The Tyre Fisherwoman | صيادة صور
"She captains the last traditional fishing boat in Tyre. He's the documentary filmmaker capturing dying traditions. Between takes, they catch feelings neither expected. 'Inti akbar sayde sawwartha' (أنتِ أكبر صيدة صوّرتها)."
The Tyre Fisherwoman
صيادة صور
My boat is sixty years old.
My father built it. I rebuilt it. The Sitt el-Baher—Lady of the Sea—and I are the last of our kind in Tyre.
Then the filmmaker comes, wanting to make us famous.
I'm Hana.
Fifty-one, built by the sea, hands like leather, body like abundance. I've pulled nets since I was twelve.
Omar Haddad thinks my story will make compelling television.
"Kem yom baddak?"
"A week, maybe two. Enough to capture a full cycle."
"W shu baddé ana?"
"To be yourself. Fish like no one's watching."
I laugh. "Ma hadan bi shuf." No one watches anymore.
He's forty-six.
Lebanese diaspora, Al Jazeera documentary division, awards I don't recognize on shelves I'll never see. His eyes are sad—the kind that's seen too much truth.
"Why fishing?"
"Because everyone documents war. Someone should document what we're losing in peace."
He boards the Sitt el-Baher at 4 AM.
Camera-ready, terrified of water, completely unsuited for the sea. I watch him clutch the rails.
"You'll fall in if you grip that hard."
"Better than falling in by not gripping."
"Lan ta'a. Khalas." Come. Sit.
I teach him the sea.
How to read currents, when to cast, the patience of waiting. His camera runs, but his eyes are on me.
"Stop filming."
"I haven't started." He lowers the camera. "This is just watching."
"You're always watching."
"Inti tistahli." You're worth watching.
Days blur into rhythm.
Cast, haul, sort, sell. He captures it all—the labor, the loneliness, the love I have for this dying way of life.
"Why do you continue?" he asks one sunset.
"Li'anno haydé ana." Because this is who I am.
"And when there are no more fish?"
"I'll be fish myself by then."
His hand covers mine on the tiller.
We're alone on the Mediterranean, purple sky, first stars emerging. The camera is off.
"Omar..."
"I know it's inappropriate—"
"Is that why your hand is shaking?"
"Aiwa."
The kiss tastes like salt.
Everything here tastes like salt—the air, the work, my tears that I didn't know were falling.
"Why are you crying?"
"Li'anno haydé awwal marra hadan shafni." Because this is the first time someone has seen me.
We anchor in a hidden cove.
Where Romans once traded purple dye. Where Phoenicians launched their conquests. Now, just us.
"Are you sure?"
"Inta ktir bi tehki." You talk too much.
He undresses me like unwrapping a gift.
Slowly, reverently. My body is nothing like the women in his documentaries—soft where they're hard, thick where they're thin.
"Mashallah." His voice breaks. "Inti akbar sayde sawwartha."
"The biggest catch you've filmed?"
"The only one that matters."
We make love in the boat's hold.
The Sitt el-Baher rocks beneath us, gentle as a cradle. His body against mine, in mine, part of me.
"Hana—ya Allah—"
"Aktar—"
I wrap strong legs around him.
Fifty-one years of hauling nets gives me grip. He groans, thrusts deeper, loses himself in me.
"I'm close—"
"Good. Ana kamen."
We crash together like waves on the ancient harbor wall.
He cries my name. I cry his. The boat creaks. The Mediterranean holds us.
We sleep tangled in fishing nets.
Wake to sunrise, sticky and satisfied, the camera still off.
"The documentary," I say.
"I'll finish it. Properly. Then I'll come back."
"Promises on sea don't hold."
"Then I'll hold them on land too."
Two years later
"The Last Fisherwoman" wins awards.
I attend premieres in a dress, uncomfortable and proud. Omar never returns to Doha.
"Why did you stay?" they ask him.
"Because I found something worth more than stories."
"Shu?"
"The woman who is the story."
Alhamdulillah.
For dying traditions worth preserving.
For filmmakers who put down cameras.
For fisherwomen who catch more than fish.
The End.