Ghardaïa Gardens
"Zineb tends the hidden gardens of the M'zab Valley. When architect Amine arrives to study ancient irrigation, she shows him that some systems carry more than water. 'El ma hayat' (الما حياة) - Water is life."
Ghardaïa rose from the desert like a miracle—white pentagonal cities, palm gardens, water from nowhere.
"Kichef jaoua?" Amine asked his guide.
"El foggaras." Ancient tunnels. "Bas lazem tloqqa Zineb."
She waited in a palm grove, substantial as the trees themselves.
"Marhba, ya mohandes." Welcome, engineer. "Tebghi tchouf el ma?"
"Tebghi twarrini?"
Her smile suggested secrets beyond water.
The foggara system was genius—underground channels bringing water from distant mountains. Amine measured and marveled.
"Man bnahoum?" Who built them?
"Jdoudna." Our ancestors. "Qbel alf sna."
"A thousand years ago?"
"El ma ma yetbeddelch." Water doesn't change. "El nes yetbedlou."
Zineb's family had tended these gardens for generations. Her curves filled traditional Mozabite dress—white fabric, embroidered edges.
"Alache el biyyadh?" he asked. Why white?
"Yetla' el shams." Reflects the sun. "W y'ajeb el 'ayn."
And pleases the eye.
Days passed in the cool oasis shade. Amine documented while Zineb gardened, her strong hands coaxing life from desert.
"'Alamtini barsha," he said. You've taught me much.
"El ma 'allem koulech." Water teaches everything. "Ana bass narwi."
I just water.
"Enti ktar mn haka."
She paused, hands in soil. "Wach?"
"Enti el jenna f wast el sahra."
Paradise in the desert's midst.
She showed him her private garden—hidden behind mud walls, flowers blooming impossibly.
"Kichef?" he breathed.
"El ma." She turned a small wheel. "W el hob."
Water. And love.
"Nhabbek, Zineb."
"Te'ref el taqalid?" Do you know the traditions? "Mozabi ma tetzawwejch men barra."
A Mozabite woman doesn't marry outsiders.
"Ma netsawwjch." Not marriage. "Nhabbek."
They came together among the flowers, desert heat forgotten in garden shade.
"Hna machi la place," she whispered.
"Hna el wahid la place." This is the only place. "El jenna ta'k."
He unwrapped her white layers slowly, revealing sun-darkened curves and inherited strength.
"Mashallah," he said. "El ma hayat."
Water is life.
"W enti?"
"Enti hayat."
She pulled him down into soft earth and softer flesh. Amine groaned as her warmth engulfed him.
"Ya rabbi," he gasped.
"Ghouss," she moaned. "Kima el ma."
Dive. Like water.
Their rhythm followed the foggara's pulse—steady, ancient, life-giving. Zineb clutched his shoulders.
"Aktar," she cried. "Arwa."
Water me.
He gave her everything he had.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He quickened. "El ma yejma'na."
Water brings us together.
They crested among flowers, pleasure blooming like impossible gardens. Amine held her through the tremors.
"El taqalid..." she started.
"Nehtarmouhom." We respect them. "Bas el qalb 'ando taqalid khra."
The heart has other traditions.
He extended his research—months became years. Colleagues marveled at his dedication.
"El foggara yestahloue," he explained.
But everyone saw him walking with Zineb through garden shade.
"Rja'it l'ghardaia?" friends asked.
"Ma mchitch." Never left.
"Alache?"
He looked at Zineb, substantial and smiling, and quoted her own words:
"El ma hayat." Water is life. "W lqit el ma."
I found the water.