Naama Nights
"Zineb tracks gazelles in Naama's protected steppes. When wildlife biologist Johan arrives studying endangered species, she shows him tracking that science can't teach. 'El athar tehki' (الآثار تحكي) - Tracks speak."
Naama's steppes held ghosts—gazelles that moved like wind, visible only to those who knew.
"Dama gazelle?" Johan asked. "Critically endangered."
"Hna." Here. "Bas ma ychoufoukomch."
They don't let you see.
Zineb tracked for conservation—counting what couldn't be counted, knowing what couldn't be known.
"How do you find them?"
"El athar tehki."
"Tracks speak?"
"Kol athar qissa."
She was substantial—steppe-colored, wind-shaped, moving without trace.
"No GPS?"
"El GPS ma yesma'ch."
"What does it not hear?"
"El ard."
Days tracking taught him nothing. Johan's technology found nothing Zineb's eyes didn't know first.
"You see what satellites miss."
"El ghazal y'arfouni."
"Gazelles know you?"
"Nhna neighbours."
"Neighbors with endangered species?"
"El neighbour ma yet'addach."
Night brought different tracking—sounds in darkness, presences felt not seen.
"Tesma'?"
He heard—something moving, breathing, living.
"Ya latif."
"El athar tehki."
She led him to where gazelles gathered—secret springs, ancestral grounds.
"Hna yjiou."
"How do you know?"
"El ard qaltli."
"Zineb..."
"El ghazal qalouli."
"Gazelles told you?"
"Yqoulou you're different."
She kissed him under steppe stars, gazelles nearby.
"Hada..."
"El athar ta'na."
Our tracks.
She undressed in gazelle territory, her curves natural.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El steppe," she said. "Ana steppe."
He tracked her body like reading terrain—following signs, finding water.
"Johan," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her spring. "El 'ayn."
She flowed beneath him, pleasure wild.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El mer'a."
He grazed in her territory, and understood what conservation meant.
"El athar tehki," she cried.
"Wach yqoulou?"
"Hna. Dima hna."
Their rhythm was migration—purposeful, seasonal, eternal.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He tracked into her. "El athar tehki."
They converged together, pleasure endangered and protected. Johan held her through the counting.
"El data?" she asked.
"Useless."
"Wach ynfa'?"
"Living with."
His reports transformed conservation—community guardians over technology, relationship over counting.
"El methodology?" agencies asked.
"El athar tehki."
Now he tracks beside her, learning what schools miss.
"El biologist w el muttatbi'a," they say.
"El ghazal jab'na," Zineb smiles.
"El ghazal ykhallina," Johan adds.
Some tracks circle home.