Around the year 1943, during the harvest season, we spotted a herd of wild goats, referred to as a “hunting herd” in those days. We sent for a hunter from the village, who managed to shoot one. Unfortunately, the goat he shot had recently given birth, as evidenced by the milk spurting from its udders. My younger brother began to drink the milk right there. The next day, while we were busy with the harvest again, I heard crying sounds. Initially, I thought it was the cry of a jinn, a common belief among villagers at that time. Despite looking around, I saw no one. The crying seemed to be getting closer, and eventually, I saw two fawns from the previous day’s hunt on the other side of the river, apparently searching for their mother.
We had a sheep tied up nearby, intended for Slaughter, and they might have mistaken it for their mother. My father’s cousin, who was there, sent me to catch them. I cautiously approached them across the river, but as soon as they saw me, they dashed away swiftly, rejoining their herd, and I never saw them again.