Disclaimer: I don't own Our Girl. Everything you recognise was created by Tony Grounds and is owned by the BBC.


Qaseem

Qaseem Ali Sakhi, known to the British soldiers who he served with only as Qaseem, regarded the young British medic with interest. The young woman, girl really, couldn't have been older than his darling Anoosha would have been had she lived, just approaching 20 years old, and she was just as warm and interested as his precious daughter had been. Although he did wonder whether Anoosha still would have had the same level of interest and empathy eight more years into the war that had torn their country apart? He hoped she would have done, but he didn't know.

The British medic had had a difficult introduction to life in Afghanistan, he thought. And not all of it had been down to the Taliban. Certainly they had not made it easy for her, targeting her on only her second patrol, and he had seen that she had been scared then and almost frozen until the man, Smurf, had stood up and unloaded his entire magazine into the nearby compound. It had been lucky that it hadn't been inhabited otherwise there likely would have been more civilian casualties to add to the terrible toll of this seemingly unending war. He had discussed the action with one of the machine gunners on the march up to the mountains today. Fingers he had said his nickname was. They all had strange names this group, but at least he wouldn't forget them! The younger man had already pulled back to the FOB by that time but was surprised to hear that Smurf had been so out of control.

Smurf certainly hadn't impressed him. He didn't hide his hostility to Afghans and he wondered why the British would bring someone as clearly out of control as him into a situation like this. Smurf had tried to pick a fight with the soldier called Sohail and he seemed to find the idea of Afghans going about their daily business offensive – at least Qaseem assumed that was why he spat when they walked close to him. His behaviour so far had certainly ensured that Qaseem never wanted to visit Wales, if his compatriots were anything like him. He supposed that there were racists on both sides, but serving with one as outwardly racist as him was certainly likely to be difficult. Luckily he had not come across that sort of behaviour too often during the time he had worked with the British. He hoped Smurf's attitude improved over time.

Thankfully they had all escaped without any casualties and the young British soldiers had celebrated like they had just won an amazing victory, not run away from a contact with probably one Taliban! Each to his own, he supposed. But today the atmosphere seemed totally different, and it was obvious that there was something against the female medic. He wondered what she had done? His interactions with her thus far had been fine. She seemed to be respectful and professional and it was difficult to find anything negative to say about her, yet her section obviously had.

He had heard her talking to her Captain on the march up to the mountains (she was just behind him) and it seemed that she had said something about the man, Smurf, to Captain James. He could not fault her for that as the man was clearly a disaster waiting to happen, so he wondered why there was a problem. He had not understood some of what they were saying. What was "sending to Coventry"? It sounded particularly unpleasant! He did not know where Coventry was but it sounded quite disagreeable. But the Captain had said that he was aware of the problem, which was good.

He had served with many British teams over the past few years, and had worked with many ANA. However he was hopeful about this deployment. Captain James seemed like a competent officer and Captain Azizi was liked and respected by his men. He hoped that this would be a successful deployment. God knows he had been on enough that hadn't worked out. But the British Captain seemed focused and professional.

Now here they were at the mountain command post and the young female medic was trying to talk with the little girl. She had brought pens to give to her and was trying to communicate. He liked working with the British. For the most part they were good people. He had worked with many of them that wanted to communicate with the locals over the years. This young British medic was like them. He hoped she wouldn't live to regret it. Or the girl. What was interesting was that she wasn't shy of asking for his help. She could be a fantastic example for the young girl Bashira – God knows that there were few enough good female role models out here.

But her offer that the young girl could be her surrogate sister even took him by surprise. He stared at her, stunned. He still found it amazing that after more than 10 years of this terrible war people could act in such a way. She was genuine, but naïve. He hoped that it did not end up hurting her. She seemed unaware of the danger that a friendship between the two could put either her or Bashira in. He hoped it would work for both of them though. He was acutely conscious that without people like her being prepared to reach out, his country could never recover. As the little girl wandered back to her friends he watched the woman with interest.

Some of them were still shunning her, although he fancied he could see a split in the section now. The Welshman and his two friends, the radioman and the machine gunner seemed to have been the ringleaders, although the machine gunner seemed less certain and he wondered if the discussion that they had had on the march up had helped. The others seemed unsure. The black man, the other machine gunner, the blond and the big red-haired man. They had not been overtly hostile but they had not helped either. He remained surprised that the NCO had not stepped in.

Later, after the helicopter left he reflected on what he had seen. Now they were all jumping for joy, applauding her, conveniently forgetting that earlier they had been shunning her. He wondered how she would react to that. He knew that she had tried to hide it but he had seen the pain in her expressive green eyes. He was surprised that her officer or the section NCO hadn't stepped in. They should have.

He decided that if no-one else would support her then he would. She seemed interested in the people around her. Interested in his language and in his culture. People like that should be applauded and supported. He vowed to help her from now on, this Molly Dawes. He hoped that her comrades would support her as well. They should have learnt their lesson. Finally. But the medic was young. Maybe she needed a different perspective. He would sound her out and see if he could help.

She was definitely worth it. He could not believe the bravery she had shown. To crawl across a minefield for a man who had treated her so badly. To be injured but still to go on with her job. This one was special. The idiot Taliban who believed that women should be subservient should see women like her. Young – yes, ignorant – yes, uneducated – maybe. But still respectful, brave and courageous. This Molly Dawes would go far, he was sure. If she didn't kill herself first. He would try to make sure she didn't. He owed it to the memory of his darling Anoosha to make sure she didn't.


A/N 1 Afghan names are quite complex so I've had a crack in this chapter and previous ones. Apparently, most Afghans do not have surnames unless they have contact with the Western World. Then they may adopt a surname. First names, particularly for males, are often compound double names so I have assumed that Qaseem is actually Qaseem Ali and that in familiar usage the "Ali" is dropped. I have just plucked Qaseem's surname out of a paper I was reading on Afghan names! The name of his daughter – Anoosha – means "Delighted" and has a Dari/Persian root. For your information, Qaseem has an Arabic root and means "Distributor".