CHAPTER 10

TEACH ME, SHOW ME

Molly has been completing unfinished business from her earliest tour of duty in Afghanistan. There were so many influences, so many events which have impacted on her life since that deployment. After what happens here, there is one more key task for her which I think she needs to carry out to create a clearway to her new life with Charles.

Tea break usually found Molly asking Malik or Qaseem or one of the other reliable men about the camp to stand guard over her supplies while she ambled over to the school that Khanum Kareema and her band of Afghan friends had wrestled into being in a glorified hut. Most days she would stand on the sandy knoll which separated the clinic from the school and survey the school in awe for the amazing achievement it had become, in such a short time. The building had been due to be bowled over to make space for more and more tents to cope with the constant flow of new arrivals by land and by sea.

The "Headmistress" of this remarkable educational institution cajoled, threatened, threw tantrums, stood over Red Cross officials and generally made herself unbearable till she had an undertaking, in triplicate and signed by the highest "Higher Up' she could find that the hut would be left alone. Now it was , rather grandly and officially, redesignated the new Kara Tepe Elementary School, Teaching in English and Pashto. Thanks to Molly's remarkable work rate inoculating the backlog of Afghani refugee children, the "classrooms" flowed out onto mats made from the ubiquitous rice sacks. Sun shades created from the sacking were propped up on poles and Molly was fascinated to see that intricate fringing and needlework was appearing on the borders of the matting. As well, each child was seated cross-legged on an individual mat, name embroidered in the corner.

She had learned in quiet conversation with Qaseem that his sister had decided this was a way to include mothers in the workings of the school, to take some ownership of their children's learning. Clever, clever Kareema, she was determined that every one of these women who had survived the dreadful pilgrimage to this place of hope in Greece would have a stake in their children's future. What better way than to start than to encourage the creative talents these Afghan women had used in their painful, but past, lives to decorate and beautify the place of learning they were creating together. Each child WOULD have a mat, named and placed in position each day, denoting that he or she most definitely belonged here. And several times a day, these beautiful creations were turned over. The backs were just as beautiful as the fronts as the children rolled out these prayer mats, responding to the call of the muzzein across Kara Tepe

What she was saying was simple, direct and so very important. Molly got it, straight off. Every one of these kids mattered and so did their mums. And what the mums had to offer was important because they were keeping alive the beautiful parts of the world they had left behind while there were new beginnings made. She had talked about it with Malik, who was so very proud of his own mother.

"I worry for my mother." He had confided in Molly one evening as they had sat down on the matting floor with a cup of the hot sweet tea which was Samira's specialty, along with fragrant almond and sesame biscuits hot from her earth oven. "In Afghanistan there were two different ways of knowing her. She is one of the lucky generation of women in our country, the older ones, the ones who had an education , the ones who were doctors and engineers and teachers, before the Taliban forced women back into their kitchens and made them cover their hair again and put on those hideous blue burqas, those "shuttlecocks" which make it almost impossible for our women to see or to do anything much My madar was furious that she could not openly practise her profession. When my father was killed by mujahideen, she tried very hard to support us, but she was not allowed a job. We were fortunate, there were enough men to make money so we had just enough not to starve. It was hard…' Malik's voice faded and his eyes took on the faraway glaze Molly had noticed in so many Afghani faces.

"She must of been brave."

"Oh yes, madar-jan is most definitely brave. Many in Afghanistan would say she took too many risks, She never took too much notice, even in the times of the Taliban, when people said women should not do certain things. She is not afraid of anyone. My father, when he was alive, he used to fear for her safety sometimes. The mullahs spoke out against her, but padar-jan was proud of his strong wife and would let no one hurt her. She has always said just what she thinks.'

"I've been trying hard to think who she reminds me of." Molly had laughed delightedly. "Me nan, she's just like me nan back in East London! Nan, she's right stroppy, don't take no prisoners, looks after us kids first, won't take no sh..! Whoops, sorry, Malik for the almost swearing. I were really excited, thinking about me nan. Sometimes I really miss her. She's still magic for me, like when I were a kid and we was poor and my old man were drinking away all our rent money and me mum were fair worn out with all the little bleeders, me nan could always find something for us kids' tea in her supermarket bags wot she always brought with her. And there were always a sweetie or two each in her pockets for after we ate our tea…I used to always think she were magic…"

When recalling the small, remembered feats of magic her nan brought into her often sad little life, Molly slipped easily into the language of those years. Malik noticed that even the tone of her voice was that of a much younger girl. This nan must have had powerful magic.

