The Promise by Jennie Hart

Kanya struggled with the sodden, matted black hair coating her drenched forehead. The roof of their bungalow was punctured, and gulps of rain swept through gaping holes. She was shaking at the horror of it all. Threatening storm clouds had gathered but she had had no idea a hurricane was coming. Now, filthy water gushed in under the badly fitting door and puddles round her ankles.

Niran wasn’t home, he never came when he said he would, he always broke his promise. Mostly she didn’t mind but tonight she needed him here. She couldn’t get inside his head; he was an only child and she knew for a fact he’d been spoilt but that did not excuse bad behaviour. She and Dara, her sister often laughed about the unreconstructed man Kanya had married; but it really wasn’t all that funny. She was in anguish over their daughter Mekhala who wasn’t home either; she’d gone out early to photograph the birds around the estuary and hadn’t returned. Before her accident, Kanya would often go with her, but not anymore.

The bright yellow shutters of the window facing the river rattled and banged on torn hinges. It was still light but Kanya had no idea of time. She liked the shutters, their brightness, and how they reminded her of Swiss cabins she had seen in films. She had tried to contact Mekhala and Niran but all connection was gone. The sky was dark with shades of black and granite-grey and intermittent bursts of lightening in brilliant flashes and zigzags. She thought of their garden on the bank above; of her beloved papaya tree, of Mekhala’s chillis and eggplants. ‘If the river reaches our garden, then I will be gone too, so it will no longer matter,’ she mused.

Niran taught at the high school and at the end of the day would go to the bar with his mates. It wasn’t a Gogo bar with prostitutes, just a drinking place called the Chi Bar, out of the village by the Moon Bridge. He was in a good mood after so Kanya was glad of that. He liked male company and disagreed on so many issues with Kanya that it was hard sometimes to communicate. She had been a mid-wife before her accident but now her life had changed and Niran was angry with Mekhala, blaming her for her mother’s fall. His current behaviour towards their daughter was overshadowing all their relationships.

Kanya was injured a year ago when she accompanied Mekhala on a visit to the local wild-life sanctuary. They saw beautiful birds; the Baya Weaver and the Dusky Broadbill, quite rare birds that nested in the giant Kabak trees, magnificent in their own right. On return they had found a shorter track, rocky and steep and Mekhala persuaded her mother it was easy. Mekhala was nimble but Kanya had lost her footing and fell, shattering bones in her left leg and severing nerves. A forest ranger saw her fall and got them to hospital but after several operations, the leg was still useless.

She held on to the cooker feeling the water reach the calf of her good leg but felt nothing in the damaged one. She pulled her flimsy woven jacket around her taught chest and struggled to breathe. She took a step towards her walking frame bobbing around on its side and pulled it upright. Water seeped sluggishly between the door jambs and the wooden framework, but suddenly, a surge of water forced the door open. Their home was on a shallow bank above the river but below the village. ‘I am going to die,’ she told herself, overpowered as the swirling flood welled around her knees. Unlike Niran, a Buddhist, Kanya knew her spirituality was within but at this apocalyptic moment, she prayed to Buddha, to Allah, Jehovah and Christ.

Below, she heard the spluttering of a motor, and in the half-light glimpsed a small inflatable rescue boat moving slowly. ‘Please see me! Help me! she called out, propping herself against the doorway. Mr Chan, head-teacher and colleague of Niran quietened the boat’s engine and Mr Boonya, his deputy, lashed the boat to a sturdy acacia. Mr Chan lifted Kanya and Mr Bunya, carrying the walking frame, supported him as they returned to the boat, avoiding all manner of debris. Kanya cried when she saw Dara with three other rescued villagers. The teachers had no news of Niran and Mekhala but would take the boat out again.

They sipped large mugs of warm sugary coffee and listened to the sounds of animated voices. The school hall was lit by oil lamps and candles; all services had failed. ‘I know Niran would have been in the Chi Bar,’ she said, ‘And Mekhala could have been anywhere along the river.’

Light was fading and a flickering glow radiated from the school hall above. The two men were out again in the rescue-boat. The wind still raged across the valley and the rain was unceasing but they knew for Kanya’s sake, they must get to the Chi Bar. ‘And Mekhala; that poor, poor, girl. I pray to Buddha, she did not drown in the estuary,’

The little boat pushed through uprooted trees and severed branches. For the first time they saw the stricken Chi Bar; the village and its river were becoming one and only the top of the parapets of the Moon Bridge showed. They fought against flow and moored by the building. Both wore life-jackets and head-lights and they lowered themselves into the water and tied the boat to a solitary streetlamp emerging uselessly from the river water.

Part-swimming they entered the open doorway. Stools and tables bobbed around and the men were sickened to see a body floating amongst the wreckage. ‘Dear God,’ said Mr Bunya, ‘It isn’t Niran, it’s Mr. Aromdee from the top farm; this is what I feared, I expect the music was loud and they were deep in conversation.’

