My father likes to say that he is one of Genghis Khan's descendants. He tries to prove this as often as possible, living a tough nomadic life on the steppes of Karakorum. He taught me everything I know: how to care for yaks, shoot arrows, wrestle and use an uurga - the Mongolian lasso - to capture wild horses. He taught me how to set up a ger -a collapsible tent-, ferment the milk of a young mare, called airag, build a fire, and even tried to teach me to play the horse-headed morin-khurr - a traditional mongolian fiddle.

My father works as a sheep herder. It was a harsh and arduous life, having to herd sheep across the searing desert. In winters he would have to wake up every morning to the biting cold air, trudging across the snow-less, frozen steppes even at temperatures negative 35 degrees Celsius and below. I often used to cry whenever we had to move from place to place, looking for better pastures for our sheep. My father would slap me across the face telling me that we do this to survive. He would then give me a lecture while folding away the ger, that crying is not worthy of a descendant of Genghis Khan, and I should be brave and strong, for his blood pulses through my veins.

Ever since then I stopped myself from crying. I moved from place to p lace, not a single drop would fall from my eyes, not a single complaint would escape from my lips. It was hard for me at first. And I would bite my lips whenever I felt like crying. My lips often bled, and in winters the thin trickle of blood and the drop s escaping from my eyes would crystalize on my face, frosting over and giving me a mask of ice. I would then have frost bite, and my mother would fuss over me. But I always turned her away. I was not a child. I learned to heal myself.

My family wo uld often sit inside the ger, squatting comfortably on blankets of fine cashmere wool, and my father and brother would sing in a difficult traditional singing style called the urtyn-duu. The urtynn-duu consists of complicated drawn-out sounds and consists of about 20,000 verses. My father had these memorized eversince he was a child, and was now teaching it to my brother. They would sing about stories of love and pride, the beauty and isolation of the land, the yearning for the beloved nomadic life, and t he joy of galloping on a horse across the magnificent Mongolian steppes.

He would often address me by my new name, Temujin, meaning "Ironworker" It was the name of Genghis Khan before he became the great military leader. He did not like calling me by my old Russian name, the one given to me during the Communist reign, for this only angered him. He said that it was a disgrace to the memory of Genghis Khan. We are never to mention it again. He would then smile and make me sit beside him. I then would try to accompany him with my morin-khurr. I would often make mistakes, and my father would slap me across the head. I would then bite my lip and continue to play.

After singing, father would then relate to us the history of my family. He claims that we had aristocratic ancestry and our true family history lies with the race of the Blue Wolf and Monkh Khokh Tenger, the sky-god. It is said that Genghis Khan came from this race. After generations of ruling a large portion of Mongolia's southwestern Provinces, his grandfather fled to China on horseback with his family and thousands of servants in advance of Communist revolutionaries.

While on his deathbed in exile, the grandfather passed his riding boots, denoting the family's aristocratic rank and the family tree to his son, my father's father, commanding him to recover their ancestral land. The son, while riding across the Gobi Desert, was captured by Communists who recognized and confiscated his aristocratic possessions. He was said to have been imprisoned for months and kept unemployed for years. This lost family tree, the family book, my father says, is the only proof we have of linking our blood directly to Genghis Khan. But right now we have only our faith to offer to the great ancestor.

I loved my l ife there on the steppes of Karakorum. I learned to love it. I grew up amidst all the pain and suffering of living as a nomad. I grew up on the strong words of my father. I began to be overcome with the same furious pride that pulses through my fathers ve ins. I became strong and people began to fear and respect me. Anyone who was foolish enough to annoy me would back away when I point to my arm and say "In here is the blood of Genghis Khan. Beware." My father said that someday we would return to the south west, and reclaim our land. Of course, almost all of Asia rightfully belonged to us. But the change in times has split the Universal Ruler's wonderful empire to countries and Republics, and only the southwest of Mongolia is left to us.

