has never injured my feet, never burned me, never hurt me.
After hundreds of years, our Karez well has stood strong, bringing us wealth, health and
most importantly, life. I walked towards it, looking forward to a refreshing drink. I set down my
buckets and reached for the rope. I pulled on it and was surprised by the lightness… I looked down
past the stone brim—
Wait, what?
The well was dry.
“That’s impossible,” my father said.
“The tunnel might be broken or maybe… maybe the snow could be slow to melt this year…” I said.
“The tunnel can’t be broken, it has been there for hundreds of years,” My father’s brows
twisted and locked.
“Maybe, the sun is just not hot enough right now. Wait a couple of days and…” I tried to come
up with another reason. But my father has already stood up and pushed his chair in.
“The sun is the same, daughter, the heat, the temperature…these don’t change. It is the people.
It is the human heart that changes,” he said by the door, before leaving the room.
May was here.
I woke up early. I went out to search for breakfast. Surprisingly, I saw my father eating alone.
“Good morning.”
“A few customers came, they wanted grapes by the end of June. No need for reservation they
said, as long as we have what they want…” he said.
“And?” I added right after his voice dropped.
“Ama went to Ahmaiti’s house to ask for water. They have their private well, with water from
another source. I’m afraid it may be too late to plant now…”
We ate in silence; the fear of loss gripped the air around us.
“Help me take the herd out today please, Guli.”
“Of course.” I answered obediently and finished my milk tea. It was saltier than usual.
I counted the sheep and started my journey, singing as I went.
Sand was all I saw. Mountains of sand, oceans of sand. Alone, in a world of sand. I didn’t feel
lonely, because each grain of sand is made from the body of some anonymous mountain.
The sun was setting and it was time for me to take the sheep home. It had been a long day for
them. I pushed open the door and saw my parents looking grave. “Ama, did Ahmeti agree to lend
us water?”
My father motioned towards the empty seat across them. I hate meetings like this. The last
time they gave away my horse.
“Ahmaiti’s well is just as empty as ours,” he continued.
“The world is changing, Guli. Summer will be here soon. At this rate, we will all shrivel from
thirst if we don’t seek survival elsewhere,” Ama choked with tears.
“But we’ve been here for thousands of years! We’ll survive this drought, like our
ancestors!” I protested.
“What did I do wrong? I love my wife, my daughter, my sheep …” Dad buried his face, it
didn’t sound like crying, it sounded more like a prayer. “Tell me why this had happened? Why the
precious well that was passed down generations to generations dried under my watch?”
There must be a reason, a plan, a solution. I went to my room, they needed time alone. Dinner
wasn’t prepared, I just took some bread and hid away.
