I notice many people taking out their phones and recording. Some slip pieces of paper marked with the date and location from under their jackets, along with a few sentences: “Go to hell, Assad,” “We’re coming for you,” “We fear no one except God,” and “Assad is a murderer.”
One of them stands out to me. In perfect red-studded letters they spell out an old poem.
“Every lemon will bring forth a child and the lemons will never die out.”
The lemons are still growing, flowering, nourishing the revolution. I remember the lemonade Mama used to make for me during the summer. I can almost taste its cold, sour-sweet flavor, and my mouth waters at the thought. My heart craves those freshly picked lemons and Mama’s loving glance when she handed me the lemonade. I shake my head, banishing that longing away.
Not here.
Now my nerves are jangling like I’ve injected myself with adrenaline. My hands can’t stop shaking, so I rub them together. I take comfort in the solid slab of concrete supporting me, but when I look down, I see hints of red scratched into the gray. I inhale sharply and force myself to look ahead.
The revolution’s flag is flying high over our heads, and it makes me dream of a day when we can raise it in our schools, proudly singing the national anthem. When it will represent us worldwide. For now, this flag is our shield against the cold winters, the bombs falling from the sky, and the bullets that tear into our bodies. In death, it’s our shroud, our corpses swaddled in it as we return to the soil we vowed to protect.
The individual voices are one and louder than life. “How Sweet Is Freedom” soars into the air, captured by the cameras in low quality to be transmitted to the whole world. I’ve heard this song more times than I can count. It’s everywhere. It’s the alphabet of our revolution. Our children will be taught it as soon as they learn to speak. Patients’ weary voices rattle the walls of our hospital with it. It’s the salve against their wounds. I’ve had many on my operating table unconsciously humming it to themselves. It’s become rooted in their brain cells, and nothing can ever remove it.
I sing softly, my voice a contrast against the deep resounding ones thundering into the skies above us. A prayer in song.
“Salama.”
His voice washes over me like sunlight. I turn, trying to suppress a smile. His clothes are identical to mine. Old jeans and a black hoodie. His hair is swept back and streaked with wet droplets as if he’s dunked his head in a bowl of water.
“Hey.” I nod nonchalantly, remembering the way his eyes searched me in that stockroom and how the words he said have folded themselves between my ribs, cushioning my broken heart. The heart that loves him.
“How are you?” His gaze flits bashfully from me to the ground. He’s probably thinking about that moment too.
“Fine,” I whisper.
“How’s Layla?”
His concern makes my withered heart bloom. “Scared for me, but good.” I pause, finding a topic that will bring a drop of serotonin. “How happy were Lama and Yusuf when you told them you’re coming?”
He smiles. “Happier than they’ve been in a long time. Lama burst into tears and Yusuf wouldn’t let go of me.”
“Yusuf still doesn’t—I mean he’s—” I don’t know how to say the words without sounding insensitive.
“No,” he says sorrowfully. “He still doesn’t talk.”
In some ways, Yusuf reminds me of myself. I wonder if there are hurricanes in his mind that he doesn’t know how to articulate. Khawf is a burden I don’t know how to share with anyone. I desperately want to. The loneliness makes my throat close up and tears prick in my eyes. It’s a pressure that builds and builds until it fissures through my skin and bones.
“We’ll find help for him in Germany,” I assure Kenan.
He scratches the back of his head. “We?”
My ears feel hot and I take a deep breath. Why are we dancing around this? I know exactly how I feel about him, and his expressions tell no lies. I know he feels the same. “We won’t be separated there, right?”
He turns fully toward me and his hand slips into his pocket. He looks hopeful. “Salama, I don’t ever want to—” he begins softly.
Suddenly a cheer resounds in the crowd and we jump, blushing furiously. The man holding the microphone begins a new song in his deep, somber voice. I notice Kenan didn’t bring his camera.
We stand in silence, watching emotions sizzle in the crowd. Between songs, we send prayers for the souls of the martyrs, and for the ones suffering in imprisonment. I brush a tear from my eye. How lonely Hamza must be.
After a while, Kenan asks, “Do you see the colors?”
My lips turn into a sad smile. “Yeah.” I glance at the trees lining one side of the street. Leaves pattern the trunks, spiraling around in circles to the top. “There’s life in the smallest, simplest of things. I see why this is happening. Freedom was never an easy price; it’s paid with—”
“Blood. More than we ever thought possible,” he finishes bitterly.
“Yeah,” I croak.
