I nod. This decision clears my mind. I want my voice to join my people’s. I want to sing my sorrows away. I want to mourn our martyrs. This may be the last time I’ll ever feel as if I’m a part of Syria before the boat whisks me away. I don’t want this fear anymore.
Kenan stands, looking away, and then he says in a rather rough tone, “You called it a revolution.”
I glance at my sneakers. “Well… that’s what it is.”
He fidgets with his jacket’s sleeve before turning to me. “Let me take you home.”
I look up. “Your siblings?”
“Trust me. I wouldn’t be offering if I wasn’t sure they’re all right,” he says. “Insh’Allah.”
“Let me get my bag, then.” I pick myself up and move toward the doors, but my hand grips the handle tightly, my muscles freezing me. The anger is there, but it hasn’t erased the weight the dead leave on my shoulders.
“I’ll get it. It’s in the stockroom, right?” Kenan says softly. I nod. When he opens the door to slip inside, the coughs and soft cries of the injured make my throat constrict before the door falls shut, muting them.
Our walk back is filled with silence, and I allow myself to stare at him, taking notice of the way his shoulders are slumped. I sense a storm raging in his mind as well. What he’s seen today is quickly splintering his resolve to leave. But he must know that in this equation, there’s no right answer. Leaving is the lesser of two evils. The outside world isn’t safe for his siblings to venture to on their own, and Kenan would be destroyed if anything happened to them. But I need to know—need tohearthe words once more.
When we reach my front door, he leans his head against the bullet-riddled wall.
“You’re still coming with us, right?” I whisper, and he looks at me.
“Yes,” he says quietly.
He pushes himself off, runs a hand through his hair. There’s a glassy look in his eyes, and he kicks a stray pebble. It bounces away, clattering pathetically against some debris.
“I just—” he begins, blowing out forcefully. “Salama, I feel so helpless. I’m leaving them behind. And after what happened today?” Pain sears in his eyes. “Syria needs me, and I’m abandoning her.”
I shake my head. “No you’re not. What our people are doing here—the protests? That’s beautiful and much needed, but whose minds are you changing here? You can doso muchfrom the outside. You can physically reach the people leaving the comments on your videos. With your talent for weaving stories, we need your voice to amplify those here. That’s howyoufight.”
He stares at me, a faint pink blush dusting his cheeks.
“And wewillcome back,” I say, my voice wavering. “Insh’Allah, we will come back home. We will plant new lemon trees. We’ll rebuild our cities, and wewillbe free.”
I turn to look at the dying sunset and then up at the twilight blue eating away the light. Night approaches fast, but I know it’s not eternal. This blanket of darkness isn’t our forever. Their evil isn’t forever. Not as long as we have our faith and Syria’s history running in our veins.
“Salama,” Kenan whispers.
The way he’s looking at me makes the air vanish from my alveoli. It’s a look I’ve only read about in books and seen in movies. Never one I thought I’d experience in real life, and certainly not in these circumstances.
He comes closer, his fingers touching the edge of my lab coat, and everything stills. The dead leaves dancing beside our feet, the cold breeze, the chirping birds. Everything. Even my mind.
My heart migrates from its position in my chest cavity all the way up to my esophagus, and I stare at his long fingers grasping the top of my pocket.
“You’re right. We will come back,” he whispers, and I dare to glance up. I’m intoxicated by the way he’s staring at me. So close, so kind, so beautiful.
A newfound need rises in me to touch his cheeks, to bring him closer and feel his stubble under my hands. To just forget all this pain.
His emerald eyes drop to my lips for a few seconds, and then he looks away.
“Salam,” he whispers, and then he’s gone.
Life comes back to the world, the leaves rustle. And I’m left yearning for more.
“So you’re going?” Layla asks quietly, and I lean my head against her shoulder, my arm linked through hers. We haven’t moved from this spot on the couch since I came home, our limbs still slightly shaky from today’s terror.
“You think I shouldn’t?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all. This is your path in life, Salama. Besides, you’re Hamza’s sister, I’m not surprised. But what made you decide to go?”
