As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow

“Layla looks at me but there’s no annoyance in her eyes. Only compassion. ‘We fight while we’re still here, Salama, because this is our country. This is the land of your father, and his father before him. Your history is embedded in this soil. No country in the world will love you as yours does.’”

Layla’s optimism is shown in her conversations with Salama. Her advice emphasizes their cultural and history identity as Syrians, explaining why they are reluctant to leave home. The word “history” in particular highlights the real-life basis of As Long as the Lemon Trees Grow.

“[Khawf] could completely alter my reality, unleashing hallucination upon hallucination, showing everyone that the exterior I’ve put up is nothing more than brittle twigs against a strong wind. Dr. Ziad wouldn’t let me work at the hospital anymore. Not when I could be a danger to the patients. I need the hospital. I need it to forget my pain. To keep my hands busy so my mind doesn’t scream itself hoarse. To save lives. Worse, I’d be piling more worries and anxieties on Layla, affecting her health and the baby’s. No. I’ll endure it all for her.”

Khawf being revealed as a hallucination gives the novel a speculative element, introducing the theme of Mental Health: The Power of One’s Internal World. Salama’s empathy and desire to prioritize others, such as patients and Layla, frame her as a selfless person. She will “endure it all” for her sister-in-law and best friend, which shows the theme of Love and Faith Through Tragedy.

“I clear my throat. ‘There are still more patients—’

‘Your life is just as important as theirs,’ [Dr. Ziad] interrupts, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. ‘Your. Life. Is. Just. As. Important.’”

Salama repeatedly pushes herself to take care of others, due to her survivor’s guilt. Dr. Ziad acts as a protective father figure in Baba’s absence, his dialogue assuring her that she deserves health and happiness too.

“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.”

Salama clings to the past, to happy memories of her lost loved ones—her parents and brother Hamza. However, upon falling in love with Kenan, she finally sees a possible future for herself.

“‘Unlike you, I don’t tire, I don’t feel pain, and I won’t stop until I get what I want. Fighting me, fighting your mind’—[Khawf] twirls his fingers and my pulse races as pitch darkness envelops us until nothing is visible but his icy-blue eyes and the flash of his white teeth—‘you won’t win.’”

A being born of Salama’s mind, Khawf proves he can overcome her at any point. He is the embodiment of fear, reinforcing the theme of Survival, Fear, and Patriotism. His words foreshadow her arc, her fight to overcome daily horrors and eventually leave Syria.

“‘Am I going to die?’ [Ahmad] 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.”

Ahmad’s knowledge of death pushes Salama to ask these questions, the boy’s youth making this a particularly somber scene. These casualties of war have no rhyme or reason, and weigh heavily on her.

“Alhamdulillah.”

This Arabic word means “Praise be to God,” a recurring motif. Many characters say this word aloud, and Salama also thinks it often. The novel’s exploration of faith and fear are clear in this word, which fits the setting and culture.

“‘This is my country. If I run away—if I don’t defend it, then who will?’

[…] ‘We’re talking about your siblings’ lives.’

[…] ‘And I’m talking about my country. About the freedom I’m so rightly owed. I’m talking about burying Mama and Baba and telling Lama they’ll never come back home. How—’ His voice breaks. ‘How do I leave that? When for the first time in my whole life I’m breathing free Syrian air?’”

When weighing patriotism against personal safety, Kenan prioritizes the former. He values freedom and his culture, creating conflict with Salama, who tries to be a voice of reason. The pair’s conflict relates to the overarching conflict of war and how it affects everyone.

“To grovel to our murderers and torturers. The government had long since promised the consequences if we were to rebel. Everything we had feared for fifty years was coming true.”

Salama’s flashbacks are written in italics to signal the past. In this flashback, she visits the prison where her father and brother are being held, the guard putting her in danger as per the current government. This moment marks the beginning of an ongoing conflict, of Salama’s life changing forever.

“I stop and for one minute allow myself to imagine our might life […] he and I have our own inside jokes, and my ring finger wears the golden band he gave me. Those thoughts make my cheeks burn, but I don’t care. I am owed this. I’m owed at least my imagination.”

The recurring motif of Salama and Kenan’s “might” life reflects her desire for escape, a future. Her attraction to Kenan takes hold of her imagination, a place she can look to for happiness amid grief—which also explains her creation of an illusory Layla.

“‘Bloodroot,’ I chant. ‘White petals. Yellow center. Secretes a red fluid. Effective in low doses for respiratory diseases. Bloodroot. Bloodroot. Bloodroot.’

‘If that boy changes your mind, Salama,’ Khawf continues, ‘I’ll make it so that you don’t even remember what flowers are.’”

Salama’s mental repetition of plants and their medicinal uses calms her. However, this coping mechanism can’t save her from Khawf, who is stubborn in his goal to make her leave Syria.

“‘Give me a boat or…or I remove my hands.’ I can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.

