Karakoram: Venturing Through the Edge of Beauty and Terror

Karakoram is a wild place for wild men. But whoever enters it will return with a heart carved by the silence of its mountains!

Eric Shipton

by Benny Arnas

I have always believed that the first city in any journey plants a certain seed in our chest—whether of fear, awe, or estrangement—that slowly grows into longing. And that night, when Pakistan greeted me with warm air softly slapping the tarmac of Islamabad Airport, I knew the seed would grow into a great tree stretching its branches toward the spine of the Karakoram.

***

Among Saif’s Nods

The digital clock on the airport wall showed 11:49 p.m. as I descended the aircraft stairs. The arrival hall was filled with the scent of cardamom and old carpet. Lines of bearded men waited for their relatives—some in spotless white shalwar kameez, others in neat black suits with shining shoes. My eyes searched until they found one figure: a man of medium build with a wide smile that made his cheekbones rise.

“Benny?” he asked, his Urdu accent swallowing the final consonant.

“Yes, Saif Malik?” I replied, shaking his warm hand.

He nodded gently, tilting his head side to side with a rhythm that almost looked like a refusal. I stifled a small laugh. That South Asian head wobble—so different from what I knew—always confused me at first. In my homeland, such a gesture meant no, yet in his clear eyes I caught its real meaning: Yes. I am Saif. I will take you to conquer Hunza.

We stepped out into the Islamabad night. Along the toll road, sodium lamps shone on concrete buildings, their Arabic-Urdu billboards looking more like graffiti than signs. Yet behind it all was order. Here and there, chai stalls stayed open at the intersections, their steam waving into the aging night.

“First time in Pakistan?” Saif asked with a soft wobble of his head as he lifted my backpack into the trunk of an old white minibus.

I nodded. This journey was not some exotic adventure meant to enrich my creative writing lectures later. I knew it would be an inner conquest—a reckoning with my fear of the Taliban’s shadows, of suicide bombings, of the grim headlines that had clung to Pakistan’s image for decades. But above all, I came for one thing that had long called to me: Karakoram.

Many know Karakoram as the mountain range that houses K2, the world’s second-highest peak after Everest. But to me, Karakoram was the name of the highway that pierces the Himalayas toward Hunza—reportedly the most dangerous road in the world. I had read stories of how, in the monsoon, cliffs collapse without warning, crushing passing trucks and killing dozens in an instant. In 2010, great floods buried more than a quarter of the route, stranding pilgrims and traders in small towns for days without food supplies. Even in ordinary years, the Karakoram remained a trial for bus and truck drivers ferrying goods between China and Pakistan. It was a thin line between life and death, between hope and ruin.

Yet that was not what obsessed me.

Behind its reputation as “the road of hell,” Karakoram had once witnessed the vast pulse of human civilization. During the Mongol golden age, it became the capital of the Mongol Empire under Möngke Khan—the grandson of Genghis Khan and brother to Kublai Khan—in the mid-13th century. Möngke moved his court to Karakorum (its original Mongolian name), marking the consolidation of Mongol power across Central Asia before Kublai went on to conquer China and establish the Yuan dynasty.

I had always imagined Möngke Khan gazing upon those mountains from his throne, watching his cavalry carve through snow and dust, carrying the name of Genghis Khan to the ends of the earth. In my eyes, Karakoram was not merely a perilous road to Hunza but a frontier of civilization—where the Silk Road once crossed, where world religions met, where death and life signed a quiet truce.

Our white sedan stopped in front of a small hotel in the F7 district. Saif placed my backpack in the lobby and patted my shoulder gently. “Rest well. Tomorrow… Rawalpindi, then Karakoram Highway, then Hunza.” His head wobble affirmed his words, as if to add: And may God protect us all along the way.

In the hotel room, I set my backpack beside the bed and gazed out the window. The Islamabad night was hushed, save for streetlights and the distant bark of stray dogs. I drew the curtain slowly and prepared my heart for the next day—the day I would walk the Karakoram, not with hollow bravery but with a hunger for meaning: for history, for mortality, for greatness, and for myself.

