Khulan Ulambayar

I woke up with the sound of our goats bleating nearby, their voices rising into the early morning mist. My little sister still slept beside me, her mouth open like always, and the canvas of the ger above us was pale with the first light. I sat up and looked around. The fire had gone out during the night, and my mother was already outside with my father, preparing the horses for today’s move.

We’re moving again—across the steppe toward the summer pastures. Some people think it must be tiring, always packing and unpacking, following the grass and the seasons. But to me, it feels right. I’m twelve years old, and I’ve lived more of my life on the steppe than anywhere else, except for that one year in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.

That year still feels like a strange dream. Everything in the city moved too fast—cars, people, even the sky felt busier. We were there because of my older brother, Sukhbaatar. He was born with a weak leg and a crooked spine. In the city, the doctors said they could help him walk better, maybe even run. But after all the medicines and exercises, he only seemed more tired. The worst part wasn’t that, though—it was school. Kids pointed, laughed, avoided him like he was contagious.

I got into fights over it. Once, I threw someone’s lunchbox out the window. Another time, I spit in a boy’s face when he called my brother “twisted.”

Now we’re back. Out here, the only things that call him names are the birds, and they’re just being birds. Sukhbaatar doesn’t walk well, but he rides like no one I’ve ever seen. When he’s on a horse, he looks proud. He whistles and the animals follow.

I help herd the sheep. Sometimes it’s exhausting—windburn on my cheeks, boots soaked through, stomach growling before we stop to cook. But at night, when we make camp and the stars come out like tiny lanterns, I feel like this is exactly where I belong.

If we hadn’t lived in the city, I might not have known how lucky we are. Freedom isn’t something loud. It’s the quiet when you’re twelve years old, alone with the herd, hearing only your horse’s breath and the wind in the grass.