Bikfaya Ceramic Fire | نار سيراميك بكفيا
"She fires ceramics in a kiln her grandfather built in Bikfaya. He's the ceramicist from Japan seeking Lebanese clay traditions. Between wheel and fire, they shape something beautiful. 'Inti atyab shighl' (أنتِ أطيب شغل)."
Bikfaya Ceramic Fire
نار سيراميك بكفيا
The kiln holds memory.
My grandfather built it; my father fired it; I carry the tradition. Clay from Lebanese mountains, shaped by Lebanese hands.
Then Japan arrives, seeking to learn.
I'm Marie-Rose.
Fifty-two, hands permanently stained with slip, body shaped by years of wedging clay. My pottery sustains tourists and tradition.
Kenji Nakamura bows at my kiln.
"You want to study here?"
"Lebanese pottery has roots in Phoenicia." His Arabic is accented but excellent. "I want to understand."
"Most ceramicists go to Morocco. Turkey."
"Most don't know about Bikfaya."
He's fifty-six.
Japanese potter, renowned in his country, here to trace how glazing techniques traveled the Silk Road. His humility is disarming.
"What do you hope to find?"
"What I've lost. Connection to material."
"Japan seems very connected to material."
"Japan forgot. Like everyone forgot."
He stays six months.
Learns my techniques, teaches me his. The clay responds to both—alchemy of culture.
"Your hands know things mine don't," he observes.
"Yours know things mine don't."
"Then we should keep learning."
Learning happens at the wheel.
Side by side, our hands in clay. The intimacy of throwing—wet earth, rhythmic centering, something rising.
"Marie-Rose—"
"Eih?"
"You're the most natural potter I've encountered."
"I just do what I was taught."
"That's the mastery." He stops his wheel. "Doing what you were taught until it becomes something new."
"Like this?" My hands shape a form I haven't made before.
"Exactly like that."
The kiss happens clay-covered.
His mouth on mine, slip on our lips. We taste earth and wanting.
"Kenji—"
"I shouldn't have—"
"I'm glad you did."
We make love by the cooling kiln.
Warm clay scent, fired earth. He undresses me slowly, carefully.
"Masaka." His Japanese slips through. "You're—"
"Large. Lebanese. Not what you expected—"
"Inti atyab shighl." The finest work.
He worships me like clay.
Hands finding form, mouth tracing curves. My neck, my breasts, lower—
"Kenji—"
"Let me shape you. With my hands. My mouth."
His tongue between my thighs.
Japanese precision meets Lebanese passion. I grip kiln bricks, cry out to ceramic gods.
"Ya Allah—"
"Yes. Surrender to the wheel."
When he enters me, we center.
Two traditions becoming one form. We move together with throwing rhythm.
"Aktar—"
"Hai—"
The climax is a successful firing.
We cry out together—something new emerging from the kiln of our bodies.
Three years later
We exhibit together.
Tokyo and Bikfaya, Lebanese-Japanese ceramics. Critics call it revolutionary. We call it love.
"Worth crossing the world?" I ask.
"I found what I came for." He cups my clay-stained hand. "And more."
Alhamdulillah.
For kilns that carry tradition.
For potters who seek sources.
For clay that shapes connection.
The End.