Terbol Bird Sanctuary | محمية طير تربل
"She protects migrating birds at Terbol wetlands against hunters. He's the ornithologist documenting endangered species. Between wings and water, they find sanctuary in each other. 'Inti el jannah el asir' (أنتِ الجناح الأسير)."
Terbol Bird Sanctuary
محمية طير تربل
Birds know no borders.
They fly from Africa to Europe, stopping in Lebanon—where hunters wait. I guard Terbol wetlands, protecting what passes through.
Then the scientist arrives, counting what survives.
I'm Karma.
Forty-six, sanctuary warden, body built by patrol. My binoculars have seen more than most people dream.
Dr. Henrik Sorensen counts endangered species.
"These numbers are worse than I expected."
"Hunting is cultural here."
"Culture can't justify extinction."
"I know. That's why I'm here."
He's forty-nine.
Danish ornithologist, tracking migration patterns. His data documents what my eyes already know.
"How long have you been doing this?"
"Twenty years."
"Alone?"
"The birds don't mind."
He stays through migration season.
Documenting, photographing, learning what I know instinctively. His science validates my passion.
"You know these birds better than anyone I've met."
"I've watched them longer."
"It's more than watching. You love them."
"Is that unprofessional?"
"It's why you're effective." He sets down binoculars. "Henrik—sorry, you make me forget formality."
"Good. Formality kills fieldwork."
"Karma—"
"Eih?"
"I've studied birds my whole life. You're the first person who's made me want to study something else."
"Shu?"
"Inti el jannah el asir." You're the captive wing.
"What does that mean?"
"You've given your life to flight. Let someone give you ground."
The kiss happens in the hide.
Watching cranes migrate, thousands passing. His mouth on mine is landing.
"Henrik—"
"The birds don't mind."
We make love in the sanctuary.
Where birds rest before continuing. He lays me on observation gear.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Field-worn. Muddy—"
"Perfect habitat."
He worships me ornithologically.
Every curve a species. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Henrik—"
"Let me document you."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip binocular straps, crying out as storks fly overhead. Pleasure like migration—building, cresting.
"Ya Allah—"
"Beautiful. You're beautiful."
When he enters me, I feel nested.
We move together in the sanctuary—his body and mine, mating.
"Aktar—"
"Ja—"
The climax is successful flight.
We cry out together—taking off, landing safely. Then we lie among the reeds, resting.
Three years later
Henrik's study publishes.
Terbol becomes protected—official sanctuary. He stays, documenting. We stay, together.
"Worth the migration?" I ask.
"Best landing I ever made." He kisses me as birds pass overhead. "Home."
Alhamdulillah.
For wetlands that shelter.
For scientists who count.
For wardens who become home.
The End.