Malik broke into her stream of memories, a wide grin on his face, "It seems this Nan you talk of had jadu, just like madar-jan! "

"Dunno wot that is, mate, that jadu. I just used to think me nan could do anything, that she were magical. It took me till I were a teenager to cotton onto where the food come from. Nan were an expert shoplifter, probably still is. Didn't have a lot of problems about nicking stuff when it came to making sure us little bleeders didn't go hungry. And me mum and dad didn't have too much trouble taking the food, neither."

"Jadu is magic, it's something only a few women have in my country. The women who have it can sometimes frighten people, mostly men who don't like women to be strong, to even talk much really. Men like the mullahs and the Taliban who are so afraid of women being seen and heard that they wrapped them up in blue shrouds for years, so they could be walking dead people. Except when they were cooks or cleaners or warmed their husband's bed. Jadu is mostly seen as witchcraft and the jadu women who have it are mostly to be feared because they can make things happen which don't seem to be ordinary or usual.

From what I know of my mother, what people fear most of all is not the talismans she makes or the changes that seem just to happen around her as if by magic. It is her tongue and the truths it tells."

"Ha!" Molly remarked. "My nan were onto my dad. Could always find the right words to say how pants he were, And how his real pants was totally off-putting! I think you might be right about this jadu. I think lots of older women have it, though Malik. Different name for it in different places? I know an old Irish lady used to live near us who the local kids used to call a witch, lots of young mums wouldn't have no one else near them when they was having babies."

"I think you are right, Molly. Women are better at keeping their heads when things are hard, they look more carefully and remember things better. And they mostly think more about other people than men do, But I am being, how do you say it in English, a sexist pig? Usual state for us Afghani men, I sometimes fear, Molly?" Malik grinned in anticipation of a smart answer.

"I just think most women like wise and kind people," She surprised him with the reflectiveness of her response. He hadn't really thought of Molly as a deep thinker, rather an action woman. How utterly unexpected, these two Cockney women, a jadugar and a philosopher.

OG

This afternoon, Molly sat back on her heels right on the edge of the rice sack floor matting, watching Bashira out of the corner of her eye. Not for the first time she wished she had concentrated at school about one tenth has much as Bashira was obviously doing. She would have saved herself a whole lot of hassle when it came to her basic training and then combat medic theory classes. She had really struggled with the reading load to start with, mainly because she'd wagged school so often. Ruefully, she recalled joking about it with the Bossman on tour in Afghan. There was he with his posh boy voice and his English Literature degree from Oxford, listening to her awful Cockney twang wittering on about skipping her reading and writing classes at her East London primary school. Even now she cringed when she thought about how rough and unpolished she must have seemed to him at that time.

And yet, he had seen her. And had chosen her. One of the reasons for that turned out to be her insistence on getting involved where she saw injustice being done to this little girl. Molly had started out being friendly to the beautiful eleven-year old with her dazzling smile and had eventually saved her life. Along the way she had been told by the Bossman not to get involved with Bashira, on one occasion not even to look at her, on another to curtail medical treatment the girl needed as a result of her father's violence.

In the end, Molly had done exactly what her instincts told her was right even though several times she stood up to Captain James. Actually, she defied him, ignored his orders, challenged him he, the Sandhurst officer with four tours on his record, had watched and learned. From her, he told Molly, he had discovered that overall change came from taking care of the needs of the individual, a reversal of all he had thought to be true after all that boots on the ground experience.

As she watched Bashira painstakingly copy from the whiteboard, Molly glanced at the fancy pencil case she had chosen from the Camden markets and had filled with all manner of pens and pencils, gels and markers. She would never forget the look on Bashira's face when they had found some quiet time together to dig deep in Molly's bergen and retrieve the gaudily wrapped gift.

"Pens! You remembered, Molly,"

"That's how I met you, Bashira. Now there's no one to stop you from going to school. You've a lot of catching up to do, so there's lots of pens here for you."

