flight of the arctic geese in son et lumiere

It's in the north, isn't it, where the accordian is fetched from beside the cabinet, or unhung from the wall, played after dinner, put on stage, taught to semi-autonomous preteens by hardworked, wellfed, mature people, with squat fingers in semi-autonomous regions.
The squatter the fingers, the further north? Or is it the hard work and the weather and the leisure in accordian enclaves, the squatter the fingers? Or is it just that dancing fingers in the light of the fire look truncated?
I watched a program of recently migrated girl-relatives, who maintained their music and spirits by practicing and performing on the instrument they brought with them, don't ask me on what - a train, a series of buses traducing the desert, in one of their backpacks, I like to imagine several ways of passage, that wasn't in that segment of the documentary, and prefer to have it hazy and replete with possibility - and they weaved with the music, twitched their necks, bent their knees as they moved for the camera in the small room swept clear of furnishings, with a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. They were very young and very proud and their mother had made them up with green eyeshadow and vaseline on the fine hair that doesn't reach to a ponytail. They did a sort of mimetic dumshow of the emotions the lyrics were to elicit from their audience. That got me.
Blatant fakery, is still something that another way of seeing, a rephrasing, is still unable to be acceptable to me. But they were real enough, and the music is old, and it's necessary to many people, over a great stretch of tundra.
The accordian in itself, as it appeared to me as a child, is in the radio family, small people, orchestras, chairs and changing rooms inside.