That night, before sleep took me, I wrote a single sentence in my travel journal:

“Hunza, wait for me. I am not coming to conquer you, but to conquer my own prejudice.”

Trucks, Rickshaws, and an (Almost) Accident in Haripur

After a cold dawn and a cup of sweet Rawalpindi tea that soothed the nerves, we stopped at Harvent Restaurant. On my plate, paratha steamed with the scent of warm wheat soaked in potato curry. Saif looked at me and gave that small nod-wobble of his—a gesture that felt like refusal but was actually the gentlest form of agreement.
“Eat well,” he said. “Because today is a long day.”

Outside, the sun dripped slowly through the dry trees of Rawalpindi. I looked out toward the road we would soon take. Not yet the Karakoram, but Saif said this was the part that mattered most to a writer.
“You can see the real Pakistan here,” he murmured, sipping his hot chai. “The small markets, the roadside tea stalls, the truck drivers and bread sellers… all the heartbeat of the people before the stone mountains swallow you.”

We climbed into the minibus. In the driver’s seat sat Abdul Malik—a seventy-two-year-old man in spotless white Pakistani robes, his beard white, his face serene. He turned toward me and smiled, his eyes gentle beneath their wrinkles.

“Morning, young man,” he greeted in fluent English, patting the steering wheel softly. “You sit here, next to me. Safer.”

I sat beside him. Up close, the air was filled with the faint scent of hair oil—the kind old men always seem to wear. We began to move. Malik spoke in a slow, heavy voice, the kind that carried both authority and calm.

“I’ve been driving for fifty years. Karakoram is dangerous, yes. But Allah is the protector.”

I watched his aging hands press the gas pedal with steady rhythm. He never rushed. “We will stop only twice,” he said, glancing at me before turning back to the road. “For food, and for prayer.”

Outside the window, southern Pakistan revealed itself in the most honest way. Dusty roads, tandoor bread stalls smoking at the corners, men in robes sitting on wooden chairs sipping milk tea. But what caught my attention most were the trucks and rickshaws.

The trucks were like rolling museums. Their bodies were painted in every color imaginable, the sides framed with carved wooden panels, tassels hanging from mirrors and bumpers, swaying each time a pothole was crossed. Often, the doors bloomed with flowers and peacocks, adorned with Urdu script that looked like Arabic letters but sounded entirely different.

In Indonesia, the backs of trucks are painted with cheeky slogans or jokes. In Pakistan, they transform into moving works of art—whether carrying cement, cattle, sacks of wheat, or people. Their beauty never faded. I remembered a verse by Faiz Ahmed Faiz:

“Do not ask of me, my love, that love I once had for you.”

That poem lingered in my mind when I saw the Pakistani rickshaws. None looked shabby here. Their roofs were adorned with colored beads, sometimes with lace and glass ornaments trailing down the back. Each rickshaw and truck seemed to refuse to be ordinary. They rejected plainness. They rejected ordinary love.

The journey from Rawalpindi to Haripur took three hours. Malik whispered a prayer each time he overtook a large truck. In Haripur, we stopped at a mobile provider’s shop. I bought a Zong SIM card (yes, that’s its name!) with my still-valid passport. But, as with many stories in South Asia, things didn’t go as planned. The seller said my data package might be active on the third or fourth day after purchase.
What? Ah, I thought, I really had bought a Zonk.

Behind me, Saif was trying not to laugh. “Sometimes, in Pakistan, the internet disguises itself as a shy bride,” he said. “You need patience to lift her veil.”

Ah, damn these poetic Pakistani men. I hated the situation, but I loved his metaphors.
“You read Muhammad Iqbal, Saif?” I asked.

Saif nodded-but-also-shook his head. “I love Bang-e-Dra.”

“Bang-e-Dra?”

He grinned widely. “Guess the English title?”

“I only know and have read The Call of the Marching Bell,” I answered lazily.

“That’s Bang-e-Dra!” he exclaimed, his half-gray hair catching the sunlight.

