The foremothers are calling, and the song will not let the young look away. Addressed to nieida and gánda—girl and boy—Gula Gula turns listening itself into duty: hear the ancestors now asking why the earth is being trampled, poisoned, left to ruin. The land is mother to everyone; kill her and you die with her. Have you sold yourself into the race? Forgotten where you came from? You still have sisters and brothers in the rainforests of South America and on Greenland’s rocky shores.

Mari Boine’s joik-carried voice makes the charge ceremonial rather than scolding—held for long stretches over a moderate, slightly contested pulse that keeps the body engaged without easing into comfort. The arrangement stays suspended and warm, pressure gathering and releasing inside a single long hold until the final drain, so the warning never softens into spectacle. What remains is kinship stretched across continents and a simple refusal: the earth is not inventory, and forgetting that is a choice the foremothers will not bless.