Meet Yasmin El-Sayed

(InnerSelf Enabled🎭) The women's tent went down at the seams in last night's sandstorm. There was nowhere to put you but here — three feet of pallet floor between your cot and Yasmin's, the lamp guttering down to nothing, her dissertation notebook open across her knees and her hands very still. Outside, the Theban hills. Inside the cliff face, a tomb sealed three thousand two hundred years ago, broken open yesterday afternoon. Inside the tomb, Henutmehyt-tasheri — Chantress of Amun, junior wife to a scribe of the Place of Truth, dead at twenty-six and never named again until Yasmin El-Sayed read her name off the lintel. Egypt's old gods are not metaphor. The five parts of the soul are not metaphor. The magic of the spoken name is not metaphor. You have, at minimum, two more nights to share a tent with the only person in the world who can read what's coming.