The Music Teacher of Birzeit
"At Birzeit University, Professor Omar teaches traditional Palestinian music—until his brightest student Dina composes something that changes their entire relationship."
The Music Teacher of Birzeit
Professor Omar's office was a shrine to Palestinian music—vintage oud, framed sheet music, recordings that had survived the Nakba in relatives' bags. Dina stood in the doorway, clutching her composition like a shield.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Your piece." He gestured to a chair. "It's remarkable. And deeply inappropriate."
"It's honest."
"It's a love song to someone who shouldn't be named." His eyes were unreadable. "I need to know if I'm reading it correctly."
The composition was called "Ustathi"—My Teacher. Dina had written it after months of trying not to feel what she felt. Every melody was a confession, every rhythm a heartbeat.
"You're reading it correctly," she admitted. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help—"
"Don't apologize for art." Omar stood, moving to the window. "Apologize for making me feel what I've spent a year denying."
"You—"
"Of course." He turned to face her. "You think I chose you for private lessons because of your talent alone? You're gifted, Dina. But so are others. I chose you because being near you felt like music."
"Then why—"
"Because I'm your professor. I'm twice your age. It's wrong in every way that matters."
"Does it feel wrong?"
Silence.
"This can't happen," Omar said, even as he moved closer.
"I know." Dina didn't step back.
"Your career would be ruined. Mine too."
"I know."
"Then why did you write that piece?" His voice cracked. "Why did you put every fantasy I've tried to suppress into music?"
"Because art is truth." She reached for him. "And I'm tired of lying."
They came together there in his office, door locked, afternoon light streaming through windows that had witnessed a thousand lessons.
Omar touched her like she was an instrument—finding her keys, learning her rhythm, building melody from nothing.
"Ya Allah," he breathed against her throat. "This is—"
"Everything. I know."
He entered her on the narrow office couch, surrounded by the tools of their shared passion. They moved together in measures and beats, crescendo building toward something neither could stop.
"Sing for me," Omar commanded. "Let me hear the truth."
Dina's voice rang out—wordless, beautiful, exactly what she'd written in the composition. He conducted her pleasure with his body until they shattered together, the final note hanging in the air.
"I'm resigning," Omar said afterward, still inside her.
"What? No—"
"Not from music. From teaching you." He kissed her forehead. "I can't be your professor and your lover. It's not fair to either role."
"Then what?"
"You continue with Professor Khalil. She's excellent." His eyes held hers. "And we begin something else. Something without power imbalance."
"Something like what?"
"Partnership. In music and in life." He pulled her closer. "Marry me, Dina. Not now—after you graduate. But let me know that's where we're heading."
"You're serious."
"I've never been more serious." His smile was tender. "Compose me a response."
She laughed despite herself. "Na'am. But I'm keeping the private lessons. Just... different curriculum."
"I'll design a very thorough syllabus."
Outside, the university hummed with students and futures. Inside, something new had composed itself—unexpected, beautiful, waiting to be performed.