M'sila Mirage
"Fatiha grows legendary Deglet Nour dates in M'sila's oasis. When agricultural investor Hans arrives assessing opportunities, she shows him that true gold can't be weighed. 'El tamr dahab' (التمر ذهب) - Dates are gold."
M'sila's dates were legendary—Deglet Nour, fingers of light, sweetness that conquered empires.
"I want exclusive contracts," Hans declared.
"El tamr ma yetem contract." Dates aren't contracted. "Yet'habbou."
They're loved.
Fatiha's palm garden stretched beyond sight—trees planted by ancestors, tended by descendants.
"Shhal nakhla?"
"Ma n'addouche."
"For inventory—"
"El inventory fi el qalb."
She was substantial—hands that knew each tree, body that moved through gardens like prayer.
"Your dates are famous worldwide."
"El tamr ma yebghich fame."
"Everyone wants fame."
"El tamr yebghi el shems."
Days in the oasis shifted him. Hans learned that trees had names, moods, histories.
"Hadi Meriem."
"You name them?"
"Homa semaw rou'houm."
They named themselves.
"El tamr dahab," she said one evening.
"Gold commodity?"
"La." She held a date to light. "El nour mn dakhel. Hada el dahab."
Night brought different sweetness—her home beneath date palms, stars through fronds.
"El investment?" she asked.
"Reconsidering."
"Wach tetsemma?"
"Everything."
She fed him dates slowly—each variety different, each one sacred.
"Ya latif," he groaned.
"El tamr dahab. Enti tetsahhi el dahab."
You taste the gold.
"Fatiha..."
"El nakhla qalouli."
"Said what?"
"Belli jit lel haqiqa."
That you came for truth.
She kissed him tasting of dates, sweetness on sweetness.
"Hada..."
"El tamr."
She undressed in palm shadow, her curves golden.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El tamr," she said. "Ana tamra."
He tasted her like prized varieties—finding notes, savoring sweetness.
"Hans," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her nectar. "El 'asal."
She ripened beneath his attention, pleasure date-gold.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El harvest."
He entered her in her ancestors' garden, and understood value.
"El tamr dahab," she cried.
"W enti?"
"Ana el dahab."
Their rhythm was harvest—patient gathering, sweet reward.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into gold. "El tamr dahab."
They harvested together, pleasure golden and complete. Hans held her through the sweetness.
"El contract?" she asked.
"Torn."
"Wach dir?"
"Partner, not investor."
His reports confused his company—recommendations that valued trees over tonnage.
"El approach?" they asked.
"El tamr dahab."
Now he tends palms beside her, learning what spreadsheets miss.
"El investor w el fellaha," they say.
"El tamr jab'na," Fatiha smiles.
"El tamr ykhallina," Hans adds.
Some gold grows on trees.