Hadath University Halls | قاعات جامعة الحدث
"She's a professor of Arabic literature at Lebanese University. He's the returning student, fifty years old, finally finishing his degree. Between texts, they discover that education has no age limit. 'Inti ahsan mualmi' (أنتِ أحسن معلمتي)."
Hadath University Halls
قاعات جامعة الحدث
Literature doesn't age.
Gibran speaks to new generations. Adonis still challenges. I've taught at Lebanese University for twenty-five years.
Then the older student enrolls.
I'm Dr. Farah Halabi.
Fifty-four, shaped by decades of desk work, authority in a body academia doesn't often respect. My students respect my mind.
Bassem Nasr is older than half my colleagues.
"You're back for your BA?"
"The war interrupted." He takes notes carefully. "I promised myself I'd finish."
"Thirty years late."
"Better late than never."
He's fifty.
Left university during the civil war, built a business, lost it, now reclaiming what violence stole. His dedication is remarkable.
"Your analysis of Gibran is excellent."
"I've had time to live his philosophy."
"That's cheating."
He laughs. First student to laugh genuinely in years.
He attends office hours.
Not for grades—for discussion. We argue Adonis, debate Darwish, find joy in intellectual combat.
"You challenge me," I admit.
"You deserve to be challenged. Too many students just agree."
"And you don't?"
"Life taught me that agreeing doesn't help anyone."
End of semester approaches.
His thesis on exile poetry is exceptional. My praise is professional. My feelings are not.
"Bassem—"
"Eih?"
"After you graduate... would you continue these discussions?"
"These discussions?" He understands. "Or something else?"
"I'm your professor. It would be inappropriate—"
"I won't be your student next week."
"Then ask me next week."
He asks.
Graduation day, diploma in hand. The question in his eyes.
"Now?"
"Now."
The kiss happens in my office.
Where I've taught thousands of students, never touched one. His mouth on mine is revelation.
"Farah—"
"Don't call me Dr."
"Just Farah?"
"Just yours."
We make love among books.
My office, my territory, my rules. He lays me on my desk among essays.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Large. Academic. Not—"
"Inti ahsan mualmi." The best teacher.
He worships me scholastically.
Every curve a text to study. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Bassem—"
"I'm still learning. Teach me more."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip desk edges, gasping at bookshelves holding my life's work. Pleasure building like analysis.
"Ya Allah—"
"Am I getting an A?"
"Distinction."
When he enters me, I feel educated.
We move together with seminar rhythm—call and response. His body and mine in dialogue.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is thesis defense.
Passed with honors. We cry out together among the books, then collapse on scattered papers.
Three years later
Bassem completes his MA.
My student still, in some ways. My partner in everything else.
"Worth returning to university?" I ask.
"I found the best education outside the classroom." He kisses me. "With the best professor."
Alhamdulillah.
For universities that welcome all ages.
For students who return.
For professors who learn to be taught.
The End.