“Hamza, don’t tease your sister,” Baba says, walking over to Mama. She immediately engulfs him in a hug, and he wraps his arms around her, murmuring something in her ear.
I can’t bear to see this, so I turn away.
“You’re leaving now?” I ask Hamza, my voice breaking, and I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. I haven’t done that in seven months.
He smiles softly. “The protest is happening after the prayer, so we need to get there early.”
I bite back the urge to wail. He had just turned twenty-two, freshly graduated from medical school, and had applied for a residency at Zaytouna Hospital. He didn’t know he was going to be a father. Would that have stopped him from joining the protests?
“D-don’t go,” I stammer. Maybe this hallucination can end well. Maybe I can change things. “Please, you and Baba. Don’t go today!”
He grins. “You say that every single time.”
I grab his arm tightly, my eyes memorizing his faint scruff, the dimple in one cheek that appears when he smiles. This is the last memory I have of my brother. With time, memories distort, and I know I’ll forget his exact features. I’ll forget Baba’s brown hair, streaked with gray, and the gentle twinkle in his eyes. I’ll forget how Hamza is at least two heads taller and that he and I share the same shade of brown hair. I’ll forget the dimples in Mama’s cheeks and her smile, which lights up the world. Our family photos are buried under the rubble of this building, and I’ll never get them back.
“Ew. Salama, why are you being weird?” he says, and then shakes his head when he sees the tears in my eyes. He adds kindly, “I promise you we’ll come back.”
My lungs constrict. I know what he’s going to say next. I have replayed this conversation in my mind on a loop until the words scramble together.
“But if I don’t…” He takes a deep breath, turning serious. “Salama, if I don’t… then you take care of Layla. You make sure she and Mama are okay. You make sure you three stay alive and safe.”
I swallow hard. “I already promised you that.”
When the people flooded the streets during the very first protest, Hamza immediately took me aside and made me vow exactly that. He was always intuitive. Smart beyond his years. He always sensed when I was down, even if I didn’t say anything. His heart, as soft as a cloud, reached out to everyone around him. He knew that Mama, despite her terror, would need to be dragged out of Syria kicking and screaming, that Layla would scoff if he asked her to run away, leaving him behind. But I would make sure they both stayed alive. I would put my family’s safety above everything. Whoever was left of it.
“Promise me again,” he says fiercely. “I can’t go out there in good conscience without knowing for sure. I need to hear those words.” The honey in his eyes burns like fire.
“I promise,” I manage to whisper. Two words were never heavier.
Now he’s supposed to ruffle my hair before walking out with Baba, never to come back.
But he doesn’t.
His hands grip my shoulders. “Did you?”
I falter. “What?”
The fire rages in his gaze. “After the military took me and Baba, did you get Mama out? Did you save Layla? Or did you throw their lives away?”
My bones rattle.
“Salama, did you lie to me?” Agony drips from his expression.
I back away, pressing my hands to my chest.
“Did you let Mama die?” he asks, his voice louder.
Mama and Baba stand beside him, blood trickling down the right side of Mama’s face. It falls to the ceramic floor she polished every single day. Each drop feels like a knife to the heart.
“I’m sorry,” I plead. “Please. Forgive me!”
“Sorry?” Baba says, his brows furrowed. “You let your mother die. You’re letting Layla die. For what?”
“Mama might forgive you,” Hamza says. “But I won’t. If Layla suffers because of your choices, Salama, I will never forgive you.”
I collapse to the floor, weeping. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Not enough,” they all say in unison.
