My Brother and Lemons

Insh’allah: god willing

Habibi: my love

It is not really the ‘horror of the shade,’ as said by William Ernest Henley, that I have come to terms with, but the light. We need not fear what is deemed as darkness, because it swallows and engulfs just as radiance does. It caresses our deepest fears and cradles our innermost joys, just like an illumination of our souls would. I have decided that I will no longer call it the ‘shade,’ because it gives the impression of being a stark opposite of light. What is the difference if they have stolen my brother’s life alike? I guess that light simply sounds less daunting, less formidable. It sounds more like Heaven.

“Ibrahim! Habibi, just walk back to me. This way, towards the edge of the field. See? I’m pointing to it.” I try to coerce him to walk back towards our windswept, bleak home, where the buildings are bombed out and the sky is so miserable and sick it hasn’t cried in months. We’re standing on the outskirts of a dusty, cracked soccer field with one goal post laying mangled on the ground, suffocating from its lack of use. Ibrahim wandered a step too far into the field. The sound of an old, too small soccer ball being kicked by the boys of Homs disappeared ever since Assad’s military planted mines everywhere. And then the boys of Homs disappeared too: disappeared into Heaven, into the army, or into the Mediterranean Sea. That’s not supposed to happen to Ibrahim too. 

“Ibrahim please, just slowly walk back to where the dirt meets the cement, right here. Do you see the cracks in the asphalt and the bullet casings next to it? You just need to get to there. Come back, please . . .” I say, my voice breaking and my arms outstretched. “Ibrahim, I’m sure the store will have a lemon or two, your favorite. We can put some in our water and pretend it’s Mama’s tea. Just walk back - I’m right here. Just move away from the field. You will be okay, insh’allah.” Ibrahim doesn’t understand and his blue, innocent eyes blink as he takes a step in the wrong direction, towards my biggest nightmare.

“No, don’t!” I yell, but I act too late and must watch as my world is destroyed. 

After the revolt, the crackdown, and the siege on Homs, Mama got caught in the crossfire of the Free Syrian Army and we buried her in July. At least her death was painless and quick, unlike Papa who choked to death on Mama’s memory and hung himself three weeks later. Sweet, sweet Zoulfa with her steady hand and loving arms was bombed while she was saving lives at the last hospital in Homs. We didn’t bury her because I couldn’t bear to have Ibrahim see his eldest sister mutilated, crushed, and lowered into the dying dirt without a coffin. 

He was too young to comprehend our loss and the heartache and guilt that has eaten away at my sanity for years now, because it was my job to protect him. An older sister should be able to shield her brother from the terrors of war, massacre, and suffering, and yet I have failed. I couldn’t protect him. The dusty, gray streets echo the emptiness I feel now. Hollowed out homes resemble my heart: lonely, desolate, and with no reason to continue standing.

My world, like my favorite blue and gold hijab, has been tearing apart for years now, with the final threads of Ibrahim’s smile and laughter being the only parts holding it together. I told Ibrahim that if I ever didn’t come home one day it would be because I finally got to meet Allah in Paradise. I never expected he would meet Allah first.

It reminds me of the day Zoulfa came home shaking, crystal tears streaming down her broken face. A patient at the hospital who had a working iPad showed the staff a video of a 3-year-old boy, only a toddler, on his deathbed. That little boy in Damascus said, “Don’t worry. I’m going to tell God everything.” He walked into Death’s arms, unafraid, with faith in his God and his people. He had cracked lips, a starved body, and scars everywhere. Red blood trickling down his head was the only color in the room. He was innocent and beautiful, yet he passed on with the world watching and standing still. 

I hope that Ibrahim talks to God too. I hope he tells God that I haven’t eaten in 3 days, or that my 9-months pregnant neighbor was just shot by a sniper while buying groceries a block away. I hope he tells God that four of my classmates attending a protest were brutally slaughtered and left to swing from lampposts, which Ibrahim and I discovered the next day as we went to the market. God should know that my childhood best friend has gone missing and that Zoulfa’s husband, whose wife and infant sons are dead, is tormented every day in Saydnaya prison, praying for death instead of enduring hell on Earth. I hope Ibrahim tells God that his people are suffering and praying for salvation. 

I see Death fly in front of me as the mine explodes in slow motion. The mangled goal post flies a few feet in the air before landing in a crumpled heap. I rush towards Ibrahim’s small, malnourished body, and hold him in my arms. I sit cross-legged and prop him up in my lap as I gently trail my pinky finger down his nose, over and over again. I put my other hand on his heart. 

“Layla, will I go to Heaven?” He asks, looking up at my tearstained face. My tears slowly drip, down, down, down, until I watch them hit the ground. I look back at him, trying to memorize every detail of his face: his blue eyes, his long eyelashes, and that one mole by his left eyebrow. His skin is the color of Syria’s beaches in August, and his hair is as dark as the Arabian nights. His body is trembling, and his face betrays his fear. I can’t bear to see him scared for his future, though I am. 

“Of course, habibi, you will go to Heaven. God will kiss you and hold you tight, just like I am now. Okay? He will never let go.” Ibrahim nods. 

“Can you tell me what it looks like?” He asks, coughing loudly enough to scare away the watching birds. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” I say, gently crying. “Heaven is absolutely beautiful, like nothing you’ve ever seen. There is a lush garden with flowers and trees, and a clear, blue river. You will laugh and play all day there.” Ibrahim smiles, his body easing into mine. 

