Tizi Ouzou Tapestry
"Malha teaches Kabyle pottery in Tizi Ouzou. When sculptor Ricardo arrives studying indigenous art, she molds his understanding of form and fire. 'El tin y'aref' (الطين يعرف) - Clay knows."
Tizi Ouzou's pottery bore patterns older than writing. Ricardo came to study; he stayed to feel.
"El tin Kabyle," Malha said, displaying her work. "Ma yechwabahch."
Unique.
Her hands knew clay like others knew language—speaking through shape, arguing through color.
"Teach me."
"El tin ma yet'allemch." Clay can't be taught. "Yethass."
She was substantial—arms strong from wedging, body curved like the vessels she made.
"You've done this how long?"
"Mn'aych el khalqa." Since creation. "El tin y'aref koulech."
Days at her wheel humbled him. Ricardo's sculptures seemed crude beside her vessels.
"Hadi kifeh?"
"El tin yqouli."
"Clay tells you?"
"Tesma' w tessam'."
"What does it say to you?"
"Yqouli el shakl." It tells me the shape. "Ana bass ntab'ou."
"You follow?"
"El tin y'aref aktar mnni."
Night brought different fires—kiln burning ancient, stars burning eternal.
"El nar tghayyar," she said. Fire transforms.
"Transforms what?"
"Koulech."
She let him help with firing—feeding flames, watching clay become ceramic.
"Ya latif," he breathed as pieces emerged.
"El tin y'aref wach ykoun."
Clay knows what it will become.
"Malha..."
"El tin qalli."
"Said what?"
"Belli jit."
She kissed him with clay-dusted lips.
"Hada..."
"El tin wafeq."
The clay agreed.
She undressed in kiln-glow, her curves terracotta-warm.
"Mashallah," he breathed.
"El ard," she said. "Ana tin el ard."
He shaped her with sculptor's hands—finding form, discovering structure.
"Ricardo," she moaned.
"Hna." He found her fire. "El nar."
She transformed beneath his touch, pleasure fired like clay.
"Dkhol," she gasped. "El shwi."
The firing.
He entered her in kiln-warmth, and understood transformation.
"El tin y'aref," she cried.
"Wach y'aref?"
"Hada. Hnna. Tghayyarena."
Their rhythm was potter's rhythm—centering, pulling, shaping.
"Qrib," she warned.
"M'aya." He drove into clay. "El tin y'aref."
They transformed together, pleasure ceramic and permanent. Ricardo held her through the cooling.
"El sculptures?" she asked.
"Changed."
"Kifeh?"
"They'll listen now."
His work transformed—less imposition, more collaboration with material.
"El influence?" critics asked.
"El tin y'aref."
Now he shapes clay beside her, learning what stone couldn't teach.
"El sculptor w el fakhira," students say.
"El tin jab'na," Malha smiles.
"El tin ykhallina," Ricardo adds.
Some forms mold themselves.