Where the Wild Sheep Are

Written by Zohaib Salim

I sit atop the mountain, peering in the distance. It is quiet, peaceful and calm. Moss clings to black volcanic rock around me, and the air smells faintly of damp earth. From the distance a white mini-bus screeches to a stop. From here it reads, Camper Van Trails. I recognize that name from some buildings in a small village. A colorful character jumps out, chattering animatedly to her congregation of 15 children. They're not really children but they follow her like goslings to a mother goose.

A gentleman with a white beard starts walking ahead with two trekking poles. This puzzles me as the terrain is relatively flat. Three girls and a boy race ahead after him as the oldest of the girls points to some scenery ahead.

The bus driver slams the trunk shut and follows behind, herding the crowd. The guide makes every one stop for a picture and then points at the waterfalls ahead, its roar echoing across the valley, while her crowd oohs and aahs.

A loneliness stirs in me, sitting apart, the only stillness among so much motion. Yet below, a single sheep grazes without care, and my heart softens. I lift my gaze to the vastness before me and thank Allah. For though I sit alone atop this mountain, I am not empty, I am content, herding my sheep.