Revolutions

137 - Haesan

It's become a reflexive habit, a nervous tic. Throughout our travels, I can't help but look up at the night sky and monitor the moon's progress. There isn't much left of the moon now. Just a sliver of silver amongst the stars. Soon, even that pale shard will be swallowed by the darkness, and with it, all of Pachil.

I lower my gaze to the land around me. I continue to marvel at how much this place so unlike the world I grew up in. The dry winds of Tapeu rustle through the tall, golden grass, carrying with them the scent of soil and dust. The sharp, brittle air feels foreign against my skin, so different from the humid embrace of the Achope jungles. Here, the world feels wide open, exposed. Vulnerable.

I close my eyes and the jungle rises to greet me. There, everything felt alive, vibrant, humming with a pulse all its own. Birds call from hidden perches, like distant memories just out of reach. The branches of the trees twist like fingers that cradle the sky. I find myself longing for the thick canopy of green, the way the trees there seemed to shield you from the harsh sun, wrapping you in a warm, nurturing cocoon.

It's strange, though. To this day, despite everything, I still find myself calling Achope my home. How is it that I long for a place that, in many ways, isn't mine to long for? A place where I never fully belonged, even though I didn't realize it at the time. Those jungles, the safety of the trees, the gentle lapping of water along the riverbank—they aren't mine, not in the way I thought they were. The people who raised me, the life I lived... it wasn't really mine, either.

I wasn't Achope. Not really.

I am not Achope.

But it's the only home I've ever known, the only life I've ever lived. No matter where I came from, I still ache for those rainforests, for the familiar sounds of the jungle at night, the endless thrum of life that felt like a heartbeat beneath your feet. I miss the smell of the dirt after the rain, the way the sky would split open in a downpour and yet, somehow, it never felt like a burden. The jungle would take care of you. You knew of its dangers, but you also knew the safety it offered if you understood and respected it.

But here? Everything feels harsher, brutal. Only endless stretches of dry, unfamiliar land. There's nothing soft about this place. It's unforgiving in every way, and I'm reminded again how far I am from the world I grew up in—and how far I am from the person I thought I was.

I try to push the thought away, but it clings to me. How strange it is to yearn for a place that isn't really yours. To call a land home when it never truly belonged to you, and you never truly belonged to it. Achope raised me, shaped me. But the blood in my veins... well, that belongs to Tapeu. To Achutli. To a father I never knew.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like if I had known him. If I had grown up here, in this dry, rugged land under his watchful gaze. Would I feel more at home in Tapeu than I do now, standing on the soil of my blood but not my heart? Would I have been a different person, more sure of myself, more rooted in this history? Would my lineage feel like a strength instead of a burden?

And what of my mother? Whoever she was, wherever she came from—another part of my life left in shadow. Is Achutli the only one who knows of her, and he's kept that secret from me and Nuqasiq, his own mother?

The answer doesn't come, and I don't expect it to. But still, the questions linger. Here, in this rugged land, they settle over me like the dust, refusing to be shaken off.

In the distance, rolling hills dip and rise like the backs of giant, sleeping beasts. It's beautiful in a strange way, but it's hard to overlook how desolate it is. Every breath I take reminds me of how far I am from home, from the safety of the familiar. The soil here is cracked in places, desperate for water. But somehow, the Atima refugees have found a way to ensure the fields are strong, resilient in ways I can't fully understand. And yet, it seems as though this land is constantly at war with itself, just as we are—one moment thriving, the next struggling to survive.