The Omani Frankincense | اللبان العماني
"She harvests frankincense in Dhofar like her ancestors. He's the perfumer seeking the finest resin. Their collaboration intoxicates them both."
The Omani Frankincense
اللبان العماني
The frankincense trees weep.
We harvest their tears—precious resin used for millennia. The Dhofar region of Oman produces the world's finest.
I am their keeper.
I'm Thuraya.
Forty-eight, Omani, from a family that's harvested frankincense for generations. The trees know my hands.
Antoine wants their tears.
He's fifty-five.
French, master perfumer. He creates scents for royalty. He needs the best frankincense.
"I'll pay any price."
"It's not about price."
"Then what?"
"Respect. For the trees. For the tradition."
"Teach me," he says.
"Teach you what?"
"How to respect them."
"That's not usually what buyers want."
"I'm not usual."
He stays in Dhofar for three months.
Learns the harvest, the seasons, the prayers we say to the trees.
"You talk to them."
"They listen. They've listened for four thousand years."
"Extraordinary."
"Your perfumes—what do you make?"
"Scents that capture souls."
"That sounds dangerous."
"All beautiful things are."
"Why frankincense?"
"Because it's the scent of the sacred. Temples, mosques, churches—all use it."
"And you want to put it in bottles?"
"I want to share the sacred."
The first kiss is in the frankincense forest.
Resin scenting everything, ancient trees witnessing.
"Is this wise?" he asks.
"Wisdom is what the trees have. We just have moments."
"Come to Paris."
"I can't leave the trees."
"Come for the creation. Help me blend the perfect scent."
"Antoine—"
"Be my muse and my partner."
He undresses me in the Dhofar hills.
Stars above, frankincense smoke rising from our camp.
"Beautiful."
"Thuraya—"
"Let me intoxicate you differently."
We make love while the resin burns.
Sacred smoke blessing us, ancient ritual made new.
"Ya habibi—Antoine—"
"Right there?"
"Aiwa—like the trees, I weep—"
One year later
The perfume launched to global acclaim.
Named after me—"Thuraya." I travel between Dhofar and Paris now.
"Happy?" he asks.
"We bottled something sacred."
"Our love?"
"That too."
Alhamdulillah.
For trees that weep.
For perfumers who respect.
For scents that become love.
The End.