Birtouta Bliss
"Wahiba grows strawberries in Birtouta's fertile plains. When agricultural reporter Sven arrives covering sustainable farming, she shows him that some sweetness can't be industrial. 'El frawla hob' (الفراولة حب) - Strawberries are love."
Birtouta's strawberries painted the Mitidja red. Wahiba's were legendary.
"Organic certification?" Sven asked.
"Ma nehtajch certification." Don't need certification. "El ard certified."
Her fields grew what supermarkets couldn't replicate—strawberries that tasted like childhood.
"What's your secret?"
"El frawla hob."
"Strawberries are love?"
"Koul frawla hekaya hob."
She was substantial—berry-stained hands, body that bent between rows with grace.
"How do you scale this?"
"Ma nscalich."
"For profit—"
"El frawla ma tehtajch profit."
Days in the fields taught him. Sven tasted strawberries that rewired his understanding.
"This can't be real."
"Ktar mn real."
"More than real?"
"El frawla hob."
"Love isn't a farming technique."
"El hob koulech."
Night brought different harvest—moonlit fields, forbidden picking, sweetness in darkness.
"Ma yelzamch netqasem."
"Share what?"
"El frawla ta' el lil."
The night strawberries.
"Wahiba..."
"El frawla qaltli."
"Strawberries told you?"
"Tqoul you're sweet."
She kissed him berry-red.
"Hada..."
"El frawla."
She undressed in moonlight, her curves ripe.
"Herregud," he breathed.
"El frawla," she said. "Ana frawla."
He tasted her like picking berries—carefully, thoroughly, savoring.
"Sven," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her sweetness. "El halawa."
She ripened beneath him, pleasure harvested.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El qatr."
He picked her, and understood what organic meant.
"El frawla hob," she cried.
"Fina."
Their rhythm was harvest—picking, tasting, filling baskets.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He picked into her. "El frawla hob."
They harvested together, pleasure sweet. Sven held her through the sorting.
"El article?" she asked.
"Different."
"Wach ktebti?"
"Love story."
His reporting transformed agriculture coverage—relationship over production, love over yield.
"El approach?" editors asked.
"El frawla hob."
Now he farms beside her, learning what journalism missed.
"El reporter w el fellaha," they say.
"El frawla jab'tna," Wahiba smiles.
"El frawla tkhallina," Sven adds.
Some sweetness grows itself.