This is a book that was waiting patiently on my shelf for the perfect moment to be picked up. It was on my TBR list since it was first released and then it spent a good amount of time sitting on my shelf till a book club recommended it.

So much has transpired since the book was first published in September 2022, and reading it brought on a flood of emotions. The pain, the distress, the horror and despair amidst pockets of hope and happiness was poetically portrayed and yet it was very realistic. To me, the whole book read as a long love letter to Syria by its people who were forced to leave due to reasons beyond their control.

The story follows the life of 18 year old Salama who has lost everything and everyone she holds dear. She clings on to the presence of her sister-in-law Layla and together they offer comfort to each other

Reading it right during the ongoing genocide in Palestine puts everything into context. The story masterfully woven is not just a story. It’s someone’s reality. Using a hospital as a prominent setting and a promising pharmacist forced to become a doctor and surgeon as one of the main characters was ingenious by the author. Together, the setting and the characters offer a closer look to the horrors faced by the people living in a genocide.

Its not everyday that you come across a book with a well rounded female protagonist. One that is wise beyond her years, brave beyond her means and yet so open to love and the kindness of complete strangers. However it is this kindness and promise to stay, that makes her oblivious to her own trauma. Her need to stay, and fix things no matter how small is a testament to every genocidal survivor’s guilt.

‘Survivor’s remorse is a second skin we are cursed to wear forever.’
p.176

She fails to realize that she has compartmentalized her pain due to the ongoing horrors in her country. Her happiness lies in doing whatever little she can to make things better.

“Every time I stitch a person and ease their pain…I feel like I did something. That these people aren’t numbers. They have lives and loved ones, and maybe I helped them in the right direction. If there’s one thing people are scared of, it’s being forgotten.”
p.264

But death is not far behind. Having lost her mother, father and brother she lives with her sister-in-law and companion ‘Khawf’. Even though she silently acknowledges her need to die earlier on in the book, ‘death is a far more merciful end than living everyday in agony,’ we come to find that both her sister-in-law and companion are a figment of her imagination due to extreme PTSD.

It’s through luck that she meets Kenan, the boy she was proposed to. Love blossoms between them and together they try to find hope and continue fighting. Kenan, a young activist, documents the war and posts his footage on Youtube with the intention of ‘changing people’s thoughts. Making them see the truth.’ Their love is painful. Real. And one that is constantly overshadowed by death.

‘Know that even in death you’re my life’.
p.368

As the story progresses, we find Salama struggling to accept that the war is getting closer and failing to leave would result in her death. The idea of freedom seems farfetched as the war reaches their doorstep. As she goes to one of the protests by the resistant fighters that Kenan aims to cover, she is forced to accept:

‘To them the idea of freedom is infectious, and we need to be put down before it spreads.’
p.256

Final thoughts

The writing is beautiful. The characters are well rounded and evolve as the story progresses. The symbolism of hope alongside the lemon trees in Syria is profound. There is nothing I can find fault with in this book. It is hands down, one of the best books I’ve read.

Sharing a few more of my favorite quotes from the book, hoping that anyone who reads my review, picks up Zoulfa Katouh’s As Long As the Lemon Trees Grow.

‘We don’t have to stop living because we might die. Anyone might die at any given moment, anywhere in the world. We’re not an exception. We just see death more regularly than they do.‘
p.113

‘This is my land, and just like the lemon trees that have been growing here for centuries, spilt blood won’t stop us… I’ve been force fed oppression, but I will no longer swallow its bitter taste.’
p.254