In the distance a thunderstorm was brewing as one couple huddled in their tent. Dark clouds drifted over the valley, pouring out gray stripes of rain. Bibi Naz Ghanbari, 73, and her husband, Nejat, had set up their black tent in the same place where their family had migrated for 200 years. There used to be dozens of family members around. Now there was just one other tent, home to a distant cousin. The couple said unexpected spring cold and rains had gotten into their bones, after they managed to save their tent twice during storms. They had migrated early, to make sure their flock would be able to graze on the spring grass, after a winter with barely any precipitation. None of their eight children had joined them. The battery in Bibi Naz Ghanbari's phone was out of power, so she couldn't even reach them.
遠處,雷暴雨正在形成,一對夫婦擠在他們的帳篷里。烏云在山谷上空飄過,傾瀉出灰色的雨帶。73歲的Bibi Naz Ghanbari和她的丈夫Nejat在他們家族遷徙了200年的同一個地方扎下了他家的黑色帳篷。過去附近有幾十個家族成員,現(xiàn)在另外只有一頂帳篷了,那是一個遠房表親的家。這對夫婦說,意外的春寒和雨水刺骨的冷,暴風雨中他們二次起來拯救他們的帳篷。因為整個冬天沒有下過一滴雨,他們早早地遷來了,以便確保他們的羊群能夠吃到春天的綠草。他們的8個孩子中沒人跟他們走,Bibi Naz Ghanbari手機的電池沒電了,因此她甚至都找不到他們。
"They all live in cities now. What was the point of having them?" she said of her children, who had sold off their flocks to live in houses. "What kind of life is this?" she asked, pointing at the holes in the tent. "We had to sleep under three blankets last night, and it was still cold. I wish I lived in a house too."
說起她的孩子們賣掉他們的牲畜住到了房子里,她說:“他們現(xiàn)在都住在城里。擁有它們的意義是什么?這是一種什么樣的生活?”她指著帳篷上的孔洞說,繼續(xù)說:“我們昨晚不得不蓋三床毯子睡,可還是冷。我也希望住在房子里。”