Jbeil Fisherman's Daughter | بنت صياد جبيل
"She's the last woman who fishes the traditional way in Jbeil. He's the marine conservationist fighting industrial fishing. On ancient waters, they catch more than fish. 'Inti el sayde el kbiri' (أنتِ الصيدة الكبيرة)."
Jbeil Fisherman's Daughter
بنت صياد جبيل
My father's nets are three generations old.
I repair them nightly, fish with them daily. Industrial boats have killed most of us. I remain.
Then the conservationist arrives, fighting different battles.
I'm Noura.
Forty-seven, fisherman's daughter, built by the sea and stubbornness. My body is strong; my resolve stronger.
Dr. Alain Massoud wants to save the Mediterranean—from both industry and me.
"Traditional fishing isn't sustainable either."
"My nets don't destroy habitats."
"Your methods still deplete stocks—"
"My family has fished these waters for centuries. The stocks depleted when the factories came."
He's fifty.
Marine biologist, Greenpeace veteran, now working for IUCN. His science is solid; his understanding is incomplete.
"I need to observe your methods."
"You want to regulate me."
"I want to understand. Then maybe advocate."
I let him on my boat.
Watch him turn green at first swells, recover, take notes obsessively. His respect grows with his nausea.
"You're selective."
"Always. My father taught me—take what you need, leave the rest."
"Industrial fishing takes everything."
"That's why they should be stopped. Not me."
He becomes my advocate.
Fights for exemptions, documents my methods, argues that traditional fishing is conservation, not threat.
"Why help me?"
"Because you're what fishing should be."
"I'm a dying breed."
"I don't want you to die."
The meaning is clear.
"Alain—"
"I've watched you work for months. You're extraordinary."
"I throw nets and gut fish."
"You sustain tradition. That's extraordinary."
The kiss happens at sea.
My boat, my territory. His mouth on mine tastes like salt and possibility.
"This is unprofessional—"
"This is human. Inti el sayde el kbiri."
"The big catch?"
"The only one that matters."
We make love on my boat.
Where my father slept between hauls. I bring Alain to my cabin.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Weather-worn. Fish-scented—"
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
He worships me with observation intensity.
Every curve mapped. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Alain—"
"Let me catch you. Properly."
His tongue between my thighs.
Boat rocking gently, stars through portholes. I grip nets my grandmother wove.
"Ya Allah—"
"Beautiful. You're so beautiful."
When he enters me, I feel landed.
We move together with wave rhythm—his body and mine, centuries of tradition cradling us.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is good haul.
We cry out together—abundance, gratitude. Then lie tangled in my father's cabin.
Three years later
Traditional fishing gets protection.
My methods documented, preserved, taught. Alain stays in Jbeil, fighting from shore while I fight from sea.
"Worth the advocacy?" I ask.
"Best catch I ever made." He pulls me close. "You."
Alhamdulillah.
For seas that sustain.
For scientists who learn.
For fisherwomen who survive.
The End.