As Long As The Lemon Trees Grow |work| Jun 2026

Zoulfa Katouh’s debut novel, As Long As The Lemon Trees Grow

Why not an olive tree, the traditional symbol of Palestine and the Levant? Why not a jasmine flower?

The controversy usually stems from a misunderstanding of the word "endure." To endure is not to smile prettily over lemons while the neighbor dies. To endure is to bury your brother in the morning and water the tree in the afternoon because your pregnant sister needs vitamin C. It is a brutal, unsentimental choice. The keyword holds this tension: the lemon tree grows despite the bombs, not because of them. As Long As The Lemon Trees Grow

Salma says the lemons remember. She’s seventeen, two years older than me, and she braids shrapnel-scarred branches into crowns for the younger children. “Suck the rind,” she whispers, handing me a half-ripe fruit. “Let it burn. That’s how you know you’re still here.”

In trauma psychology, this is known as "locus of control." Survivors of genocide and displacement often lose the ability to predict their future. By focusing on a micro-act—watering a tree, planting a bulb—the brain reclaims agency. Zoulfa Katouh’s debut novel, As Long As The

I hold the lemon up to the light. Its skin is pocked, defiantly yellow, like a sun that refused to set. The war has taken the clinic, the school, the road to the sea. It has taken my cousin’s left hand and the melody of the morning call to prayer. But the lemons grow. They swell through ceasefires and bombings, through the month the well ran dry, through the night the soldiers came and painted our door with numbers.

In the current global context of climate anxiety, political instability, and economic collapse, the phrase has jumped from Syrian-specific trauma to a universal metaphor. Readers in Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan, and even those suffering from personal tragedy have adopted the phrase. It has become a meme, a hashtag, and a tattoo. To endure is to bury your brother in

—on the shores of Lampedusa, in the backyards of Berlin, in the community gardens of Detroit—the story of Homs continues.

The novel shows this explicitly. When Layla goes into labor during a bombing raid, Salama doesn't recite poetry or pray. She focuses on the lemons in the kitchen. She makes lemonade. The act of squeezing the fruit becomes a meditation, a rebellion against the chaos.

Their love story is desperate and urgent, colored by the knowledge that either of them could die at any moment. Yet, it is also filled with moments of tenderness and normalcy—jokes, stolen glances, and dreams of a future that feels increasingly unlikely. Kenan represents the hope that Salama struggles to hold onto. He sees her not just as a pharmacist or a victim, but as a young woman with a future.

is the 2022 debut novel by Syrian-Canadian author Zoulfa Katouh . Set during the Syrian Revolution in Homs , it is a speculative young adult novel that balances the brutal realities of war with a tender story of love and resilience. Core Narrative