Rice Wasn't Like the Others, by Yara Zalzal

Rice wasn’t like the others.

When the gunfire echoed through the valley that day, the dogs barked, the cats scattered, and the birds fled. Even the wind felt afraid. But Rice—he didn’t run.

He stood there by the fig tree, blinking slowly, the sun catching the edge of his one chipped horn. His body was fragile, worn from time and a life that had never been easy, but his soul—his soul felt anchored, like the earth itself had grown roots through him.

I remember yelling for him, begging him to move. I ran barefoot across the gravel, the dust slicing my ankles, my throat burning from panic. But he wouldn’t budge.

And when I reached him, he looked at me the way only he could—like he knew something I didn’t. Like he had already made peace with every storm, every hunger, every cruel winter night he had survived. And then, gently, he rested his head against my side.

That night, when the chaos had quieted, when the sky turned a bruised kind of blue, I sat next to him in the barn. We didn’t speak—I just listened to his breathing. It was slower than usual. He was tired.

Rice didn’t live long after that. But when he left, he didn’t leave with fear. He left with dignity. With stillness. Like someone who had chosen their final resting spot and waited for the world to catch up.

To most people, Rice was just a goat. But to me, he was the keeper of calm. The guardian of quiet moments. The soul who taught me that sometimes, staying still is the most powerful thing you can do.