The Date Palm Farmer | مزارع النخيل
"She comes to the oasis to document traditional farming. He's the farmer who's kept the old ways alive. Between the palms, they plant something new."
The Date Palm Farmer
مزارع النخيل
Al-Hasa oasis is the largest in the world.
Millions of date palms. Centuries of tradition. I'm here to film the last farmers who remember the old ways.
Abdullah remembers everything.
I'm Nina.
British-Iraqi, documentary filmmaker. My work takes me to places others forget.
Abdullah's farm is one of those places.
He's sixty-two.
Hands like leather, eyes like dates. He's been tending palms since he was eight.
"Why do you film this?"
"Because it matters."
"To who?"
"To anyone who wants to remember."
He shows me the process.
Pollinating by hand. Climbing trunks without equipment. Reading the weather in ways satellites can't.
"You know more than my professors," I admit.
"Books know theories. Farmers know palms."
"Why haven't you written this down?"
"Who would read it?"
"Everyone who eats dates."
"They just want sweet. They don't want story."
"I want story."
I stay longer than planned.
One week becomes two. Two becomes a month. My camera captures everything—except what I'm feeling.
"You watch me strangely," he observes.
"I'm a filmmaker."
"That's not why."
"Why then?"
"Because you're beautiful. Because you love what you do. Because when you explain the palms, you look like you're touching something sacred."
"Date farming is sacred. My family has done this for—"
"For generations. I know. You've said." I step closer. "What haven't you said?"
"I haven't said that I notice you."
"Notice what?"
"Your laugh. Your questions. The way you treat my knowledge like treasure." He pauses. "I haven't been noticed in a long time."
"Abdullah—"
"I know. I'm old. You're young."
"I'm forty-four."
"You're beautiful and successful. I'm a farmer in an oasis."
"You're wisdom. And I'm tired of empty success."
The first kiss tastes like dates.
We're in the grove, surrounded by palms he's tended for decades.
"This is unexpected," he says.
"The best things are."
He takes me to his home.
Simple, traditional, full of generations. I feel like I've stepped into my own documentary.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"I've never been more sure."
He undresses me like the fruit he tends.
Carefully, with knowledge earned over years.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin—"
"The best dates are heavy. Full." He kisses my belly. "Ripe."
He makes love to me with a farmer's patience.
Slow cultivation. Waiting for sweetness. When I come, it's like harvest.
"Ya hayati," he murmurs. "My life."
"Already?"
"I've been waiting for you my whole life. I just didn't know it."
The documentary becomes a love story.
Not explicitly—but anyone can see. The way I film him. The way he looks at the camera.
"People will know," I warn.
"Let them know. I'm too old for secrets."
Two years later
I live in the oasis now.
Part-time—London winters, Saudi summers. The documentary won awards. The farmer won me.
"Happy?" Abdullah asks.
"Sweeter than dates."
"That's a lot of sweet."
"That's you."
We marry under the palms.
His family's trees witnessing another generation's promise.
"Mabruk," they say.
"Alhamdulillah."
He makes love to me in the grove sometimes.
Among the palms that have seen centuries of love. Adding our story to theirs.
"Best harvest?" I ask.
"You. Always you."
Alhamdulillah.
For oases that remain.
For farmers who remember.
For documentaries that become life.
The End.