A small glade with tufts of scruffy green grass lay off to my right. After I caught my breath, I noticed something moving along the opposite edge of the tree line. It circled around one spot.
Hoping to see a deer, I furtively skulked through the trees around the edge of the glade, staying hidden, not wanting to scare it away. As close to it as I dared go, I could tell it wasn’t a deer. Rather, it had a shiny gray-and-white coat and dark, piercing eyes. It was a wolf. In a frenzy of movement, it tore and clawed at a carcass, growling as it worked, eating ravenously. Moving closer still, I could make out the horns of a goat, its body splayed in the grass, its feet spiked toward the sky; flies hovered around it. The rank odor of death, pungent and brutal, the smell of blood and flesh, filled the air. I hid behind a tree. Except for the hum of the wolf’s growls as it ate, the forest was silent.
The wolf hadn’t seen me; it was preoccupied tearing at its meal. Its muzzle was drenched crimson in goat’s blood. I froze, mesmerized by the cruelty and majestic beauty of nature right in front of me. I remembered when Padar would have the mullah come to the house before Eids to butcher the calf we’d spent all year raising and fattening. How horrible it was to watch the blood of the calf—whom I’d petted and fed from my own hands—pour out from a slit across its throat. I hated watching it, but it was part of the ritual of our religion. Here in this forest of trees so far from any human eyes, animals were feeding as a way to survive.
After a while, the wolf must have sensed my presence, because it stopped eating and turned its crimson muzzle to me, fixing me with its dazzling black eyes. It lifted a paw and stepped toward me, and I retreated only one pace, daring it to let me into its space. We stared at each other for the longest moment, and I felt no revulsion at the blood that dripped from its teeth so conspicuously bared at me. More than that, I felt no fear of its teeth or its strength or its ferocious nature.
In that moment, I believed I could see right through its dark eyes into it, and it could see into me; we touched each other’s souls. I knew its intent, and I thought it knew mine. It was doing only what it had to do to survive, to live among other animals in the woods and the mountains who would do the same to it in a flash if it ever let its guard down. It was free to live, and it lived by eating what it could find. It had no remorse or fear or anger at its life—what it took and what it gave. It roamed in freedom, and it was that freedom from fear that kept it alive. We were kin.
It must have sensed I wasn’t a danger to it. It turned back to its lunch, and I backed away slowly until I lost sight of it. Once I found the path through the woods, I tried to retrace my steps back to the village. My heart and mind raced with thoughts: The goat being torn apart. The bloody muzzle of the wolf. Its piercing dark eyes. Its aggressive will to survive.
Fatigue came over me, and I wanted to find a place in the shade, away from the open land sparsely dotted with half-bare trees and low shrubs. I spotted the rocky gray face of the mountain, an outcropping with shady spots recessed into its mottled surface. I made it to the rocks and moved along the crevices and shadows until I found one that opened into a cave. At first I thought maybe it was a lair for animals, but then I noticed the well-worn entrance. Many travelers, like myself, must have found this place before.
I entered into its coolness, touching the wall with my hand to let it lead me farther into the darkness. The surface of the rock felt moist, and that made me think there might be a shama here: a pure, clean underground spring. It took me a while to wind my way through the narrow dark cavern before I came upon a circular pool of crystal-clear water, placid and completely silent. The walls were dark purple, and where they ran into the water, the rock turned shades of amethyst and plum. The deep colors of the rocks had a sheen to them, like they were embedded with fragments of diamonds that glistened in low light, making the calm surface of the water sparkle in the sunlight that was peeking through the rock walls of the cave. It took me a few moments to catch my breath; the sight was so overwhelming in its beauty. The solitude and peacefulness of this water and the sparkly grotto had been untouched by war. I felt suddenly able to rest. I knelt down by the water and stared into its clear coolness. My exhaustion began to lift; I felt at peace.
I washed my face in the refreshing water, and it revived me. I sat on the rim of the pool, in the pebbles and sand, and gazed into the shama. I thought about life as I stared down at my reflection in the sparkling water—Kabul, and the house on Shura Street, and my bicycle, and playing soccer in the streets with neighbors, and the whole family around the dining table. I heard Mommy telling us stories, and Padar reciting poetry. For the first time in a long while, I thought of Mommy and could hear her voice in my mind. I missed her terribly. I wondered what her life in India must be like. And in that moment, I thought I could see her face in the water—it floated just below the surface. Her smooth skin, the cut of her hair, her large brown eyes that took me all in. Every detail as real as my own flesh. It was a sign that I would see her again someday. I even looked different. The Enjeela in the shama’s reflection was thinner, with fatigue underlying her eyes. I hoped that Mommy would recognize me. That she wouldn’t mistake me for the wolf I was becoming. Like my kin that I had seen in the woods, gray and sleek, staring at me with bold black eyes and a bloody muzzle. We were the same in so many ways—tenacious and fearless. Everything I loved was gone, and I had no way of knowing what the next village would be like, or even the next day, but I wasn’t afraid. I was meant to survive.
Masood and the other refugees from Kabul that I’d met on the road came to mind. All of them struggled to survive the war and the sadness that surrounded us for leaving our homes and families. I thought about Mina, and grief over her situation threatened to evaporate the peacefulness I’d found here. She hadn’t escaped. She would never leave her slave existence.
I rose, undressed, and waded into the refreshing cold water. I submerged myself, and then pushed up into the air and breathed in the freshness of the cave. I wiped the wet from my face and pushed back my hair. The water’s chill sent tingles through my body. The chamber’s walls sparkled, and I felt so secure here that I didn’t want to leave.
I floated for a while, staring up at the top of the cave, my arms and legs extended and weightless.
I thought of Masood, of his sturdy determination to get us to Peshawar, and of his belief in me. He would be worried about where I was—he would think something horrible had happened to me.
I suddenly felt panicked and guilty. I quickly swam to the edge of the pool and raced to dry off and dress, and then made my way back to the mouth of the cave. I glanced behind me into the darkness. I knew I had to go back to camp, but I was reluctant to leave. Taking in one last breath of the cave air, I walked out onto the mountain.
When I entered the gates of the village, Laila ran to me, anger in her glare. She grabbed my arm and began pulling me toward our tent. “Don’t ever leave like that again,” she said, scolding me. “We looked everywhere for you.” At our tent, Masood had a relieved look when he saw me. “We were scared something happened,” Laila admonished me.