Aha! Our eyes both lit up.

“He’s not just a poet, Benn,” Saif said. “He is the spiritual father of Pakistan.”

I nodded in agreement, of course.

“Instead of cursing Zonk,” Saif grinned, “why don’t we recite poetry instead?”

I scoffed and started crossing the street toward the minibus, adjusting my passport pouch. Just as one foot touched the curb, a truck suddenly reversed at high speed. Its brakes screeched as people shouted, pointing frantically at the back—yes, where I was standing! The truck’s rear stopped just a few centimeters from me, freezing me in place like a statue struck by a sudden rush of blood. Hot exhaust burst against my face.

The driver looked out through the window. Our eyes met. I exhaled, caught between relief and anger. Saif ran toward me, calling my name with panic in his voice. The driver—a man about my age—jumped down, looking frantic, as if searching for words to apologize. But then, guided by some angel or demon, he ran toward me and wrapped his arms tightly around my body until I could hardly breathe.

“Assalamualaikum,” I said softly, patting his back.

The man loosened his embrace and replied, “Masya Allah. Muslim.”

Then I turned to Saif, who had just reached me. “Tell him,” I said, “I want a photo with his truck.”

Moments later, the driver burst into laughter—a hearty sound that broke the noise of Haripur’s morning. We took a photo beside his truck, painted with a blue peacock and Urdu letters across the door. Malik watched us from the window, slowly shaking his head with a smile. This time, I knew his headshake truly meant disbelief at my antics.

And at that moment, I realized something: before the serpentine Karakoram of the Himalayas could devour me, Pakistan was already teaching me a small lesson—that even on the most dangerous road in the world, people still adorn their trucks with flowers and peacocks, as if to tell death: if you must come for me, find me in my most beautiful state.

The Road That Conquers Man

Our stomachs were still warm from chai and chicken curry when Abdul Malik started the minibus engine. The seventy-two-year-old man turned to me with a gentle smile. His eyes were calm, his face lined, and his hands trembled slightly as they gripped the steering wheel.
“Bismillah, Benn,” he whispered before pressing the gas pedal, leading us away from Rawalpindi toward Haripur.

Karakoram had not yet welcomed us, but Saif said, “This is the part you need most as a writer. You can still see Pakistan’s heartbeat before the road is swallowed by the silence of stone and snow.”
He looked at me from the front seat beside Abdul Malik, adding, “And don’t sleep, Benn. You’ll regret it.”

The air grew colder, seeping through the foggy minibus windows. On the narrow uphill road—flanked by brittle cliffs on the left and the gorge of the Indus River on the right—Saif spoke endlessly. He talked about everything: how Pakistan’s rickshaws were prettier than India’s, about a Pakistani singer he claimed was better than Arijit Singh, about why truck drivers here loved hanging tassels from their vehicles, and about the weather that, he insisted, turned his hair white.

“Because of the cold, Benn. Look at my head. All white now,” he said, patting his nearly bald scalp.

I just smiled. His chatter often sounded silly, irrelevant even, yet somehow comforting. It pushed back the tension that hid behind the looming Karakoram landscape. He must have been very experienced—his fluent English and his way of keeping the air light without trying too hard proved it.

Suddenly, at the second curve after Haripur, Abdul Malik slammed the brakes. The tires screeched; my body lurched forward until the seatbelt held me back. Before us, a boulder the size of a car rolled down the cliff, crashing onto the road and scattering pebbles across the windshield. I held my breath. Dust rose slowly, as if time itself had paused, giving us a moment to gaze at death dancing close.

Abdul Malik merely sighed. He glanced at me, eyes steady, then reached into his pocket for a small box of pills, swallowing one with a sip of mineral water he kept in the dashboard rack. I stared at him in disbelief until Saif leaned forward from behind and patted my shoulder.

“Three times a day, Benn. Abdul takes his pills three times a day.”

“What illness?” I whispered.

“I don’t know. Heart, maybe gout. Or both,” Saif answered casually.

