Layla can preach about a rosy world, but Khawf and his cynicism are the reality.
When Kenan’s eyes fall on me, he smiles, his whole face brightening like the sun on a spring day, and my heart speeds up.
“Wait a minute,” I tell Am absently.
“What about my Panadol?” he protests.
“I’ll get it for you. One minute,” I say, not taking my eyes off Kenan as I hurry over to him.
His smile deepens when I’m in front of him, and my heart won’t calm down.
“We need to talk,” I say breathlessly.
His expression turns serious at my anxious tone, and he follows me to an empty corner on the other side of the atrium. He maintains a respectable distance from me, but not so far that I wouldn’t be able to whisper.
I cut to the chase. “There’s a way for you and your siblings to leave Syria.”
He blinks, taken aback, and his brows furrow.
“I’m… I’m leaving,” I say.
Two words are enough to shatter whatever flimsy illusion we’d built between us.
“Oh” is all he says.
One syllable in a broken voice is all it takes for the hope to shrivel in my soul. Khawf was right. There’s no happiness here.
He examines his boots, unease written in his expression, but I know he’s not judging me. He knows the terror. He lives it every day.
I bite my cheek. “A boat will leave in a month for Italy. I can negotiate three seats for you and your siblings. You don’t have to kill yourself for this cause.”
He swallows hard once. Twice. A vein pulses on his neck, and an array of emotions flit across his face. Sadness, hurt, guilt, relief.
Finally he says, “I know this is asking a lot, but I’d feel a lot better sending my siblings alone if you’re there with them. You wouldn’t have to do anything, just make sure they get to Italy. My uncle can meet them there.”
“Kenan, listen—”
He shakes his head. “Salama, please. Please don’t ask me to leave. I have to show the world what’s happening.”
His words are certain but his face has settled on one emotion. Fear. The toll of yesterday’s massacre has clearly done more damage to his resolve than the whole year combined. He’s grasping at straws, choosing to deliberately turn away from the horrific truth that’ll cost him more than his life. Conflict creates a storm in his irises, and I think I can read the dark truth at its epicenter. He wants to leave but the guilt is what’s holding him back. His duty to his country. I remember my hallucination of a broken Hamza and wonder when it’ll become Kenan’s reality.
Over his shoulder, I see Am staring at me, interested, and I snap back to Kenan. His shoulders are hunched, and I see the same misery I feel reflected in him.
“I’ll keep my promise to Baba like that,” he mumbles, and it seems it’s more directed to himself than me.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know who told you that leaving is the cowardly thing to do, but it’s not. Saving yourself from people who want to murder youisn’tcowardly.”
He shakes his head. “It all comes down to one truth, Salama. This land is my home. I don’t have another one. Leaving is a death in itself.”
I ball my hands into fists. I’ve already died. I died the day Baba and Hamza were taken. I died the day Mama was murdered. I die every single day that I can’t save a patient, and I died yesterday when I held a little girl’s life hostage. Maybe in Germany some piece of me can be revived.
“The boat costs one thousand dollars per person,” I say. “Well, usually it’s two thousand, but I can bargain. Can you afford that?”
“Yes,” he immediately replies.
I nod. “You have a month, Kenan,” I say in a low voice. “If you don’t change your mind, I’ll make sure your siblings get to Italy, but know that I’m one girl and the road is dangerous. I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety.”
With that, I turn on my heel, catching one last glimpse of his shocked face before I go to the stockroom and fetch Am’s Panadol strip from my bag.
