Aramoun Pine Forest | غابة صنوبر عرمون
"She harvests pine nuts the traditional way in Aramoun's forests. He's the environmental activist trying to stop development. Between trees and protest, they root together. 'Inti el shijar el asli' (أنتِ الشجر الأصلي)."
Aramoun Pine Forest
غابة صنوبر عرمون
Pine nuts take patience.
Three years for a cone to mature. I've harvested in Aramoun's forests since girlhood, climbing trees my grandmother climbed.
Then the activists arrive, fighting for the same trees.
I'm Georgina.
Forty-seven, pine nut harvester, body built by climbing. My hands know bark; my eyes know seasons.
Samir Tanios chains himself to bulldozers.
"You're going to get arrested."
"Worth it."
"The developers have permits—"
"Permits to destroy what took centuries to grow." He looks at my harvest bag. "You understand."
"I understand I need these trees."
He's forty-nine.
Environmental lawyer turned activist, sacrificing career for cause. His passion matches my practicality.
"How long has your family harvested here?"
"Five generations."
"Then help me save it."
I help.
Not with chains—with testimony. My family's history, the traditional practices, what will be lost.
"You're more powerful than protests," he admits.
"I'm just a harvester—"
"You're proof that these forests matter. Living proof."
The fight continues.
Some trees saved, some lost. We work together—his advocacy, my legitimacy. Something else grows.
"Georgina—"
"I know. Wrong time for this."
"There's never right time. Only now."
The kiss happens against a pine tree.
Ancient bark, resin scent. His mouth on mine is defiance.
"Samir—"
"Inti el shijar el asli." You're the original tree.
"I'm not—"
"You're what we're fighting for."
We make love in the forest.
Where I've worked my whole life. He lays me on pine needles.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Resin-stained. Bark-scraped—"
"Rooted. Beautifully rooted."
He worships me forestially.
Every curve a branch. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Samir—"
"Let me save you too."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip pine roots, crying out at canopy above. Pleasure like good harvest.
"Ya Allah—"
"Yes. Grow for me."
When he enters me, I feel planted.
We move together among pines—his body and mine, making something that lasts.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is full cone.
We cry out together—everything ripening. Then we lie on pine needles, hopeful.
Three years later
The forest is protected.
Our fight, our love, our victory. I still harvest; he still advocates. Together.
"Worth the chains?" I ask.
"Worth everything." He kisses me under pines. "Especially you."
Alhamdulillah.
For forests that endure.
For activists who persist.
For harvesters who root love.
The End.