Ya Allah. What on earth? I instinctively murmured astaghfirullah.

“But don’t worry,” Saif said, smiling. “He’s the best driver. Pious. A hafiz. And most importantly, he’s from the North.”

I turned to Abdul Malik, who was already watching the road again. He seemed to be reading God’s verses etched on the stone cliffs—silent, calm, and surrendered. His lips moved occasionally, either reciting prayers for safety or simply reminding himself of his next dose.

Half an hour later, on a downhill curve, the car slowed. I saw a brown ibex with massive spiral horns walking gracefully along the rocky slope.

“Wild and majestic,” Saif said, somehow guessing the thought that had just crossed my mind. “You won’t see that in Islamabad—unless it’s in a zoo.”

We were passing a truck, so Abdul decided to pull over and give way. The truck carried piles of pomegranates and hemp leaves. I watched the ibex for a long time, unwilling to look away. Its eyes were calm, unbothered by the harsh wind whipping through its fur. It turned briefly toward us before climbing higher along the black cliffs, as if mocking the humans who roared past with engines and fear—while it needed only four legs to conquer the Karakoram.

Moments later, as the minibus began to move again, another sight startled us: a group of local men descended a ten-story rock face by running—no ropes, no helmets. Their thin sandals slapped against the jagged stones as they leaped down. Saif chuckled. “Mountain children,” he said. “And us? We tremble just sitting still.”

I held my breath as the road curved sharply along the cliff’s edge. The Indus River glittered far below, like a silver serpent winding between giant rocks. At the base of the gorge, I saw a black sedan lying on its side, crushed against the boulders. Not far away, two trucks lay overturned in the river. The water flowed calmly around their steel carcasses, as if waiting to dissolve them into the Arabian Sea.

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the whisper of history brush against my mind. Wasn’t it along this very route that, centuries ago, Mongol soldiers had marched—conquering Central Asia, China, even Eastern Europe? Kublai Khan, grandson of Genghis Khan, once gazed upon these very peaks before continuing his long conquest of the world. Perhaps on this same curve, those Mongol warriors had paused to catch their breath, staring at the gray cliffs while burdened with swords and vengeance.

The minibus kept climbing, winding along narrow ridges like it was treading on the spine of a sleeping dragon. Gray-black stones stacked upon each other like ancient scriptures, inscribed with the rise and fall of civilizations: Aryans, Persians, Pashtuns, and the armies of the Khans who planted their banners in these mountains. Amid the growl of the engine, a verse by Faiz Ahmed Faiz whispered in my ear:
“So it is, the way the heart works. Departing at dawn, to know what must be known.”

I looked at Abdul Malik. His eyes were calm on the road ahead. The clock on the dashboard showed three in the afternoon. I knew he would soon pull over for his second dose of medicine. I turned to the back. Saif was looking at me with a teasing smile, his eyes gleaming.

“Hey, Writer,” he said. “After all this—how do you feel?”

I didn’t answer. I looked out the window instead. A thin mist was descending. The road kept climbing, piercing through the spine of the mountains that aged with time.

And I knew—the Karakoram was far from finished with me.

The Road of Conquerors and Pilgrims

Mist fell slowly, veiling the next bend of the road. From the minibus window, I gazed at the black and gray rocks rising fragilely on the cliff to our right. To the left, the Indus River slithered like an old dragon, crashing against fallen boulders, churning white foam that looked like venom ready to swallow anything. The wind hissed through cracks in the glass, freezing the tips of my fingers.

Abdul Malik remained silent beside me. His fingers clung stiffly to the steering wheel, absorbing the tremor from the engine. Every now and then, he glanced at the rearview mirror, ensuring the back of the minibus was clear. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket for his small pillbox, placed a white tablet on his tongue, held it there for a moment, and swallowed it with a sip of mineral water. I watched him, holding my breath.

“He’s fine, Benn,” Saif whispered from the back seat. “Abdul has conquered the Karakoram for decades. He knows when to take his pills and when to pray.”

