down her cheeks like two rivers.
“Salama Kassab,” the military man said, leaning heavily back in his chair and skimming through a coffee-stained list. I hoped it was coffee.
“Yes.” I gripped the edges of the old leather couch where the stuffing was coming out, all wrinkly and moldy yellow.
