In all her intercourse with society, …, there was nothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it.
Khoye Village
In all our nomadic journeys, we try to enjoy the road as much as the destination. We savour the sweet hours of walking and riding and the well-needed rests in between as much as the memorable moments of reaching a peak or a nomad family’s tent. On our way to Isfahan, one of these welcoming rest spots that we head for after Kooch is the lush village of Khoye. We usually spend the first post-kooch night in Khoye to avoid the fatigue and car sickness of spending a full day on the road to Isfahan. And what better resort one can find than a beautiful village green with gardens and trees? With plums, tomatoes, cucumbers, peaches, peppers — all with original flavours?
Khoye village is mountainous and cool. There’s an ancient cemetery with an old tree standing above it. The houses are made of stone and are quite interesting. It’s about half an hour from the village of Sar Agha Seyed, but Khoye is more untouched, and its people are more active.
The villagers live simple lives, and each family owns only a few herds. Division of labour is a common practice among them. Each day, it’s someone’s turn to take all the herds to graze. The milk from that day also belongs to the person who took responsibility for grazing. This way, no one is overwhelmed with work. Burnout is not a familiar concept to the people of Khoye. The mornings are fascinating — everyone, men and women, head towards their orchards and fields, working, planting fruit, and using ploughing machines. It’s a sight to behold. All that energy and activity.
But with all its natural attractions and healthy work culture, Khoye doesn’t seem able to embrace its tenants forever. Not all of them at least. The number of villagers is gradually decreasing. Many are migrating. The village, with famous stories of bags (traditional chogha bags), is a centre of handicrafts that apparently ‘cannot hold’ anymore.
It has become quite empty overall. Most of the remaining residents are elderly people and single girls. The majority of boys have left for work, heading toward Isfahan. Many people from the village have gotten married and migrated to Isfahan (they’re not, financially speaking, very well-off), settling in Jouqabad (Jooyabad).
There were always young, single girls in Khoye who became friends with me, staying in touch and sending text messages when we were apart or on the way. At the time, I didn’t realise how heartwarming that was. It wasn’t until they married boys from Jouqabad (in the hope of better living prospects) and moved away that I felt their absence. No one was left to text, asking where I was, saying they saw my car as I approached their village, and so on. The village became rather quiet and empty. That’s why on one of my visits to Khoye I called one of them (Mojdeh), telling her that I was in the village, how much I missed them all, and how empty it felt without them. Going from the city to the village felt sublime to me and I was joyfully describing the village and all its subtle beauties to its previous tenant. She responded casually, rather coldly I felt, and we hung up. A week later, when I was talking to her again, she started crying on the phone. She said, “The day you called from the village, we cried for two or three hours, me and the other girls. We miss the village so much.” And I felt so sad and sorry, in many ways. I was upset for them, but also disappointed in myself—why hadn’t I been more considerate? Why hadn’t I thought about how homesick they were? In the end, things look beautiful from afar, but the reality isn’t always so simple. No one sees or understands the pain of their homesickness. No one knows anyone’s measure of homesickness.
When you look at it from a distance, in a general way, a village girl becoming more urbanised seems like progress or an upgrade. After all, the village lacks many amenities, and perhaps its only advantage is its untouched nature and colourful seasons. But Jouqabad is a rough neighbourhood in Isfahan. It’s 40 minutes away from the city itself and has small, dark, poorly built houses. A formidable challenge for villagers who are not used to being confined in closed spaces, where the blue of the wide sky is only a blurry memory.
During my recent trip with a Dutch girl, I told her all about this heartbreaking tale, and she said, “Now that I’ve seen both villages, I want to see Mojdeh and her new home.” so we headed to her place and were glad to find out that her situation had improved. She used to live with her mother-in-law, but now they had moved out. They had bought a small house nearby, where they lived, yet the house was still small and dark. She kept asking me for details about the village, about the people and the trees. In the end, she said, “My husband promised we’d save up money, and he’ll take me to the north.” But I told him, “I don’t want to go to the north, green as it is. My only dream is for you to find me a place that looks like my village, a place like Khoye. A place like home”.
And I fought back my obstinate tears…
In the end, marriage is a winning card for them, or so it is believed. But at what cost? One might ask…
As we were leaving Khoye, Mojdeh’s mother came over, thanked me, and with a lump in her throat, said, “Thank you for looking out for our kids and talking to them.” I told her it was nothing and that it made me happy too. She said, “We’re far away, and we can’t do much. She doesn’t tell me, but I know she’s homesick.” As we were parting, she ran and handed me, with a worn smile, a bag of walnuts to thank me for looking after Mojdeh from afar. For being a friend, and a listener for her homesick daughter.