I turned to look at Saif. He was munching pistachios, his eyes sparkling as he looked out the window. Then, with his usual unbroken rhythm of talk, he chuckled and went on.

“You know, Benn, the Karakoram isn’t just a route. It’s history. It’s the pulse of the Himalayas winding into northern Pakistan—the very path Genghis Khan’s armies took when they conquered the Pamirs, crossed the Amu Darya, and advanced into India.”

I listened quietly. Outside, the road twisted sharply—climbing, dipping, then climbing again like frozen waves. At one narrow curve, we stopped abruptly. A freshly fallen boulder had blocked half the road. Abdul Malik eased the minibus to the side, waiting for smaller stones to finish tumbling down.

“Imagine this, Benn,” Saif continued, unfazed by the danger ahead, “in the 1250s, Kublai Khan made the valley at the foot of the Karakoram his imperial capital in Central Asia before conquering the Song dynasty in southern China. These rocks—perhaps—were once touched by his horse’s hooves.”

I stared at the glossy black stone. A long crack ran through it, proof that it wasn’t finished falling. The wind lashed the cliff, creating a haunting hum like the sound of an old flute played over a Sufi’s grave.

Not five minutes later, at the next bend, we saw a brown, long-haired yak trudging slowly uphill. It was alone, its horns bowed, its eyes fixed upward as if defying the heavens. I shivered. I was witnessing a creature older than the human histories written here. “They never lose their way in the Karakoram,” I murmured.

As I had with the ibex earlier, I watched the yak for a long time. Its fur rippled in the wind. In the distance, Mount Rakaposhi pierced through the clouds—7,788 meters of snow-crowned perfection. Rakaposhi was said to be the most beautiful mountain in the Karakoram. But beauty here always kept company with death. The mountain, Saif said, had claimed more than twenty-five lives since it was first summited in 1958.

Saif’s voice grew dramatic, like a preacher on a mountain pulpit. “The Karakoram was once part of the Silk Road. From Kashgar in China’s Xinjiang, you can enter Gilgit and Hunza. Persian merchants, Turkestan scholars, Mongol soldiers, Indian pilgrims—they all passed through here. Do you know what Karakoram means? In Turkic-Mongolian, it means ‘black stone.’ Because this is the black rock road that bore witness to the meeting of civilizations.”

I listened in silence. The wind howled down the cliffs. Below, the Indus twisted and crashed against the rocks, a deep, menacing rumble. Around one curve, we saw a white sedan wedged among boulders, half its body submerged in the river. Saif looked down and shook his head slowly.
“Southern people,” he said curtly, then gave a dry laugh. “Southerners never understand mountains.”

Abdul Malik only sighed. I turned to him. His lips moved silently, reciting prayers, his eyes fixed straight ahead on the narrow road that coiled upward and vanished into the fog.

We continued in silence. Only the hum of the engine, the rush of the wind, and Saif’s occasional chatter broke the tension. As the sun dipped behind the mountains, its light slipped through the mist, painting golden lines on the darkened Karakoram peaks. Beautiful. Majestic. And terrifying.

I stared at the mountains for a long time. The gray-black rocks towered like colossal fortresses that would never crumble. Before them, I felt as small as a mustard seed carried by the wind. Here, the Karakoram wasn’t just a road. It was an ancient scripture, inscribed with the names of conquerors, pilgrims, and ordinary people who simply wished to return home alive.

Saif reached forward and patted my shoulder. “Benn, don’t forget to write this part later.”

I turned and smiled faintly. “How could I, Saif? Here, death and beauty whisper to each other—and laugh at us all.”

And our journey was far from over.

Beyond the Frost Line and the Shadow of Death

We hadn’t truly left the Karakoram region when the sun began to set. The fog thickened. The air thinned, making Abdul Malik’s breathing heavier. He pulled the minibus to the edge of a cliff, turned off the engine, and swallowed his third pill of the day—a small white tablet, his guardian angel on the most dangerous road in the world.

Saif looked out the window, unusually quiet for once, before whispering, “Rest first, Abdul. We’ll stretch our legs too.”

