Where the Mountains Remember Me

When I see mountains, a strange sense of guilt ignites within me—

as if I have betrayed my own mountains.

But mountains are mountains.

They live everywhere, different and yet alike.

My eyes were raised on other peaks,

those that know my breath, my tears, my laughter—

the mountains of Kyrgyzstan.

Their curves, their colors,

their morning shimmer when sunlight spills across the ridges,

or that sunset…

when the sky paints the cliffs in crimson,

and you stand there, breathless,

feeling the earth speak to the heavens.

That beauty pierced me then, and it pierces me still.

Now, I am in another land.

I see mountains, but they are strangers to me.

Their outlines are unfamiliar, their stones a different hue.

And yet, these French landscapes—

the roads, the rivers—

sometimes echo something from home.

I understand:

geographically, it’s another world.

But from myself, I cannot run.

Even if I tried a hundred times to erase the comparison,

I cannot.

Because I am here,

and not there.

So I close my eyes.

Inside me, pictures awaken:

the silhouettes of the mountains ,

that sun which feels as though it shines only there.

Of course, it shines on everyone—

but for me, it glows brighter,

warmer,

where I was born,

where I grew,

where I learned to become.

I remember those days—

driving toward the avenue of Manas

I feel happiness flooding my heart,

because I was going home.

Home—

where my children waited,

where my cat and my dogs waited,

where the door opened to everything that was mine.

And now… everything has changed.

France taught me a simple truth:

the world changes,

and you change with it.

The old me is gone.

I carved a new self out of the pieces of the old.

The country changed—

and so did I.

I am no longer that woman.

I am someone else.

Someone who must learn to live differently.

Three years ago,

I left the life I knew.

Since then, I’ve been walking a path through another world.

In those years,

there were moments—

big and small,

meetings and farewells,

faces that left their trace.

I am changing.

And the world changes with me.

Every day—

a new reality.

Every week—

its own length,

its own weight.

My daughter is growing.

I don’t see it at first—

and then suddenly, I do.

She’s different.

Her face has changed.

Her gaze, her height, her thoughts.

The girl is vanishing.

A young woman is being born.

She has her own secrets now.

Her own choices.

Her own silent word: I want.

And I… I feel a sting of sadness.

The laughter is quieter now.

The smile—less careless.

But something else blooms instead—

freedom,

ease,

a new lightness.

Love stirs in her heart.

Not for me anymore.

And that’s right.

That’s how life is.

Yet somewhere inside, it aches.

And I too am changing.

My steps have slowed.

My face carries time’s handwriting—

the lines deeper,

the eyes softer.

I grow older with her.

At night,

before sleep comes,

I close my eyes and pray—

for myself,

for my family,

for those who are far away.

Friends I can’t visit.

Our conversations now live in a screen.

Online friendship—

it’s like an audiobook.

You listen,

but you cannot turn the page.

Sometimes,

in rare moments,

we raise our glasses to the phone camera,

wine shimmering in the glow of pixels.

That—

that is what exile feels like.

And I can’t decide—

do I regret it?

Do I not?

Somewhere I look for excuses,

somewhere I find blessings,

and somewhere… only the quiet weight of loss.

And still,

I go on.

Waiting for papers.

Waiting for meetings.

Waiting again.

And time…

time moves on.