Jijel Jewels
"Lamia harvests coral in Jijel's protected waters. When marine researcher Paul arrives studying Mediterranean ecosystems, she shows him treasures science can't measure. 'El bhar y'ti' (البحر يعطي) - The sea gives."
Jijel's coast hid the Mediterranean's last red coral. Lamia had harvested sustainably for three generations.
"Harram!" Paul declared. Forbidden! "The coral is protected!"
"El qanoun ta' el ghir," she replied. Outsider's law. "El bhar 'ando qanoun khrou."
She was substantial—built for depth, for pressure, for survival. Her eyes held secrets only water knows.
"Njit lel bahth?"
"Conservation research."
"Conservation?" She laughed. "Win kuntou m'a el Français jebbou koulech?"
Where were you when the French took everything?
His preconceptions crumbled over days. Lamia harvested strategically—dead colonies, sustainable quantities, techniques passed through women's hands.
"El bhar y'ti," she explained. The sea gives. "Bas lazem tesma' wach y'ti."
"Ki tesm'i?"
"Nghoss." I dive. "El bhar yehki taht."
She took him diving—no tanks, just breath and generations of knowledge.
"Ya latif," he gasped at underwater gardens.
"Hada el jardin ta' jeddi." My grandmother's garden. "Jeddi ta' jeddi."
"Teach me."
"El bhar ma yet'allemch."
"Yetaych?"
She smiled beneath the waves.
Night brought different depths—her home overlooking cliffs, sea singing below.
"El recherche?" she asked.
"Changed."
"Wach tbeddel?"
"Koulech."
He kissed her while waves crashed distant rocks.
"Paul..."
"El bhar y'ti," he whispered. "Ana khadt."
I received.
She led him through her home—nets, coral pieces, a life shaped by sea.
"Hna twaladt," she said. Here I was born.
"W hna..."
"Nchoufou."
She undressed in salt-scented air, curves that belonged to mermaids.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"Bent el bhar."
"Loulou el bhar." Pearl of the sea.
He dove into her like diving into Mediterranean—carefully at first, then completely.
"Ya rabbi," she moaned.
"Aktar." He found her depths. "Nghoss."
She came apart like coral releasing spawn—brilliant, vital, essential.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El 'omq."
He entered her with the sea as witness, and understood what conservation meant.
"El bhar y'ti," she cried.
"Wach y'ti?"
"Hada. Hnna. Koulech."
Their rhythm matched the tides—relentless, patient, powerful.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove deep. "El bhar y'ti."
They crested like waves breaking, pleasure washing over both. Paul held her through the undertow.
"El rapport?" she asked later.
"Will recommend community-based management."
"Wach hada?"
"You."
His research changed policy—local knowledge recognized, traditional practices protected.
"El scientifique?" authorities asked.
"Lqa el haqiqa f'el ma."
Found truth in water.
Now he dives with her, learning what labs can't teach.
"El bhar y'ti," Lamia says.
"W lazem n'tiw," Paul adds.
And we must give back.