Nazira Yunusova

I live with my two sons, their wives, and my five grandchildren in a remote village high in the Pamir Mountains, Tajikistan, at over 3,000 meters above sea level. The world here is one of towering peaks and silence, where tourists sometimes stumble in awe of the rugged beauty. Life is hard but simple, and I find peace in the rhythm of the seasons.

In my village, I was once known as a healer. People sought me out for remedies and advice, and I took pride in knowing the secrets of the herbs and roots that grow in these harsh lands. I am 73 now and have slowed down, but three months ago, I was reminded of my purpose.

My sons had gone berry-picking in the high pastures when they found a mountaineer sprawled among the rocks, injured and alone. They carried him home, their faces taut with worry. He was dehydrated, battered by pain, and barely conscious. His leg and ribs were broken, and the nearest road was 100 kilometers away, with no hope of help.

I drew on everything I knew. We splinted his leg, brewed teas from wild herbs, and kept his wounds clean. I laid my hands over the fractures, as I had done many times for others. Slowly, his strength returned. He spoke in English, a language none of us understood, but his gratitude was clear.

In the weeks that followed, he became part of our family. The children adored his kindness, and he surprised us by learning our language, stumbling over the words but laughing at his mistakes. He refused offers to be taken to a hospital, insisting he trusted our care. By the time he left, carried by my sons to the nearest town, he could walk without pain. He insisted on giving us money—far more than we needed or expected.

Even now, I think of him, wondering what his world is like, one I will never see. My world is here, among the mountains, where I am still strong enough to heal and to give. Some days, I wonder if fate brought him to our door, not just so we could help him, but so he could remind me of my own strength.