“And will I see Mama and Papa? And Zoulfa too?” He asks, sweetly, his voice fading. I bury my face into his hair, smelling the lemon scent he always liked.

“Yes, my love. You will see them there,” I choke out. They will run towards you and shower you in hugs and kisses, and then bring you to a place where you can all live together forever and ever. And I will be back on Earth, loving you forever and ever too.” He looks up at me, his eyelids drooping and his body relaxing. 

“Forever and ever?” He asks.

“Forever and ever.” I say. He closes his eyes and his grip around my waist loosens. 

“I love you, Layla,” He whispers. 

“I love you too Ibrahim,” I whisper back. His small body slackens in mine, and his chest stops moving. I want to think he’s just sleeping, even though I know he’s not. One of my tears splatters on his right cheek and slowly slips away down the side of his face until it dissolves into the dirt. I hold his body tightly to mine, and stand up carrying him like a baby. His face is against mine and still warm. 

I walk a few blocks to where we buried Mama and Papa, and sit against their gravestone. I hold Ibrahim in my lap and let out a heart-wrenching scream. He was almost 7 years old. He had barely lived before his dreams, hopes, and life was stolen by malicious monsters void of humanity, hiding behind bullets, missiles, and mines. I hope Heaven is drowned in tears and guilt tonight, weeping for the loss of an innocent life, a child, a brother; a person.

He was loved. So very, very loved, and yet was subjugated to violence inflicted by an inhumane regime overlooked by everyday people. Living under the constant shadow of death has blinded people into indifferent bystanders, watching as the killing of over 30,000 children occurs, including my little brother, my world.

I remember after I would come home from school, he would beg me to chase him in the backyard or bring him to the nearest candy store. I always brushed him off, telling him “later, later, later, later, later”. Now, I don’t get a ‘later’. He had this little action figure of a superhero, Spider Man, I think it was. He used to say, “Watch me, Layla! I’m Spider-Man,” and he’d jump around the house pretending to release spider webs from his wrists. I remember how he’d snuggle on my lap after we watched a scary movie, and how he always wanted to help me make dinner. He got top marks at school and wanted to be a soccer player when he grew up. I remember his smile and laughter because it was so contagious. The way he would light up a room when he walked in was always something I envied. His favorite color was green, his favorite animal was the kangaroo he never got to see, and he loved the smell of lemons, especially the ones from the tree in our backyard. He said there was something special about them - he could feel it. He said, in words so wise for his age, that the lemons are like the people of Syria, dusty and overlooked, but relentless. Yellow glimmers of hope in a desolate, gray world.

On Friday nights, if Papa came back early from work, we would sit on our brown couch that smelled of cinnamon and play games. I always beat Ibrahim in checkers, but Zoulfa was the best at backgammon. Mama would bring out a tray of warm bread and we would all kneel together during the time of evening prayer.

I remember when he was born too. We traveled to Aleppo to the best hospital in Syria while there was unrest in Homs. That was where Zoulfa developed her love of medicine. We were standing outside of the room when Mama gave the final push, and I got to hold him in a soft blanket the color of lemons. His tiny fingers wrapped around mine and he peered into my eyes. That was when I swore I would protect him with my life. I tried. I really tried, and yet I still failed.

His name was Ibrahim Ali Katouh, and he was born in Aleppo on January 15th, at 10:56 AM. He was my little brother and my world. Without him, I have nothing to live for. Every day is a struggle. I am starving, tired, and my bruised body cannot take another blow. I don’t know how I am supposed to let go. How can I lay him in a hole and never see his beautiful face again? How can I go on as the last memories of him and my family slowly fade away until I don’t remember? How can I go on living without him?

The only thing I long for in my bleak and agonizing life is to see my family. I was not truly living after Mama, Papa, and Zoulfa’s deaths, but merely surviving for Ibrahim. Working and breathing and running and enduring for him. And the worst part is that no one will know. Aid workers or UNESCO officials might find a body or a grave and add a tally to their endless list, but no one except me will remember his favorite jersey or the smell of his shampoo or his piercing blue eyes. No one will know how much I loved him, or the hole I will forever carry in my heart. Nothing can fill that void. 

I press my lips to his dusty forehead and lay him next to Mama and Papa before walking back towards the field that stole him from me. When I reach the line that separates me from death, I look at the palm of my hand and trace the scars I have. My hand is wrinkled and ashen, my nails long and dirty and my fingers stained with his blood. 

I make up my mind and shakily inhale as I take a step forward. I take a step towards my brother and into my family’s open arms. I refuse to be the only thing they leave behind, a graveyard of memories and emotions. I will not be forgotten amongst the sea of souls searching for a home, a family, and a life. I know I will not find salvation here on Earth without them. The shade looms too often. 

Everyone fears the shade because it sounds ominous. It is unknown and new. One cannot control what happens in the dark. Going into the light sounds so much more peaceful. The light sounds like finding love in another person on a bright, sunny day in the summer, or biting into a piece of freshly baked bread while playing chess. Light sounds like laughter and hope. It sounds like God and Heaven. I press my lips to my knuckles and blow it up to the sky where Ibrahim rests.

This is the last kiss I ever give him because, surrounded by my family’s smiling faces and welcoming hearth, I follow Ibrahim into the light, into loving arms, to Heaven.