Batu Dashdavaa

The smog was thicker than usual today, curling through the narrow alleys and blanketing the streets in an oppressive haze. I pulled my scarf tighter around my face, though it barely helped. Breathing here in Ulanbator, Mongolia, feels like swallowing dust. It wasn’t always like this—or so my grandparents say. They talk about clear skies and crisp winters, before the city swelled with people and coal-fired stoves.

My lungs burned. Asthma has been my shadow since I was a kid, worsened by this air. I'm 21 now, and every inhale reminds me of where I am—and where I hope not to be forever.

It’s hard to explain to people outside Mongolia what it’s like here. They think of nomads, horses, maybe Genghis Khan. They don’t see the sprawling ger districts on the city’s edges, where families huddle around coal stoves to fight off -40°C winters. They don’t hear the silence when you mention the wealth buried under our feet—gold, copper, rare earths. It’s all here, but never for us. Corruption and mismanagement eat through it like rust.

My family’s been lucky. My parents work for a tech company, one of the few industries here that offer stability. We have heat, electricity, even decent internet. With that, I found my escape: music. For three years, I’ve spent my nights crafting beats on a second-hand laptop, layering sounds into something that feels like freedom.

One of my tracks reached someone I never thought I’d talk to—a rapper in Los Angeles. He said my beats had something raw, something real. Last week, he sent an email: “Come to LA. Let’s work.”

I’ve read that message a hundred times. It feels like a crack in the walls around me. But leaving isn’t simple. There’s the visa, the money, the guilt of stepping away while so many others remain trapped. Still, I can’t shake the thought: maybe I could make it out, and maybe my music could carry others with me.

For now, I’ll keep working, layering beats into the quiet hours. One day, I’ll breathe air that doesn’t hurt. One day, I’ll make it.