“We’ll rest, Saif,” he replied softly. “It’s time for Maghrib prayer.”

I stepped down carefully. The wind struck my face hard. Ahead of me, the black Karakoram stones rose vertically into the fog. Far below, the Indus River wound like a silver serpent waiting for anyone to fall. Its roar was distant but terrifying.

To my right, the Karakoram Highway climbed steeply, like a staircase of stone leading to hell. Along the roadside, a few local men in thin sandals climbed massive boulders with ease—no ropes, no helmets. They carried burlap sacks of onions and flour on their backs, their bodies sure and steady.

Saif came beside me. “These northerners, Benn, were born of stone and snow. See that boy?” He pointed to a ten-year-old walking behind his uncle, balancing his small frame with a wooden stick. “Nothing can conquer them—except God.”

I nodded, breathless, as loose pebbles tumbled down from the cliffs above. “Where’s Abdul?” I asked suddenly.

Saif pointed toward a flat slab of rock near the cliff’s edge. Abdul was bowing there—in ruku‘. Ya Allah.

“There’s a mountain spring over there,” Saif said, pointing across the road. “Be careful crossing.”

Just as I finished my final salam in prayer, a low rumble made me look up toward the rocky wall on our right.

“Get in!” Abdul shouted, his voice edged with panic.

The minibus started. My eyes searched for the sound’s source—and there it was: two boulders, each the size of a goat, breaking loose and smashing onto the road, crushing a metal guardrail that had held a sign marking the district’s border. Abdul remained calm. He simply turned off the engine, waited, then restarted it, steering us away slowly.

Saif laughed at my terrified face. “Don’t be afraid, Benn. The stones here don’t choose whom they fall on. If you’re hit, it means it was written from the day you were born.”

I glared at him. “That’s not comforting at all, Saif.”

He laughed even harder. “But it’s true.”

The road climbed on. Sometimes we passed wrecks that had never been retrieved—twisted frames wedged between rocks, an old beige sedan lying at the gorge’s base, half-submerged in the Indus. Tires and mirrors gone. Saif pointed at it casually. “Definitely southerners. Northerners never fall here.”

I looked at him, waiting for another absurd remark. And of course, it came. “But if they do fall, that only means they’re lucky—lucky to have finished their business with this world.”

I laughed, despite the chill creeping up my neck. Ahead, the road plunged sharply. Abdul Malik shifted gears, easing the brake. I saw his hand trembling slightly. Then, whether it was imagination or truth, I could almost see them—the ghostly silhouettes of ancient riders between the black cliffs and the melting snow—Mongol horsemen gazing down at the Indus Valley, eyes burning with ambition.

Atop the Karakoram, in the thirteenth century, Kublai Khan had looked south and east, carving plans to conquer the Song dynasty of China, driving his army across Tibet and the Himalayas—men hardened by cold and hunger. The Karakoram was never his permanent capital, but these were the routes his armies once marched, carrying plunder and empire across the world.

I remembered the words of Mustansar Hussain Tarar, the Pakistani writer who devoted hundreds of pages to these mountain roads:

“The Karakoram is not a mountain range; it is a long, hard question asked by nature to test the courage of men.”

The Karakoram is not a mountain—it is a question, a great one, meant to test human courage.

I gazed at the black cliffs plunging into the depths, the Indus gaping like a hungry dragon, and Abdul Malik sipping water before restarting the engine. On this fearsome road, I learned one thing: fear never disappears, but humans always find a way to keep going.

And so we drove on—along the dark veins of the ancient dragon—toward Hunza, still waiting at the far edge of night.

Just as sleep was about to claim me, the vehicle jolted violently. I woke up. The engine had gone silent.
“Relax,” Saif said from the back. “Just a snowstorm. Not a rockslide.”

But I didn’t believe him anymore.

Ten minutes later, I took my doubts back. The storm had passed.

