Bent Jbeil Embroidery | تطريز بنت جبيل
"She embroiders traditional Lebanese designs that nobody wants anymore. He's the fashion designer from Milan who sees treasure in her trash pile. Stitch by stitch, they create something new. 'Inti el ghorzeh el dhahab' (أنتِ الغرزة الذهب)."
Bent Jbeil Embroidery
تطريز بنت جبيل
Every stitch is a story.
My grandmother's patterns, her grandmother's—I embroider them onto fabric no one buys. The art dies with the market.
Then the designer arrives, seeing gold in my refuse pile.
I'm Huda.
Fifty-three, embroiderer, fingers permanently marked by needles. My body is large; my stitches are small.
Marco Saade left Lebanon at five, became Milanese, returned hunting heritage.
"This is extraordinary."
"This is unsellable."
"In Lebanese markets. In Milan—" He holds up my work. "This is couture."
"Don't flatter me."
He's fifty.
Lebanese-Italian, fashion designer, seeking authentic textiles for his next collection. His excitement is overwhelming.
"I want exclusive rights."
"To what? My reject pile?"
"To your genius."
He returns with contracts.
Fair ones—I had them checked. Profit sharing, creative control, my name on every piece.
"Why so generous?"
"Because without you, there's no collection."
"Designers usually take."
"I'm not usual."
We work together.
My patterns, his fashion knowledge. Traditional meets contemporary. Something extraordinary emerges.
"Huda—"
"I'm stitching—"
"Stitching what?"
"Us. Into the design."
His meaning lands.
Between needle and thread, between Bent Jbeil and Milan, something formed I hadn't planned.
"Marco—"
"Inti el ghorzeh el dhahab." You're the golden stitch.
"I'm just a village embroiderer—"
"You're the soul of everything I'm creating."
The kiss happens over thread.
My hands in silk, his in my hair. Our mouths meeting over generations of pattern.
"This is—"
"Beautiful. Like your work. Like you."
We make love in my workroom.
Among embroideries that will walk runways. He lays me on silk bolts.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Old. Village. Plain—"
"Couture. Every inch."
He worships me like fabric.
Every curve a design. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Marco—"
"Let me embroider you with pleasure."
His tongue finds patterns.
I grip silk, crying out. Pleasure stitching through me.
"Ya Allah—"
"Perfect. You're perfect."
When he enters me, I feel designed.
We move together among embroideries—his body and mine, creating new pattern.
"Aktar—"
"Sì—"
The climax is finished piece.
We cry out together—complete, ready for showing. Then we lie among our collaboration.
Two years later
The collection debuts in Milan.
"Lebanese Heritage"—my embroidery, his design. My name in lights I never expected.
"Worth the partnership?" I ask.
"Best collaboration of my career." He kisses my stitching fingers. "Best everything."
Alhamdulillah.
For embroidery that survives.
For designers who honor.
For village women who become couture.
The End.