This image (image of this post) goes back a little over three years, to a time when the Amu River had not yet lost its pride and its roar. From Little Pamir and Lake Zorkul to the meadows and redbud groves of the villages of “Aviz” and “Payan Mor,” it embraced everything with open arms. In those days, the Amu River, with the echo of its roaring waters and its silken tresses trailing behind it, hurried toward the multicolored mountains of “Murchadara.” Today, however, with a broken heart and a heavy sorrow, it has left its most precious possessions buried under sand and gravel in the deltas, and with a hoarse voice it leaves the soil of Badakhshan for the threshold of Takhar.
This hospitable, magnificent, and beneficial river, which flowed calmly and quietly as it passed the villages of Wisky and Samti on its way to “Darqad District,” the only island of Afghanistan, was called the Amu. Perhaps they gave it this name in honor of its majestic passage through the twists and turns of the rugged mountains of Badakhshan. It was a river that, for all its strength and splendor, passed kindly by those living on its banks and gave life to the pristine nature and the lower slopes downstream. But the bitter truth is that the Amu has been worn down by the neglect of its own countrymen. The disregard and indifference shown to its dignity and grandeur have driven it to leave its birthplace. It is now a traveler forced to take refuge in a neighbor’s house, a traveler with no strength left to roam its course, play among the cypresses, or dance among the pistachio groves and weeping willows along its banks.
With a sorrowful calm, and without causing the slightest harm to the people of Takhar, the Amu leaves this land as well and heads toward Kunduz, perhaps in the hope that another countryman there will value it. But alas! It seems it has been cast out of this afflicted land. No one recognizes it, and the gazes are not very kind either. Its only wish is a single look mixed with respect and affection, for someone among its countrymen to stand up and say to it: “Do not go! You are our honor and our dignity!” But, sadly, where among us is such understanding and insight?
Perhaps we still have not realized that rivers are not merely flowing water. They are the living veins of this land, which with every pulse carry life to the plains and settlements. We have become so absorbed in the routines of daily life and in admiring what we own that we have forgotten that nature, too, deserves respect and may one day be worn down by our neglect. The Amu is saddened not by the thirst of the land, but by the indifference of its owners, by people who watch it leave yet take not a single step to make it stay. Sadly, we often come to value a blessing only when the sound of its roar no longer reaches us from beside our homes, and nothing remains of its presence except silent sand and a dried-up riverbed.
Finally, bidding farewell to the last piece of its motherland’s soil, with a rainy and silent heart, the Amu is forced to set foot on its neighbor’s land, a neighbor who seems to have been waiting impatiently for its arrival. Its weary body has not yet fully settled into the neighbor’s soil when the pleasant breeze and the sound of its waves striking the rocks reach the ears from kilometers away and caress the soul. There, everyone comes to welcome it, because they know a guest has arrived with full hands, a guest who is the messenger of greenery and life.
But alas! The story of the Amu in the neighbor’s land is the tale of that suffering migrant who, with a thousand pains and hardships, works to build up a foreign land, yet when he demands his rights and wages, he is met with curses and insults. The treatment of this precious guest is not much different from the fate of that migrant. Although everyone knows that the right of priority in using water belongs to the source and the upstream areas, in these bitter and chaotic times the Amu, with all its wealth and generosity, has been driven from its birthplace and wanders homeless in the neighbor’s house.
The neighbor, too, exploits it ungenerously until its own need is met, without showing any gratitude to the owner of this precious guest or uttering a word of thanks for the generosity of this traveler who will never return. This is the height of ingratitude in the face of nobility!
When the Amu finally reaches the soil of Uzbekistan, it understands even more deeply the bitter meaning of being a traveler and a migrant: as long as you are useful and productive, you are dear and honored, but as soon as others’ needs are met, even if you cause no harm, you must leave their land. It seems the value of a traveler depends not on what they give, but only on the need others have for their presence.
And so, the last stop of this wandering, helpless migrant becomes the scorching sands of Karakum, a fate reminiscent of that of its fellow countryman, the one who crossed the scorching plains of Nimroz and left the waters of Greece behind. The Amu, too, now lives in exile and helplessness, far from its birthplace and surrounded by neglect, a traveler who still weeps over the neglect of its countrymen, and whose tears, on the hot cheeks of the Karakum desert, dry up forever before reaching any destination.
If you do not know your own worth in your own homeland,
may dust be upon our heads, and dust upon our own. (1)
Original poem verses:
(1)
قدر خود را چون ندانی در دیار خویشتن
خاک بر سر باد ما را، خاک بر سر خویش را
You can read the Persian version of this article here:
