Na’am: Arabic for “yes.”
Not all yeses are the same. Our yeses come from different places. Some from pressure. Some from fear. Some from habit. But naʿam? Naʿam is a yes that comes with reverence.
To create is a privilege. To return to your own work and find yourself reflected in it is beautiful, but it demands more than a quick yes. A casual "sure, okay" may carry you through the first wave. But it won’t be enough for the second, or the third. When you felt sick at the thought of showing up, of not knowing the answers, of investing the resources, of change. Only Naʿam, a yes given in reverence, can hold that weight.
That’s what Naʿam is. It’s a yes strong enough to pull you through the hard parts.
Na’am
Beneath the yellow Yemeni sky,
where date palms stretch and falcons fly,
Na’am was born with desert breath
a boy who answered life with yes.
Na’am, to the wind that pulled him far.
Na’am, to sabr, to every scar.
Na’am, to noor where darkness crept.
To dreams he sowed and never kept.
He wandered east, he wandered west.
He followed longing, not success.
Through souks and silence, storms and sand,
he placed his fate in Allah’s hand.
They asked, “Why yes? To all, to pain?”
He smiled: “Because I came from flame.
I was not made for staying still
I move inshAllah, by will.”
He traded gold for olive trees.
His pockets held old tapestries.
His hands knew prayer. His voice knew song.
He knew that yes can still be strong.
Through every land, he left behind
a poem, a spice, a softened mind.
And when the people tried to hold,
he’d bow and whisper “Alhamdulillah,”
then walk back out into the cold.
Now when I paint and fear the mess,
I think of him
the boy of yes.
Who gave, who went, who moved through more,
and taught me how to hold the door
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