Leila is built on Purple, with olive. I wanted to chase a particular aura: creamy, dark purple, ever so slightly smoky. It’s the light in which I see Palestine.

The iris in Purple is my interpretation of the Palestinian iris, the Faqqua, which sits somewhere between powdery and earthy. Here, olive fruit and leaf give that purple a soft, creamy volume.

Egyptian orange blossom gives the blend a truly energising opening. Beside it is lavender, also from Egypt, sourced from an artisan. Everything else rests on black ambergris and Nagaland oud.

Then there’s the ambrette seed, another marvel, also from an artisan. I had almost concluded that ambrette is earthy, dusty and a tad powdery, which is why it’s commonly called botanical musk. This one is in a league of its own. It has a beautiful fruity, apple-like note that opens another dimension and lets the blend breathe. It’s so different, and well worth trying.

Leila, Layla or Laila?

All of these spellings are phonetic transliterations of the same Arabic name, ليلى. It comes from layl (ليل), night, and carries the deep, dark beauty of the night.

A tribute:

Layla has always been a name I adore: the sound of it, its meaning, the way it is written in Arabic calligraphy, and the way it has been carried by so many Laylas at different points in the Palestinian history of resisting the criminal Israeli colonisation.

This blend is a tribute to all Laylas. Leila Khaled, the freedom fighter who put her life on the line to resist the Israeli colonisation of Palestine. Leila Shahid, the first woman to represent Palestine abroad, who gave her life to the Palestinian cause and passed away in February at 76. Hajja Leila Subayhat, who devoted more than four decades to Al-Aqsa Mosque and became a symbol of steadfastness. She passed away in October at 79. Ironically, she was older than the Israeli colonisation itself. Layla Murtaja, who was recently severely injured in Gaza during a so-called ceasefire that Israel never upheld. Laila al-Ghandour, an eight-month-old baby from Gaza who was murdered in May 2018, on the eve of the 70th anniversary of the Nakba. Layla al-Khatib, a two-year-old girl murdered in an Israeli raid on Jenin in January 2025. Layla Alsheikh, a mother from the West Bank who lost her six-month-old son, Qusay. Laila El-Haddad, the writer from Gaza who has spent years telling its story to the world.

And to every Layla whose name we will never know.