"I will remember you every time I open this case, Molly."

It seemed to both that a circle would soon close. It was as if this part of their story, begun on a dusty Afghan track with the gift of a cheap Biro from a soldier's pocket would be completed here in the Kara Tepe camp as a bright and beautiful Afghani teenager claimed the education for which she had been longing.

"Bashira, you know I am going back to the army soon? I've almost finished the work I came here to do."

"You go back to the tall officer, too? The one with brown eyes? He looks at you all the time with those brown eyes, even when you are not watching, sometimes."

Molly found herself suddenly, inexplicably blushing. Were they really so obvious that even kids had noticed what was going on between them? Wrapping an arm around Bashira's slender shoulder, she pulled her in for a quick hug.

"What do you mean when I'm not looking, Bashira? Do you mean Captain James?"

"Yes, Molly, He looked at you like that from when you first came to our village. I think he loves you, Molly. His hard soldier face goes away when he looks at you and you do not know he is looking. His face is all soft and sometimes he bites his bottom lip when you are around."

Pulling herself to her feet, Molly dusted herself and headed back slowly towards the clinic, A small line was already forming outside, nowhere as long as it had been when she had first arrived on the island. She didn't think she would ever get used to the way these suffering women and children had learned not to make a fuss, but to line up quietly and wait for whatever happened next. Actually, it enraged her, but that was a battle for another day. And it wasn't hers to fight. That was something important she was learning, that she didn't have to do all the fighting. Sometimes other people needed the dignity of picking their own battles, and then setting out to win them for themselves.

Qaseem was running towards her, waving a sheet of paper,

"Molly, a phone message for you. Nothing bad, Charles is OK. It's from Major Beck, I think he got quite a surprise when he heard me on the end of the phone. He had no idea where you were, till he got your number from your mother. He needs you to phone him. Right away!"

OG

"Hello, Dawes. Feeling rested, are we? Hope so, because I'm afraid I'm going to have to call you back Qaseem tells me you've been doing a sterling job with the refugee children. I didn't realise that's what you were up to. Thought you'd be having a break. At the seaside? In the country? Bit of a busman's holiday really?"

"Sir, I…"

"Now, Dawes, I know where this is heading, what you were going to say. Listen up for a minute. We want you back in Afghan in three weeks' time. Things are heating up there again. Taliban up to their old tricks. Need to train some local medics. You did such a good job last time, you're the obvious choice…"

"SIR!"

"Wait, Dawes. I'm just getting to the next part. Did you hear me say "three weeks' time?" Qaseem assures me that leaves enough time for you to finish up what you are doing over there. Where in God's name are you, again, Dawes? Somewhere in Greece?

I've been on the blower to the Ministry and they tell me there is a new deployment to Syria going out at about the same time as you would be leaving for Afghan, Dawes. By my reckoning, if you wanted to catch up with some old colleagues who may be in that deployment, that's at least a ten day window, if you get my drift. You will just need a couple of days to gear up and collect your orders before flying out from Brize Norton.. Report to me eighteen days from now, Dawes."

"Yes, Sir, thank you , Sir."

"Right then. Just one caution, Dawes. Don't go overdoing it during your reunion with any former colleagues. We don't want you tired out before you get back to Afghan. If any of those colleagues are who I think they could be, you may find it wise to pace yourselves, what with strenuous deployments coming up. Bye, Dawes." The phone went dead.

"Dirty, dirty bugger!"

Sorry this has taken me a while. I have been caught up in a fascinating book about the challenges Afghani women have to deal with, still. "A HOUSE WITHOUT WINDOWS" by Nadia Hashimi. Well worth reading. That's where I found out about JADU. I was reminded of my own Irish great grandmother who was fey and who slipped between the worlds of the Old Ways and Catholicism with remarkable ease.

Also, we inhabitants of these Shaky Isles have been a bit discombobulated recently what with the earthquakes. It was good to see on our National News that the whales have been seen around Kaikoura again.

There is one more task for Molly before she heads back to the Bossman on The Dark Side. It has to be done and will set her free from any old baggage so that she can be as brilliant as he has always wanted her to be.