Aug. 7, 2010

weten

Its an early morning, embracing the sun light, cycling to the university. Passing across a field, one side is wheat, mustard is the other. someone just cut the grass by the road, it smells so home, instantly brought my childhood back, we used to cut grass by scythe in an open field. Freshly cut grass have strong smell, thought it was unique, hardly believing that I am having the very same smell here. I tried to deep breath, tried to save that smell and bury in my bloods, but it seemed I would never get enough of it....

A Uyghur gathering in a remote countryside in Germany. A girl brought some naans (a type of Uyghur breads). She made it by herself, I guess she knows what we missed the most. I took a small piece and found out that it exactly smells the one at home. Wandered how she made it, for me its not for eating, but only for smelling, how nice that would be if I can save it as long so that I could smell every moment I miss...

Thinking of motherland, I miss the beat of a begger's sapaye (musical instrument) in the streets of Urumchi; I miss the smell of flame-red bread freshly taken from our tandoor; I miss shimmery icy peaks sitting on the Tengri mountains range. They were like souls of our ancestors , watching me growing up, telling me legends of Gokturks, giving me an endless urge to climb up to my goals. Oh dear, wish I have a big poster of that heavenly view in my solitary corner, then I would never feel alone...

I miss my people, the way they speak, the way they smile, the way they shout, the way they dance... I only feel that I am a complete human being with their presence around me.

I miss love, love of a Uyghur girl, who always keeps most of it under her shy glance, and leaves you a puzzle which you would never end up cracking...

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