“Yalla tnam, yalla tnam.”
The song alights within Alia, a remembering akin to joy. Her mother’s garden, a courtyard somewhere in Kuwait, as she sang to a baby at her own breast. She sits in the dark, listening to the ancient, salvaged music.
“Yalla tnam, yalla tnam.”
The song alights within Alia, a remembering akin to joy. Her mother’s garden, a courtyard somewhere in Kuwait, as she sang to a baby at her own breast. She sits in the dark, listening to the ancient, salvaged music.