Her Hands, Our Beginning

She came from another city — a stranger to the land, yet never to herself.

Among the fields and the whispers of the wind, she built a small world from thread and silence.

They did not welcome her. They did not understand her.

But she stayed — patient, proud, and quiet — shaping fabric as if it were prayer.

History and art were her secret languages.

Each night, she dreamt not of escape, but of continuity —

that her children would rise, learn, and carry her vision beyond the borders that confined her.

Life tested her with solitude, with hunger, with loss.

She buried her daughter, seventeen years of light — and for a while, time stood still.

Yet even in stillness, her spirit did not fade; it became inheritance.

That inheritance is now carried by her son, Muhammad,

who once promised his mother that he would turn her silence into form,

and her sorrow into beauty the world could touch.

Thus, every creation of Mohardo Naitelli is not only designed — it is remembered.