غريبة — the stranger, the cookie, the candle.

We didn't forget home. We bottled it. Millions of us wake up in Amsterdam, Paris, Brussels and London, but our soul never left. You know the feeling. The smell of Nador on a summer morning. Harira in a Casablanca kitchen on a Friday. The sea breeze hitting you as the ferry pulls into Tanger.

Ghriba started with one question we asked the diaspora: what does your city smell like? They described Beni Mellal after rain. The souks of Fes at dusk. The ocean at Al Hoceima in July. We listened. Then we lit it.