Around them, the orchard hummed — a chorus of different tongues in rhythm — proof that when values and words find one another, they can keep an entire community alive.… They called the place the Liminal Orchard — a narrow spit of reclaimed land between the delta and the sea where fishermen’s houses leaned like tired teeth and three languages met in the market every morning. The orchard itself had been planted a generation ago by a small interfaith coalition: a mosque committee, a village temple group, and a secular school. On paper the coalition read like a harmony — shared festivals, joint meals, a rotating schedule for tending the almond trees. In practice, it was a negotiation that began again each day. Aisha had grown up in that liminal margin. As an adult she led the mosque’s community outreach: distributing food after storms, translating legal forms for elderly women, and sitting on the orchard’s steering group. Her faith was t...