The Keserwan Herbalist | عشّابة كسروان
"She grows medicinal herbs in Keserwan's hills. He's the oncologist who doesn't believe in alternative medicine—until his own diagnosis forces him to her door. 'Inti ahsan dawa' (أنتِ أحسن دوا)."
The Keserwan Herbalist
عشّابة كسروان
The hills heal.
My grandmother knew it. My mother knew it. I've grown healing herbs in Keserwan for forty years.
Then the oncologist arrives, humbled by his own cancer.
I'm Salma.
Sixty, soft from mountain living, wise from mountain listening. My herbs have cured what hospitals couldn't.
Dr. Joseph Hage believed none of it. Until now.
"I have six months."
"According to whom?"
"My colleagues. My tests." He sits heavily. "I've spent my life telling patients to trust science. Now science says I'm dying."
"W shu baddak minni?"
"I don't know. Hope. Something."
He's fifty-eight.
Oncologist at AUBMC, widower, dedicated his life to fighting the disease now consuming him. The irony isn't lost on either of us.
"I don't cure cancer."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I've cured no one either. Not really. Just delayed." His eyes are hollow. "Maybe delay looks different through your lens."
I should send him away.
Instead, I make tea—za'atar and maryamiyyeh, for clarity and courage.
"Drink."
"What does this do?"
"Helps you think about what you really came for."
He stays a week.
Learns my garden, my rhythms. Eats my food. Sleeps in my spare room. Slowly, the doctor becomes the patient.
"I haven't rested in thirty years."
"That's half why you're sick."
"What's the other half?"
"Forgetting you're human."
Human.
He watches me harvest thyme, press oils, blend remedies. My movements are slow, deliberate—everything his career wasn't.
"Teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"How to be human again."
I teach him.
How to wait for plants. How to listen to bodies. How to accept what can't be changed and change what can.
"Salma—"
"Eih?"
"I feel... different."
"Different how?"
"Alive. Despite the diagnosis." He takes my hand. "Because of you."
"I haven't done anything."
"You've done everything." His thumb traces my palm. "Inti ahsan dawa."
The kiss tastes like herbs.
Za'atar and ward and something I can't name—hope, maybe. His hands cup my face.
"Is this appropriate?" I whisper.
"I'm dying. Nothing is inappropriate anymore."
We make love in my herb garden.
Under stars, surrounded by healing plants. He undresses me slowly.
"Mashallah." His voice catches. "You're beautiful."
"I'm old—"
"You're alive. Fully, completely alive." He kisses my shoulder. "Teach me that too."
I teach him.
With my body, my sounds, my responses. He learns me like a new field—with wonder and dedication.
"Salma—"
"Here. I'm here."
His mouth worships my curves.
Reverent, curious. When his tongue finds me, I gasp at the ceiling of stars.
"Joseph—"
"Let me give you something. Since you've given me everything."
The pleasure is its own medicine.
I cry out, gripping lavender stalks. He rises, enters me slowly, gently.
"Okay?"
"More than okay. Aktar."
We move under Keserwan stars.
Slow and deep, two people choosing life despite death. When we peak together, it's prayer and protest both.
One year later
The six months pass.
Joseph is still alive—not cured, but present. He left AUBMC, moved to my mountain.
"How do you feel?" his former colleagues ask.
"Human," he answers. "Finally human."
Two more years
He dies on a spring morning.
In my arms, in the garden, surrounded by healing he helped me understand goes beyond the body.
"Shukran," he whispers.
"Li shu?"
"For teaching me to live before I had to stop."
Alhamdulillah.
For herbs that comfort.
For doctors who learn humility.
For time—however much we're given.
The End.