Tipaza Tides
"Naima guards the Roman ruins at Tipaza. When novelist Samir arrives seeking inspiration like Camus before him, she shows him that ancient stones remember more than history. 'El maradh yehki' (المرض يحكي) - The tide speaks."
Camus wrote that in Tipaza, he learned to love. Samir hoped to learn to write again.
"Site fermé," the guard announced.
"Please." His French was desperate. "Just an hour."
She studied him with ancient eyes. "Wach thawwes?"
"El ilham." Inspiration.
Naima had guarded these ruins twenty years—long enough to sense who came for selfies and who came for souls.
"Ydkhol." She unlocked the gate. "Bas ma telmasch el hjar."
Don't touch the stones.
"W enti?"
Her laugh scattered nearby pigeons.
The ruins sprawled toward the sea—columns, basilicas, mosaics drowning in Mediterranean light.
"Camus jah hna," she said. Camus came here.
"N'aref."
"Ma lqach wach lqa." He didn't find what he found.
"Wach lqa?"
"El hob."
She was substantial—built to outlast empires. Her guard uniform strained over curves; her eyes held centuries.
"Shhal zman hna?"
"'Achrin sna." She leaned against a fallen column. "El hjar yhedroulji."
The stones speak to me.
"Wach yqoulou?"
"Yqoulou elli el hob ma ymoutch." They say love doesn't die. "Bas yetbeddel."
But it changes.
Days became a routine. Samir wrote; Naima watched. Sometimes she'd point at something he'd missed.
"Chouf hna."
A mosaic face, half-destroyed but still smiling.
"Shkoune hadi?"
"Ma n'refch." She knelt beside him. "Bas thabb."
But she loved.
"Ki 'raft?"
"El 'inin." The eyes. "El hob ma ytbeddel f'el 'inin."
Love doesn't change in the eyes.
He looked at hers and understood.
She showed him the hidden beach after closing—Roman harbor, crystal water, private as a tomb.
"Camus 'am hna?" Did Camus swim here?
"Ma n'refch." She began unbuttoning her uniform. "Ana n'oum hna."
She swam like she guarded—powerful, patient, eternal. Samir watched from shore.
"Tji!"
"Ma 'andich..."
"El romani 'amou 'ariyanin." Romans swam naked. "Rah historique."
The water was perfect. Naima surfaced beside him, her wet curves gleaming.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"Kbira kima el hjar."
"Kamla kima el hjar." He reached for her. "Tebqa l'abad."
They kissed in Roman waters, ancient stones witnessing.
"El hjar ychoufou," she warned.
"Khalihom ychoufou." He pulled her close. "Khalihom yektbou."
Let them write.
She wrapped around him in the shallows, thick thighs gripping his waist.
"Ya rabbi," she gasped as he entered her.
"El maradh yehki." The tide speaks. "Tsam'i?"
Their rhythm matched the waves—eternal, inevitable, life-giving.
"Aktar," she cried. "Kima el bahr."
Like the sea.
He gave her tides.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." Waves crashing. "El maradh yehki."
They crested together, pleasure ancient as the ruins watching. Samir held her through the undertow.
"Lqiti el ilham?" she asked later, wrapped in her uniform on warm stones.
"Lqit ktar."
His novel won awards—critics praised its sense of place.
"Kifeh ktebti Tipaza haka?" they asked.
"'Andt murshida."
I had a guide.
Now he lives in Tipaza, writing at dawn, loving at dusk.
"El novelist w el harisah," tourists whisper.
"El hjar jab'houm," Naima says.
"El hjar ykhlihom," Samir adds.
Some love, the stones remember forever.