The Road Home That Always Waits

The snowstorm hadn’t completely passed when dawn arrived at Madyna Inn. The power had been out since nightfall. The candle given by the hotel attendant had burned halfway down, casting wavering silhouettes on the wooden walls of our room. I stared at them for a long time, weighing what it was we were truly seeking here—on this deadly road that crossed continents and scraped the edge of the sky.

Outside, Abdul Malik had already started the minibus engine. He swallowed his morning pill without a word. The old man looked at the snow coating the windshield with an expression I couldn’t decipher—somewhere between fear, wonder, and quiet surrender to a life long acquainted with death. Saif, as always, balanced the tension. He whistled softly while helping me pack my rucksack and water bottles.

“Today we’ll reach Gilgit,” he said, patting my shoulder. “And tomorrow, Hunza awaits. Ready, Benn?”

I looked at his ever-smiling face, masking all his anxieties. In his eyes, the Karakoram was like a vast stage where humans learned to laugh at life—even knowing that, in the next second, they could tumble into the belly of the Indus River.

The minibus began descending the slick road. Last night’s storm had left a thin layer of ice on the asphalt, making the tires slip more than once. Abdul Malik said nothing. Only his lips moved, reciting short verses—prayers of calm—even as we passed a skidded truck that had nearly crushed us. Saif, sitting behind the driver, quipped lightly, “Don’t worry, Benn. If we die, at least we die in the most beautiful place on Earth.”

I turned toward the Pakistani man with the unmistakably Indian face and manner, half angry, half amused. Saif just gave that small, slow head shake and smiled.

Ahead, the Karakoram revealed its full grandeur. Towering cliffs of black stone loomed, unfriendly and ancient. Fog clung to their walls like translucent curtains. Between them, streaks of snow stuck like thick paint on a giant canvas. Far below, the Indus twisted through the valley, its dark whirlpools gleaming under faint sunlight. I watched it for a long time, imagining how, thousands of years ago, Mongol conquerors rode their horses through these same passes—under Kublai Khan’s command from Khanbaliq, modern-day Beijing—planning their campaigns into Tibet and India, piercing through the Karakoram to reach the wider world.

I recalled the note left by British explorer Eric Shipton during his Karakoram expeditions in the 1930s:
“The Karakoram is a savage place for savage men. But the savage who enters it will leave with a heart carved out of its silence.”

The Karakoram, he wrote, was a wilderness for wild men. But whoever entered it would return with a heart sculpted by its mountain silence.

I drew a deep breath. The faint smell of leaking gas from the portable heater under my seat made my head spin. But the Karakoram called. These mountains were more than geography—they were a test of the soul, a place where men set aside their pride and bowed before something greater. Here, every bend could be a gate to heaven—or the mouth of hell.

In the distance, morning light pierced the thinning fog. Mount Rakaposhi unveiled its snow-cloaked summit—the Mother of Mist. I gazed at it with reverence and quiet joy. My eyes grew wet. Below, the Hunza Valley waited.

I turned to Saif, then to Abdul Malik, who gripped the wheel without blinking, his hands trembling.

I knew our journey wasn’t over. The Karakoram still kept its secrets, and Hunza—waiting beyond the horizon—would teach me one essential lesson about life:

That every journey, no matter how far or dangerous, ultimately leads us home.
Home to ourselves.
Home to silence.
Home to the Keeper of All Roads.

Letting Go of the Karakoram

After eleven hours on the Karakoram Highway, Abdul Malik pulled over in the village of Naran. I looked around at rows of shops still open as dusk fell—neon lights flickering out of sync, the scent of potato curry slapping my hunger awake after hours of silence.

Saif Malik, the forty-year-old man who had become my friend on this perilous road, set down his rucksack gently, as though laying down a burden of memory. “Benn, we’re in Naran. But the lake…” He pointed toward the mountaintop shrouded in mist. “Saiful Muluk is up there.”

I looked at him intently, my restlessness rising. “Can we go now?”

Saif smiled faintly. “It’s Asr, Benn. Aren’t you hungry? We skipped lunch.”

