Cedars of God | أرز الرب
"She protects the last ancient cedars as a forest ranger. He's the environmental lawyer fighting for their preservation. In the shade of millennia, they discover that some roots run deeper than trees. 'Inti 'amri, mitl hal arz' (أنتِ عمري، متل هالأرز)."
Cedars of God
أرز الرب
The cedars have seen everything.
Phoenician kings, Roman emperors, Ottoman pashas. Now they watch me—the woman who's sworn to protect what remains.
Then the lawyer arrives, armed with documents.
I'm Hoda.
Fifty-one, mountain-strong, built by years of patrol. The Cedars of God reserve is my parish—four hundred ancient trees I guard with my life.
Maître Tony Geagea has paper weapons.
"The development permit is illegal."
"I know."
"Then why haven't you stopped them?"
"With what? My patrol rifle against their connections?" I laugh bitterly. "They've bought everyone."
"Not everyone."
He's fifty-four.
Environmental law, Georgetown-trained, returned to Lebanon to fight impossible battles. His suit doesn't belong here—his determination does.
"You can't win this."
"Watch me."
I watch him.
For months—filings, injunctions, appeals. He sleeps in his car sometimes, too tired to drive to Beirut. I bring him coffee.
"Li shu 'am tihtam?" Why do you care?
"My grandfather planted cedars that don't exist anymore." His voice cracks. "I won't let the last ones fall."
The case progresses.
Small victories, frustrating delays. He spends more time in my forest, less in courts. We walk the groves together.
"This one is three thousand years old," I tell him.
"Older than Christ."
"Older than memory."
One evening, we sit beneath the oldest cedar.
Sunset paints the mountains gold. His shoulder touches mine.
"Hoda—"
"Eih?"
"I didn't come here just for the trees."
"Tab li shu?"
"I don't know yet. But I think I'm finding out."
The kiss happens in ancient shade.
Where cedars have witnessed millennia of human folly—and occasionally, human connection. His hands frame my face.
"Is this wise?"
"Wisdom is overrated." I pull him closer. "The trees have seen worse."
We make love beneath the cedars.
On a bed of needles that have fallen for centuries. He undresses me slowly, gasping.
"Mashallah." His voice breaks. "You're..."
"Old. Thick. Mountain-worn—"
"Inti 'amri, mitl hal arz."
"My age, like these cedars?"
"My life. As essential." He kisses my shoulder. "I didn't know what I was missing until now."
He worships my body like sacred ground.
Mouth on my breasts, my belly, between my thighs. I grip cedar roots and cry at branches older than empires.
"Tony—"
"Let go. These trees have heard everything. They can hear this too."
When he enters me, I feel rooted.
Connected to something eternal. We move slowly, deliberately.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is ancient.
Something older than words, deeper than law. We cry out together, and I swear the cedars approve.
Two years later
The case is won.
The development stopped permanently. The cedars remain, watching as they've always watched.
"Worth the fight?" I ask Tony.
"I won more than a case." He pulls me close beneath our tree. "I won everything."
Alhamdulillah.
For cedars that endure.
For lawyers who fight.
For rangers who protect—and find protection.
The End.