[Am’s] eyes widen and his eyebrows are in danger of disappearing into his hairline. His limbs shake with anger, and he advances on me but I don’t flinch. ‘You—’ His face contorts with fury and turns purple. ‘How dare you? You call yourself a pharmacist? You would let her die?’

It’s getting hard to hear over the sound of my heart galloping. ‘You’re wasting her breath being angry. She doesn’t have long.’ […] I need to risk her life a heartbeat longer to save Layla’s and her baby’s.”

Salama uses an injured Samar, Am’s daughter, as collateral for safe passage to Europe. She’s become more ruthless to achieve her goal, though she feels guilt after; in the moment, she prioritized her and Layla, but is not without empathy.

“My eyes wander all over, drinking in this memory like a parched man in a desert.”

Khawf exposes Salama to memories, including this happy one of Layla and Hamza’s wedding. She remembers her joy from before the war, and longs to feel it once more.

“Layla can preach about a rosy world, but Khawf and his cynicism are the reality.”

This description frames Layla and Khawf as foils. While Layla is optimistic, Khawf is a harsh realist who focuses on the negative rather than the positive.

“I work steadily, picking out the pieces of debris wedged between flesh and bone. I bandage and soothe. I close milky-white eyes with shaking fingers, and I murmur prayers for the martyrs’ souls.”

Salama’s hardworking nature is clear in her hospital work. Not only does she have empathy, but her guilt over her use of Samar pushes her to make up for it. The word “martyrs” is repeated to emphasize all the innocent lives lost to the war.

“Survivor’s remorse is a second skin we are cursed to wear forever.”

Salama equates survivor’s remorse to a curse. This metaphor shows she and other survivors of the war can never be free of the weight of living while so many others perish.

“I’m lost in my own agony, relying on muscle memory to take me home as tears stream down my cheeks. Tremors run up and down my skeletal system, fissuring my bones. A war rages inside me and it seems I’m the only casualty.”

Diction like “muscle memory,” “skeletal system” and “bones” highlight Salama’s training as a medical professional. She thinks in terms of bodily functions, partially to cope with her daily exhaustion.

“No one should live like this. Worrying if their sister will die from lack of water.”

Amid the physical threats of war, Kenan’s sister Lama is at risk of dehydration. Salama is heartbroken over this basic need (water) not being met during wartime, which heightens stakes outside the battlefield.

“MY MIND races through a list of medications, a list of anything to combat sarin, but I come up short. No one is ever prepared for a chemical attack.

‘How—how the hell do I treat this?’ I ask with nails in my throat.

[…] ‘We need to act now! They’ll die within minutes, do you understand? An incredibly small amount of sarin is enough to kill a grown man. These are kids. Go!’ [Dr. Ziad shouts].”

The sarin chemical attack increases the hospital’s stakes within minutes, forcing Salama and Dr. Ziad into action. Since sarin is an odorless, colorless chemical that kills quickly, they need to act—despite Salama’s lack of clearcut solutions.

“‘With your talent for weaving stories, we need your voice to amplify those here. That’s how you fight.’ [Kenan] stares at me, a faint pink blush dusting his cheeks. ‘And we will come back,’ I say, my voice wavering. ‘Insh’Allah, we will come back home. We will plant new lemon trees. We’ll rebuild our cities, and we will be free.’”

Salama convinces Kenan to join her escape with passion and reasoning. The word “Insh’Allah” means “God willing,” which shows she desires to return to Syria someday to rebuild, to plant symbolic lemon trees.

“I SEE MY BUILDING’S RUINS IN FRONT OF ME AND wonder at the irony. Taking refuge in the place that killed Mama.”

After the shooting at the protest, Salama and Kenan find refuge in an emotionally charged setting—Salama’s old home. They hide for their lives where her mother died, creating juxtaposition between past and present conflicts.

“I stare at the ring and find that I don’t care about whatever uncertainties lie in our future. All I know is that I love him and that even in the darkness surrounding us, he’s been my joy. In the midst of all the death, he made me want to live.

The answer slips easily from my lips.

‘Yes,’ I whisper, wiping my tears away, feeling my heart glow. ‘Yes.’”

Salama’s feelings about love reveal a shift in her, as she has found unexpected happiness during wartime. Kenan has made her a happier, stronger person, their supportive relationship keeping them afloat throughout the novel.

“The babies in the incubators are still inside. My stomach drops […] I need to save the babies. But my legs are heavy with fear, half of me screaming to stay put—to stay safe. The other replays Samar’s ashen, bloodless face as I held her life hostage.

I grit my teeth, pushing away the fear, and before I can rethink my decision, I fling myself from behind the wall and run toward the hospital.”

Overcoming fear is a major hurdle for Salama, but she does so by risking her life after the hospital bombing. This decision reinforces her courageous, selfless nature. It is also framed as her making up for her earlier use of Samar.