Kenan grins as he shakes Dr. Ziad’s hand, thanking him. Dr. Ziad bids us goodbye before leaving to complete his rounds.
“I like him.” Kenan stares after Dr. Ziad admiringly.
“He’s a superhero.” There’s no word to describe Dr. Ziad other than that. “Yalla. Let me show you around the hospital.”
Kenan’s eyes light up with an equal amount of sadness and happiness, and the effect of it plays on my silly notions of hope. On thatmightlife. He listens intently to every word I say as I explain the different departments and how we divide the patients based on the severity of their cases. I tell him about the more common cases we have. Sometimes the shock of seeing bloodied bodies, especially the children shot by snipers, is enough to make me break down. I don’t tell him about the many times that has happened. How often I’ve had to rush out of the hospital and vomit.
We pass the maternity ward on our way back to the main hall.
“This is where the pregnant women stay. We can’t use any sedatives on them because we wouldn’t have enough for surgeries. We’ve lost—some didn’t make it. The worst is when the mother dies but the baby lives. The babies are there.” I point toward the other room adjacent to the hall.
He grimaces in sympathy and turns around, sees the babies inside.
“They’re in incubators?”
“Yes. I—um—I don’t like coming here. Seeing them so small and defenseless, it’s too much. Some were pulled out of their mothers’ wombs and need the incubators to survive. Others are a few months old and sick.”
“What happens when they get better?”
I grimace. “The lucky ones have family. The others either stay here until an orphanage can take them…” I shudder. “I don’t want to bury babies.”
My heart races.
Lotus. Pinkish leaves. Stabilizes blood pressure. Heals inflammations. Lotus. Lotus. Lotus.
When he doesn’t say anything, I glance at him. His eyes are still glued to the metal boxes, the ones keeping the babies alive, and a flicker of emotion passes across his face. He grits his teeth, and a vein flexes on his neck.
“You feel helpless, Salama. But I…” His tone is quiet but livid. “No one deserves this. Here babies are starving, while in cities like Damascus people are throwing away their leftover lunch because they’re full.”
I can feel him shaking without touching him. I don’t spare much thought for the people in Damascus, where a few protests were quickly squashed under the boot of the government and people returned to their “normal” lives. If Damascus should ever fall from the dictatorship’s clutches, its grip would vanish from all of Syria. Damascus is the capital. Every decision made there has effects that ripple all over the country. She is their stronghold. Victories for our ancestors throughout history are embedded in her soil. But she belongs to the people who are laying down their lives to free her.
It amazes me how there’s only a two-and-a-half-hour drive between Homs and Damascus. In one city, people are being pulled from the ruins of bombed-out buildings, and in the other, people sit in cafés drinking coffee and laughing. I try not to think about that. I have distant family there. As do most people in Homs. In the end, we’re all somewhat related.
“There’s no use being angry about that,” I say sadly. “We all have different paths to walk. For what it’s worth, at least we’re doing the right thing.”
He taps his fist against his forehead a few times. “You see the military beating people up in the streets, dragging them away, and murdering them, and you see your kid siblings trying to warm themselves at night, and you think it can’t get any worse. But this, Salama, this is where hope dies. The fact they don’t know what’s going on becausehow could they?They’re babies. They’re just babies.”
I remember Ahmad, the way his body was hollowed out like a shell. His labored breaths and the vast calm in his eyes as he accepted death. He was also just a baby.
Kenan’s not done either. “Salama, that’s not even the worst part. How can you guarantee the bombs won’t hit the hospital? How—”
“Don’t,” I whisper. He faces me and catches the terror on my face. “Don’t say it.”
He shudders, nodding.
This time, we’re both thinking the same horrible thoughts.
That our days at the hospital are numbered. That it’s only the Free Syrian Army in Old Homs who are defending us against the military. We are surrounded from all corners and the sky. Any day now the military could drop a bomb and obliterate this flimsy shelter of ours to fragments. That if, God forbid, Layla gives birth here with no hospital, her chances of survival would be almost nonexistent. That is, if everything else doesn’t get her first.
My eyes dart all over, searching for Khawf, waiting for him to threaten me or magnify the fears as a punishment for not finding Am first thing this morning. But he isn’t here. Kenan follows my gaze, his sadness changing to confusion.
“What are you looking for?”
“No one,” I answer rather too quickly.
“No one?” he repeats, and I chastise myself.
“Nothing,” I amend. “I mean nothing.” Before he can say anything, I continue, “I have to go. You know where the patients are.”