But everything ch anged. And change came by the arrival of Ana Ligacheva. She was a Peace Corps Volunteer from America, but as fate would allow, was of Russian descent. "That hateful communist group" as my father called it. She came to Karakorum to help promote literacy. I already knew how to read and write in the Cyrillic alphabet, but there are many others here who do not. My family would rest at a certain place for a few months before packing up the ger and moving to another. In those few months, I came to know Ana Ligacheva.

Ana was a very good person, and we would often talk and exchange cultures. I would boast of my bloodline and my wonderful country, and she would tell me stories of cars and skyscrapers, and enormous cities, hussling and bustling in a steady rythm. She also shared the hardships she is experiencing here in Karakorum, and her refusal to leave because of her duties as a Peace Corps volunteer. She was a strong woman. I came to love her.

But then something strange happened. I realized that my life her e in Karakorum is nothing but toil and hardships. A monotonous existence of repeating nomadic life. There was a better life. A life where I get to do more than just herd sheep. In America, I get to study. I'll be able to earn money of my own. I'll be able to earn more than the few tugriks my father gets from selling meat and cashmere wool. All the beauty described in the urtynn-duu vanished like the melting ice that encased the ground in a glittering mantle. I saw the steppes for what it is: a barren wast eland both chill and searing hot in a battered country.

I began to see Genghis Khan not as the great military genius, the great teacher who promoted literacy among his people and established the Yasak or code of law, the young chief's son who at an earl y age inherited his father's position, living a simple life of sheep herding and livestock raising, but as the cruel tyrant, the terrorist who slaughtered all of his prisoners, the megalomaniac who brought Asia to her knees and spat on her face.

My family disapproved of Ana and the change she has brought to our lives, especially my father. They didn't mind her at first, and even dismissed her disregard of Mongolian mannerisms. She had shaken my fathers hands without removing her gloves first. She had mo ved around the stove in an anti-clockwise direction, when she was supposed to always move clockwise around it. She had received her food with her left hand, when you always receive the food with your right. And finally, she didn't sit properly on her stool, but sat cross-legged instead of having her feet neatly tucked in. But my family was kind and did not hold grudges.

But the change she brought in me was what started their dislike. My father then began to criticize her. We were singing the urtynn-duu that evening. Ana wasn't there at that time. I was playing quietly on my morin-khurr, listening to the last few verses of the song. And then my father began his story about his grandfather. But this version was different... It focused on the brutality of the Russians. How they tried to eradicate all forms of Mongolian culture. Killed hundreds, only to convert us to believe what they believe.

I realized that he was also talking about Ana. In anger I smashed my morin-khurr on the ground and stormed out of the ger. I then went with Ana to America. Her nine month course as a Peace Corps Volunteer was over. I lived a happy life in New York, where I began to extend my studies and improve my english, finally landing a job at a publishing firm. I earned enough money to live comfortably and felt excited every moment of my life. I loved America.

Years passed and I looked outside the window of my apartment. I then remembered the dusty steppes of Karakorum. I remembered the searing hot summers, and the freezing c old winters. I remembered my father's voice, slowly singing in rythm to my morin-khurr... I remembered... And there was something that flared up in me. A smoldering coal that was kept dormant for years, flamed up again with the roaring pride of my bloodli ne.

I was Temujin! Descendant to the Universal Prince, the great king Genghis Khan! I returned to Karakorum, to the place of my birth. I looked for my family. I looked for my father. I then found out that the nomads have been settled on farms by the Mon golian government. It was like the Apache reserves in America. I found the farm where my family resides. My mother and brother where there. They did not recognize me at first, but they greeted me jovially, welcoming me with open arms.

I looked around expecting to see my father, but then I found out that he had passed away. I looked around at the dusty steppes of Karakorum, the joy I felt slowly ebbing away. The winter was already settling in, and my breath came out as misty vapors. We would one day reclaim the land of our ancestors, the land of Genghis Khan. But not today. That is to be left to the later generations. I bit my lip and sang the last few verses of the urtynn-duu.

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