Only then did I feel my stomach growling beneath the thick sweater that had held back the Karakoram chill since Gilgit. We entered a large open-air eatery. The cold wind slapped my cheeks, reminding me I was truly in the land of the Khans. At a long table covered with plastic flowers, I ordered white rice, chicken curry, and Pakistani salad topped with yogurt. I still couldn’t get used to the sour dal or the bitter samosa ganja that left a trace of earth on my tongue.

After two cups of hot chai, I hurried back to the minibus. Abdul Malik was already behind the wheel, patting it softly. When I climbed in, he turned and smiled, his white beard trembling.

“Full, Benn?”

“Alhamdulillah,” I answered, fastening my seatbelt.

Saif soon followed, hurrying with his cup in hand. “That was fast!” he said, downing his chai in one gulp.
I grinned. “Saiful Muluk is waiting, Saif.”

But it turned out the minibus wouldn’t take us there. Saif patted my shoulder and pointed to an open jeep parked nearby. “We’re taking that. The road up will make you say astaghfirullah more often.”

I looked at the winding track piercing the rocky heights. The wind whipped down like a winter lash, biting into my bones. I pulled my jacket tighter. Saif laughed at my anxious face.
“When we reach the lake,” he said, “you’ll be twice as devout—because you’ll keep saying Masya Allah.”
I laughed, though it came out brittle.

Our driver, Omar Khatab—a tall, dark-skinned man—glanced at me with a teasing smile. As we climbed the narrow road with the abyss yawning to our right, he turned toward me.

“Please, don’t talk too much, Omar,” I warned. “Just focus. I’ll pray, and you drive safely!”

Omar burst out laughing. “Don’t pray too hard, or you’ll insult my driving, Indonesia!”
Saif roared with laughter from the back.

The jeep jolted over a rock. I lurched forward, nearly hitting the dashboard. Omar merely winked. “Benn, if you don’t tell a story, I won’t keep driving.”

I shot him a glare. “What do you want to hear?”

“Tell me why you came to the Karakoram.”

I inhaled deeply. How could I explain that I came here not just to write travel notes—that in the Karakoram I was chasing the ghost of history, the footprints of empires that once stood at the roof of the world? That I wanted to feel what the Mongol soldiers might have felt, crossing these passes before founding the Yuan dynasty in China? That maybe, in these mountains, the Khans once looked up to the same sky and whispered the same prayer:

“Lord, keep us from falling into this abyss.”

Omar caught my eyes in the rearview mirror. “The Karakoram never forgives those who underestimate it,” he said quietly. “Don’t be too confident here.”

Again, I remembered Faiz Ahmed Faiz—the Pakistani poet imprisoned for his protest verses under the military regime—who once wrote:

“Speak, for your lips are free; speak, for your tongue is still yours.”

So I stayed silent, holding back every word. Because in the Karakoram, not only things—but even words—can fall and never return.

Masya Allah. Saif was right. At the lip of that high-altitude lake—3,224 meters above sea level—the mirror of paradise called Saiful Muluk lay open. Snow peaks cast their reflections on its emerald waters. I stood transfixed, watching the thin mist dance across its surface. Saif had been right. There were no words left but Masya Allah.

Along the lake’s edge, small wooden boats were painted in bright colors, their fringed bows swaying in the breeze. I stepped into one. The old boatman in a white cap pushed us gently into the water. There was no conversation. No loud prayer. Only silent tears falling as I gazed at the distant Karakoram peaks—silent, immense, watching us, small and fleeting, before them.

Here, at Saiful Muluk, I felt like a stranger trying to conquer fear, to laugh at pride, and to bow inwardly in a long, private prayer. I wondered if this otherness could flow through my veins when I returned to my family’s arms.

An hour later, descending the mountain, Abdul Malik downshifted to control the steep slope. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and whispered in my heart:
“Ya Rabb, let me reach Hunza. But if not, let my heart be content with the beauty of Your Karakoram.”

Now I understand: a journey is not about where we go—but about who we become when we return.(*)

Naran, 2019–Lubuklinggau, 2025

Note: The english version of the essay is available here.