The epinephrine box slips from my fingers and falls to the ground with a thud. Kenan closes his eyes, and his features become pained with grief. When he finally opens them, he stands and stops at the door. “We’ll meet at the Al-Ameer bakery, okay?”
I nod and he walks away. My heart goes back to beating normally, but the sadness erupts into tears. I tilt my head back and take a deep breath.
“Thinking of backing out?” Khawf asks, appearing in front of me.
“No,” I whisper, and my voice shakes. Not from terror this time. “I hate them.”
“I know,” Khawf replies kindly. “And I must say, it’s a wonderful look on you.” He pauses. “What I showed you last night, Salama… all of those scenarios could come true.”
It hurts to swallow, but my desire to be stronger than the horrors I face far outweighs anything else. It steadies my heart.
“I can’t say I’ll be thrilled if you go today. So are you absolutely ready to face those consequences?”
I nod slowly. “This is the price of a future with freedom, Khawf. It’s a price Hamza pays every day. But I’m Syrian. This ismyland, and just like the lemon trees that have been growing here for centuries, spilled blood won’t stop us. I have my faith in God. He’ll protect me. I’ve been force-fed oppression, but I will no longer swallow its bitter taste. No matter what.”
THE SMALL HAIRS ON THE BACK OF MY NECK RISE INanticipation as I make my way through the people rushing toward the scene of today’s protest.
Freedom Square.
The moon hovers above, showing our way with his gentle touch. Combined with the feeble handmade battery-powered lamps and flashlights, I’m able to see everything. Young men hurry past me, some carrying large signs painted in red.
The bits of conversation reaching my ears are full of hope and determination; people are full of pride that they’re still going strong after a year. I wonder how many more deaths, how much more trauma, until their spirits are truly crushed. Their faith is strong. In both God and the revolution. And now that they’ve tasted true freedom, they can’t go back to the dark days.
The square is supposed to be under the Free Syrian Army’s jurisdiction, so we’ll be safe for a portion of the night, but the military always comes. I pull my hoodie over my head tightly so no one can see my face. Even though the darkness makes it hard to distinguish anyone’s features, it’s better to be safe. In the end it doesn’t really matter; there are no innocents in the eyes of the military. They’ll kill us all, protestors or not. To them, the idea of freedom is infectious, and we need to be put down before it spreads.
I try not to think of Layla and our goodbye. I didn’t think she would let go of me. But whatever happens tonight, I won’t regret it.
Khawf stands tall by my side, looking like an omen of death.
“Remember our deal,” I say, and he rolls his eyes.
“I won’t talk to you with the boy here. But he’s not as oblivious as you think. He already suspects something.”
We’ve finally reached the square and I can hear the protest beginning. The voices are throaty, coming from deep within bruised souls, each finding its own footing before mingling together, strong and united. Each person knows full well that every word might be their last.
“We don’t know that. And even if he does, it’s just suspicion,” I retort, threading my way carefully between people protesting until I find where Kenan told me to meet him. It’s secluded, close to the action, but far enough away if we need to make a run for it. I lean against the wall where a huge chunk of concrete has been obliterated by a shell. Splinters of glass crunch beneath my sneakers.
“Fine. Just make sure your hood covers your face.” Khawf glances around. “Let’s be safe, not sorry.”
I crane my neck and watch the people gather as if they are one soul, one life running through everybody. I see children on the cusp of their teen years, fear stripped from their expressions. There is no room for that here. Young men, raised in the shadows of their parents’ terror, who decided to make this country their own. Old men who grew tired of the dictatorship stepping on them, waiting their whole lives for one spark to light the fire that would burn down this tyranny.
Fear dies here.
A boy about my age or younger walks by. The flashlights gleam over his bare chest. His ribs stick out where skin meets bone.FREEDOMis traced on his chest with charcoal.
“Hey!” I call out in surprise.
He turns my way.
“Aren’t you scared?” I ask loudly.
He looks at me for a second before grinning. “Always. But I’ve got nothing to lose.”
He turns around and dives into the crowd, making for the center of the protest. This place operates at a different level from the hospital, where death clings to the tiled floors. Here, life shines so strong it washes away doubt. I feel peace.
My lungs rejoice with a full breath of air. The pressure on my chest lifts, and I feel lighter. My head whirls, and my tongue itches to begin chanting and singing. Khawf lingers beside me but doesn’t say a word, watching the masses with interest.
One man in the pulse of the crowd taps on his microphone. His voice booms and people start cheering wildly. His words are half drowned by everyone else, but I can make out the gist; he’s recounting what has happened in the last year. It’s unreal to think this has been going on for three hundred and sixty-five days. Time moves differently here. Sorrow does that. Each day is a year, and as each one passes we hope tomorrow will be better.
