Yasin valley and its silence

Yasin The Silent Valley

Centuries ago, the soul of Yasin Valley was woven into the earth. Villages rose like quiet prayers humble homes of mud, stone, and timber, their low roofs bowed reverently to the mountains. The people built not against the land, but with it: settlements nestled in the arms of cliffs /mounds, spared from floods and avalanches, their walls thick to cradle warmth in winter and coolness in summer. Water channels, carved like veins into the valley, carried glacial whispers to fields of wheat, barley, and apricot , mulberries. At dusk, families climbed to mud rooftops, their laughter dissolving into a sky embroidered with stars. In those nights, elders spun tales of wandering shepherds and mountain spirits, their fingers tracing constellations named after ancestors and harvests. Children lay breathless, counting meteors as the Milky Way draped the valley like a bridal veil. The stars were not distant they were kin, their light gilded with the whispers of a thousand campfires. The wind carried stories of glaciers that birthed rivers and wolves that sang to the moon, while the young drifted to sleep, their dreams woven into the loom of the cosmos. 

Time, though, unraveled the old threads. Concrete crept in, brittle and foreign, walls rising high as if to challenge the peaks. The ancient water channels once sacred, their clarity a mirror to the heavens now choke on plastic wrappers and the sour tang of neglect. Orchards that fed generations are buried under tourist lodges, their neon signs smudging the constellations. Nights once hushed and infinite are fractured by jeep engines and the sterile glow of smartphones. 

The elders remember. They speak of summers when the land breathed in rhythm with its people, when every stone and stream had a name, a story. Now, visitors snap photos of peaks they cannot name, trampling wildflowers that once flavored medicinal teas. The shepherds’ whistles are drowned by alarm tones; the music of the wind, by Bluetooth speakers. 

Yet, in the shadow of loss, the valley’s spirit lingers. Somewhere, a grandmother still sows barley in soil, her hands tracing the same arcs as her ancestors. A child pauses to hear the river’s fading song beneath the bridge of a new highway. The mountains remain, patient, as if waiting for the day the earth might remember its covenant with the sky. 

Yasin’s soul is not gone it whispers, buried like a seed under concrete, dreaming of roots.







Location: 989M+P44, Yasin Valley

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