Yesterday, I went on a hike on nearby hills lavishly covered by sagebrush, a familiar shrub with great memories of my childhood. In the Hazaragi vernacular, it's called butta; they are intensely aromatic and can be felt from a distance. Back in the village, we used to collect them every fall. Sagebrush is an arid-adapted shrub that grows in harsh habitats in the mountains, deserts, and steppes. When I was very young, I went with my mother to nearby hills and mountains to collect sagebrush. We burned them to cook our meals or heat our house in winter. I remember my mom used to wear a long colorful gown with velvet flowers, contrasting the pale greenish landscape. I often drifted away from her, following my passion, running after marmots, stalking them at their dens, or climbing up on boulders and rocks until I heard my mom's worrying call, "where are you?" "Here, coming," I would respond. Then I followed her through the sagebrush; some were taller than me...
sporadic thoughts and reflections of an anthropology phd student