Khirbet Qanafar Temple | معبد خربة قنافار
"She guards the forgotten Roman temple at Khirbet Qanafar. He's the documentary filmmaker who thinks it rivals Baalbek. In overlooked ruins, they find something significant. 'Inti el ma'bad el mansiyy' (أنتِ المعبد المنسي)."
Khirbet Qanafar Temple
معبد خربة قنافار
Some temples are forgotten.
Khirbet Qanafar has Roman ruins that rival Baalbek's, but no one visits. I guard what no one sees.
Then the filmmaker arrives, seeing everything.
I'm Juliette.
Forty-eight, temple guard, body built by solitude. The forgotten gods keep me company; I keep them respected.
Hani Kassem makes films about what deserves attention.
"Why hasn't anyone documented this?"
"Because it's not on the tourist route."
"It should be."
"Should and is are different countries."
He's fifty.
Documentary filmmaker, passion for overlooked places. His camera finds what eyes skip.
"You're angry."
"I'm resigned. Different."
"Resignation is slow-cooked anger."
He films for weeks.
Every angle, every stone, every shaft of light. And me—always me in frame.
"You're filming me too much."
"You're part of the story."
"I'm not interesting—"
"You're the most interesting thing here."
"More than Roman temples?"
"Temples don't talk back." He sets down the camera. "Inti el ma'bad el mansiyy." You're the forgotten temple.
"I'm not forgotten—"
"You've been overlooked. Not anymore."
The kiss happens at the altar.
Where Romans sacrificed to gods no one remembers. His mouth on mine is offering.
"Hani—"
"Tell me to stop filming."
"Never stop."
We make love among the ruins.
Where pagans worshipped, where I've kept lonely vigil. He lays me on sacred stone.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Neglected. Ancient-feeling—"
"Undiscovered. Perfectly undiscovered."
He worships me cinematically.
Every angle beautiful. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Hani—"
"Let me document all of you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip Roman columns, crying out at forgotten gods. Pleasure like rediscovery.
"Ya Allah—"
"There. That's the shot I needed."
When he enters me, I feel filmed.
We move together in the temple—his body and mine, making something worth watching.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is premiere.
We cry out together—finally seen. Then we lie among ruins, discovered.
Two years later
The documentary releases.
"Forgotten Gods: Khirbet Qanafar"—awards, attention, finally. My temple is visited now.
"Worth the discovery?" I ask.
"Best footage I ever captured." He kisses me in my temple. "And you."
Alhamdulillah.
For temples that wait.
For filmmakers who see.
For guards who become stars.
The End.