Shepherds in the Zagros Mountains keep going despite the chaos
# **Shepherds of the Zagros: Life Between Generations and War**
## **The Mountains Bear Witness**
Nestled in the jagged embrace of the **Zagros Mountains**, where the borders of **Iraq and Iran** blur beneath the weight of history, time moves differently for those who call this land home. For generations, shepherds like **Saman Abdulsaman** have climbed these same slopes, their footsteps echoing the rhythms of a life unchanged by the passage of decades—despite the relentless march of war.
The sky here is a battleground. **Missiles streak overhead**, **drones hum like mechanical vultures**, and the distant **roar of fighter jets** rattles the valleys. Yet to the men who guide their flocks through the thin alpine air, these are mere background notes in a symphony of survival they’ve known all their lives.
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## **A Life Unshaken by Fear**
At **45 years old**, Saman has spent his entire life in these hills. His family’s story is one of loss—their home **reduced to rubble by a rocket in 1996**—yet he remains rooted, unmoved by the chaos. When asked if he fears the constant threat of violence, he **laughs**, the sound as dry as the earth beneath his boots.
*"War?"* he says, shrugging as his goats graze unhurriedly, oblivious to the distant thunder of explosions. *"I was born into it."*
To him, the sound of war is just another **familiar voice in the wind**.
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## **The Weight of Conflict on Fragile Livelihoods**
Not all share Saman’s resignation.
Ajar Mustafa, a shepherd of 50 years, remembers five wars—Saddam Hussein’s brutal campaigns, the 2003 U.S. invasion, the rise of ISIS, and now the relentless hum of drones. Once, he would drive his flock deep into the mountains, but today, he keeps them close to the village of Rawanduz, where the earth is safer than the peaks.
"I don’t go far anymore," he admits, his voice heavy. The buzz of drones is a constant reminder of danger, and the shrill scream of jets sends his animals into panic. Even the cows, creatures of habit, now yield less milk under the strain.
"We’re always stuck in the middle," he says. "We didn’t start these fights, but we always pay the price."
Since the latest conflict flared, over 300 strikes have been recorded—though no one tracks them officially anymore. The numbers don’t capture the fear, the lost livelihoods, or the silent toll on those who just want to tend their herds in peace.
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The Unseen Cost of a Quiet War
Shwan Nabi, 34 years old, saw a drone strike detonate just meters in front of him on Mount Korek.
"It’s scary," he admits. Yet, like so many here, he has no choice but to carry on.
Years ago, he fought against ISIS, standing between genocide and the Yazidis he vowed to protect. Compared to that, the current conflict feels quieter—for now. No boots on the ground, no clash of armies, just the gnawing dread of what might come next.
"We have no choice but to keep working," he says, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the next strike could fall.
