Book Reflection: "As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow" by Zoulfa Katouh

This novel is one of those novel that is hard to read. It makes my heart heavy. The story is set in 2011-2012 Syrian Civil War, where Salama is one of the survivor of the cruel dictatorship.

Favorite book excerpt:

[p.32]

    For me, bandaging patients, trying to heal them, comes with more challenges than just keeping them alive. Sometimes they see me and demand an older, more experienced doctor. At first I used to flinch, try to stop my trembling, and search for an explanation of how all the doctors are bus. That I'm just as capable. But now if anybody tries to cost me precious seconds, I just tell them, This or death. That helps them reach their decision pretty quickly. Working here has hardened and softened my heart in ways I never guessed it would. 

[p. 36]
    My nervous system is going haywire zapping electric impulses all through my body that I can't seem to calm down, no matter what methods I use. My paranoia over Dr. Ziad making an unexpected appearance is high, and I dig my hands into my pocket to hide their trembling. I don't think I'd be able to go on with this conversation if you were to see me. I'm turning my back on my people. 

[p. 37]
    Indecision is a poison germinating in my blood vessels. 

[p. 49]

    ‘And don’t forget to pray. Prayers are answered when rain falls,’ she reminds me.

    The wind blows past me when I open the veranda door to place the buckets outside. It cools my skin's hot flush, and my heart begins to migrate back to its proper place in my chest. I inhale as much of the fallen clouds as I can. They're grey and dense, hopefully bringing protection against the warplanes that could shatter our lives.

    So Layla sleeps on the sofa. I fill it with pillows and blankets. Her eyes are misty, her expression far away. I know that look. She's in the past, and I don't want to jolt her out of her daydream. Even though the memories ache, it's the only way we get to see our loved ones—replaying their words to us, letting our imaginations magnify or soften their voices however we please. Layla moves purely on muscle memory and then lies back against the pillow. 

[p. 54]

    The morning sun please over my shivering body. I get dressed trying to ignore the weight of Khawf’s presence on my life.My stomach rumbles with hunger; my limbs ache. but none of my pain matters as long as I can save lives today. if I can make up for my shortcomings. for all the lives that I couldn't save yesterday.

    The year I spent in pharmacy school didn't prepare me for any of this. Even if I had graduated, it wouldn't have made a difference. I was never supposed to do the work I do now. My first year classes were mostly theoretical, and my lab courses were about mixing simple formulations, laying the foundation to build on in the coming years.

    My first day at the hospital was again to being dropped with no swimming lessons into the deep end. I taught myself how to swim, to kick my legs and stay afloat before the heavy weight of the Waves dragged me down.

    At noon catastrophe strikes in the form of shrapnel training on a nearby Elementary School. on children.

    When they are wheeled in, the world slows down. My legs are rooted in the sticky blood staining my trainers. I'm standing in the middle of the carnage, watching the moments between life and death unfold in front of me. My eyes catch every tear falling and every soul rising to meet it's Creator. 

[p. 57]

    ‘Am I going to die?’ he asks, and I see no fear. Do all six-year-olds know what death is? Or is it only children of war? My hands shake.

[p. 58]

    'Are you scared of death?' I reply instead.

    'I—' He coughs, and a hint of red drips from his lips. My God. ‘I don't know. Baba’s dead. Mama said he's in heaven. Will I go to Heaven too?’

    I shudder in a breath. Yes, you will. You'll see your baba there.’

    He smiles gently.

    ‘Alhamdulillah,’ he whispers. ‘What can I do in Heaven, Auntie?’

    How can a child have so much composure in the face of death?

    I swallow my tears, drowning inwardly. ‘You will play all day. there are games and food and candy and toys and everything you could ever want.’

    ‘Can I talk to God too?’

    I'm taken aback by his question. ‘Of … of course you can, ya omri.’

    ‘Good.’

    We said silently for a few minutes, and I listen as his lungs struggle. already his eyes are losing focus, his breaths becoming shallower by the second.

    I pray for his soul And recite Quran versus in a whisper.

    ‘Auntie — don’t cry — when I go to Heaven — I’ll tell God — everything,’ he chokes out.

    I look up, and his face has gone still. His eyes are glassy, and it looks like little stars are caught in his blue irises.