Béchar Boundless
"Zhara plays traditional ahellil music in Béchar. When ethnomusicologist Thomas arrives recording Saharan sounds, she sings him songs that can't be captured. 'El ghina mn el qalb' (الغناء من القلب) - Song is from the heart."
Béchar's music was UNESCO heritage—ahellil, spiritual singing from before time.
"Can I record?" Thomas asked.
"El ghina ma yetsajjelch." Song can't be recorded. "Yetalla'."
It's released.
Zhara was keeper of songs her great-grandmother had sung—melodies unchanged for centuries.
"Teach me the structure."
"El ghina ma 'andouch structure."
"Everything has structure."
"El ghina 'ando roh."
She was substantial—voice that filled deserts, body that held tradition.
"The melodies come from where?"
"El qalb." The heart. "Win ktar rak thawwes?"
Where else to search?
Days of listening taught him nothing machines could capture.
"El microphone ma yefhemch."
"Microphones don't understand?"
"El ghina mn el qalb. El microphone ma 'andouch qalb."
"Then how do I learn?"
"Teghanni."
"I can't sing."
"Koulech yeghanni."
Night brought different songs—personal, private, for few ears.
"Hadi wach?"
"El ghina ta' el hob."
"Love songs?"
"Hob akbar mn el romantic."
She sang to him alone, voice weaving through starlight.
"Ya latif," he breathed.
"El ghina mn el qalb," she said. "El qalb ta'k yesma'."
Your heart hears.
"Zhara..."
"El ghina qalli."
"Said what?"
"Belli qalbek maftouh."
That your heart is open.
She kissed him between verses, song continuing.
"Hada..."
"Ghina."
She undressed still humming, her curves musical.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El ghina," she said. "Ana ghina."
He learned her melodies with hands instead of ears.
"Thomas," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her chorus. "El refrain."
She sang beneath his touch, pleasure harmonic.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El verse."
He entered her and her song changed—including him.
"El ghina mn el qalb," she cried.
"Qalbi ysma'."
Their rhythm was ahellil—call and response, building forever.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into music. "El ghina mn el qalb."
They sang together, pleasure completing the piece. Thomas held her through the silence.
"El recording?" she asked.
"Erased."
"Alache?"
"Some songs belong to silence."
His paper described ahellil without recording—structure that was feeling, melody that was spirit.
"El methodology?" peers asked.
"Listening with heart."
Now he returns to sing, learning what recordings miss.
"El ethnomusicologist w el mughanniya," they say.
"El ghina jab'na," Zhara smiles.
"El ghina ykhallina," Thomas adds.
Some songs never end.