“But you knew that all along.” He stares ahead. “Do you think it’s worth it?”
Five more verses of the song float up.
I remember the blond Free Syrian Army soldier who was at peace with his right arm being amputated.I still have another one, don’t I?
“I don’t know. Iwantit to be worth it. I want to know the grass growing over the martyrs’ graves will give life to a generation who can be whoever they want to be. But we don’t know when that will happen. It could be tomorrow or decades from now.”
“That’s why we have our faith, Salama. It’s our duty to fight, live, and pave the way.”
I admire the way he says it confidently.
“Which is your favorite song?” he asks suddenly.
I’m taken off guard. “Um…‘How Sweet Is Freedom.’”
“Me too.”
“It’s what Baba used to sing all the time before they took him. He had this look about him every time he sang it, and it didn’t hurt that his voice was like a canary.”
“Ibrahim Qashoush was pretty smart to come up with it.”
“All his songs are amazing.”
Ibrahim Qashoush was one of the roots of our revolution. A simple man from Hama who penned most of the popular songs that give us the strength to fight on.
Kenan’s voice is quiet. “May God rest his soul.”
My heart mourns for his loss as if I’ve just received the news. The military caught him. They cut his voice box from his throat so violently his whole head was nearly decapitated. Then he was thrown in the Orontes River for us to discover.
“Ameen,” I whisper.
“We want freedom! We want freedom! We want freedom!”
The crowd starts chanting each word with the force they’ve been cultivating for fifty years. Kenan joins them, singing in a steady, strong voice, holding an iPhone high to capture each second. I lean closer to him, spellbound by his beautiful voice.
In the corner of my eye, I see Khawf with his arms folded. He notices me staring and winks.
I grimace.
“This is going on longer than I thought it would,” I say to Kenan. He pauses his recording and leans down to hear me. “When are we supposed to run for our lives? How long until they come?”
“We’re under the Free Syrian Army’s jurisdiction. If the military comes, the FSA will be their first line of attack, and trust me, we’ll know if that happens.”
I nod, but my ears are straining to catch the planes’ death frequencies. I can’t lie to myself and pretend I’m confident I’ll make it to see tomorrow’s sunrise.
I raise my hand to my throat, feeling the way the muscles contract when I swallow. The act makes me feel alive and more aware of my surroundings. I could hear a butterfly’s wings if I wanted to.
“You okay?” Kenan’s voice echoes everywhere.
I nod. Thankfully he doesn’t press the matter.
“This is inspiring,” I say before he has time to expose my white lie. “I honestly didn’t expect myself to feel so encouraged.”
“Yeah, every time I post footage of a protest on YouTube and read all the comments, I feel like I’m part of a huge change. I’m not a big-shot politician or a well-known activist or anything. If I die, I doubt anyone in the world would know. I’d just be a number, but still, I feel like I’m changing people’s thoughts. Making them see the truth. Even if it’s one view. Does that make sense?” He glances shyly at me.
“It does.” I smile. “Every time I stitch a person and ease their pain—even if it’s temporary—I feel like I did something. That these peoplearen’tnumbers. They have lives and loved ones, andmaybeI helped them in the right direction. If there’s one thing people are scared of, it’s being forgotten. It’s an irrational fear, don’t you think?”
He scratches the back of his head and breaks into a half smile that could inspire books, and my stomach flips. When his eyes slip to my scarred hands, I don’t cover them with my sleeves. I haven’t thought of them in weeks. Before, I hated how they were a reminder of what I lost, but now they’re a testament to my strength.
