Downtown Beirut Dreams | أحلام وسط بيروت
"She's the last original resident in rebuilt downtown Beirut. He's the real estate developer who needs her building. She refuses to sell; he refuses to leave. 'Inti aghla min ay 'akar' (أنتِ أغلى من أي عقار)."
Downtown Beirut Dreams
أحلام وسط بيروت
They rebuilt downtown without us.
Glass and marble where bullet holes lived. Only my building remains—stubborn, old, refusing to be erased.
Like me.
I'm Aida.
Fifty-six, widow of war, solid as the stones beneath my feet. This building is all I have of the life before.
Ramzi Haddad wants to tear it down.
"Twenty million dollars."
"No."
"That's triple market value—"
"No."
"Mrs. Khoury, be reasonable—"
"I am being reasonable. This is my home. My answer is no."
He's forty-nine.
Self-made, luxury developments, the new Beirut's architect. His success is measured in buildings like mine that no longer exist.
"Why won't you sell?"
"Why do you need to buy?"
"Progress—"
"Is that what you call erasing everything?"
He returns weekly.
Different offers, same answer. But something shifts—he starts asking questions instead of presenting numbers.
"Who lived here? Before?"
"Everyone. Christians, Muslims, Druze. We shared water during shelling."
"You stayed through the war?"
"Where would I go? This is home."
The questions become conversations.
He brings coffee; I provide stories. The old Beirut he never knew comes alive in my kitchen.
"You hate what I do," he observes.
"I hate that you don't understand what you're replacing."
"Then teach me."
I teach him.
Walking tours of what was, photographs of who lived where. His eyes change—something cracks in his developer's armor.
"I didn't know—"
"No one who stayed knows anymore. They're all gone or dead."
"Except you."
"Except me."
One night, he doesn't leave.
We're on my balcony, watching a Beirut he built that I don't recognize. His hand finds mine.
"Aida—"
"I'm still not selling."
"I'm not asking anymore." He turns to me. "Inti aghla min ay 'akar."
"Worth more than any property?"
"Worth everything I've built and more."
The kiss happens where I watched the city burn.
Now I watch it rebuilt, now I watch him rebuild too—hands on my waist, mouth on mine.
"Ramzi—"
"I don't know what I'm doing—"
"Neither do I. Keep doing it."
We make love in my bedroom.
Where I've slept alone since my husband died in '82. He lays me down like I'm treasure.
"You're beautiful," he breathes.
"I'm old—"
"You're Beirut." His hands trace my curves. "Everything real about it."
He worships me reverently.
Mouth on my breasts, my belly, the softness decades have given. I grip sheets I've had since the old days.
"Ramzi—"
"Tell me you feel something."
"I feel everything. Too much."
His tongue between my thighs.
I cry out—first time in thirty years. The pleasure is almost painful in its intensity.
"Ya Allah—"
"Let go. You've held on long enough."
When he enters me, I feel the city shift.
Old and new, meeting inside me. We move together with the rhythm of a Beirut I once loved.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax shatters walls I'd built.
I cry out, weeping, coming apart. He follows, groaning into my shoulder.
Two years later
The building becomes a museum.
My home preserved, his money protecting it. History and progress, finally reconciled.
"Worth giving up the development?" I ask.
"I got something better." He pulls me close. "I got downtown's heart."
Alhamdulillah.
For buildings that survive.
For developers who learn.
For widows who hold out—and let in.
The End.