The upper rungs of the wooden steps at the back of the bar leading to the floor above, were still above water. Despite the moans of the wind, they heard human crying. ‘Someone’s up there!’ whispered Mr Chan. He held on to the ladder’s frame and hauled himself into the space beneath the partly- collapsed bamboo roof followed by his deputy. They knew of the shrine there. It seemed like an anomaly, but some men, after a night of drinking, would go up to the shrine and make peace with Buddha before setting off home. Both men shone their headlights on the man outstretched before the shrine and on the whimpering young woman in whose lap his head rested. ’Dear Lord, it is Niran and Mekhala, father and daughter.’ murmured Mr Bunya. Niran’s face was bloody and he was unconscious. Mekhala was half-awake and crying, bruised on arms and cheeks, shirt torn and wet. Both men knew of the significance of Niran, a devout Buddhist, finding peace before a shrine.

There was no time to delay, Niran had a severe head wound and Mekhala was exhausted. They gave water to both from their hip-flasks which roused Mekhala

enough for her to describe her ordeal. The current had carried her to the Chi Bar. ‘It was fate. I kept my head above water by hanging onto shelves, anything. It was still light and I saw men floundering in the filth including dad. His head was bleeding but he was still conscious and we pulled ourselves up the steps and then he collapsed. I thought he was dead. I tore a strip off my shirt and wrapped it round his head. I felt his pulse; I kept him warm; I think I’ve saved my dad but I know he doesn’t love me!’ Mekhala began to cry again as if her heart were broken.

More super-human efforts from Mr Chan and Mr Bunya found father and daughter in separate wards in Ko Chang hospital. Niran’s injury had been life-threatening but Mekhala was treated for exhaustion, cuts and bruises. Today, Mekhala was to go home so when Kanya came to visit she accompanied her mother for the first time to her father’s bedside.

Niran wept as he spoke; ‘I love you Mekhala but can you ever forgive me for not being the best dad I could have been? I’ve been a bully and I am truly sorry. you saved my life and nearly lost yours. And how could I blame you for mum’s fall? I am a stupid man.’

‘And my lovely long-suffering wife, how can you bear to be with me? I am a pig, and that is an insult to a fine animal. I pray soon you can walk and live your life as you wish. But please, please try to forgive me’

Mekhala and Kanya held Niran’s hands and his voice faded as he drifted into sleep.

‘How are we going to reconstruct this man?’ Kanya said to her daughter, ‘If he doesn’t mend his ways he will have no family. ‘

Mekhala smiled and hugged her mum. ‘Praise to the female sex! We are strong and I pray dad now respects our female gender.’

‘More importantly,’ said Kanya, I pray to Buddha he will learn to keep his promise!’

A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP by Jennie Hart

37% Brits struggle to get a good night’s sleep 

It’s not surprising that 37% of Brits don’t sleep well, the surprise is that they sleep at all!

Since time began there have been countless reasons why humans have not sleptsoundly; tribal aggression, violent family members, prowling animals, hunger, cold, heat, and night-time bites from rats, flees and all manner of creatures. My fatherwould relate how at night, he banged his bed to frighten off the cockroaches. Someof these reasons still remain but the modern sleep disturber is technology.

 

‘Leave phones and devices outside the bedroom,’ the media tells us, ‘Digital communication interferes with your sleep.’ Artificial Intelligence (AI), now part of daily life via our smartphones, is an additional concern because AI emits huge amounts of radiation. Tests by a French watchdog showed that Iphone12 emits more electromagnetic radiation than French law permits and this scientific fact extends to most other mobile phones. I met someone recently who sleeps in a Faraday cage to prevent electron magnetic radiation from any device in her home and from her neighbour’s smart-meter affecting her sleep. If a visitor calls, she places their phone in her Faraday cage. She now suffers less from insomnia, headaches and tinnitusand sleeps through the night. A car and an aeroplane are both Faraday cagesbecause, if struck by lightning, the electrical charge is conducted around the metal exteriors, so protecting the occupants inside.

 

Sleep disturbance from attachment to social media is a modern cause of anxiety inpeople young and old, but especially in the young. Relationships play out on these sites, exaggerating and adding to insecurities and lack of self-confidence. Parents find it difficult to police use of technology so even young children can access material that is disturbing and may disrupt sleep.

 

Relationships, emotional and physical violence and predatory behaviour within and outside the family, have always contributed to disrupted sleep. Worry over money, housing, and overcrowding all disturb our peace of mind. Caring for children combined with work pressure in this long hour, low pay culture as well as the climate crisis and global politics, may all result in sleepless nights. Our granddaughter in her final year at university is anxious about everything and cannot sleep. She needs to find a job and accommodation before her student loan ends. She is estranged from her immediate family so struggles emotionally, but she is an example of a young person who’s sleep is disrupted because her past was unsettled and her future is uncertain.

 

Housing is a big concern for many but the quality of housing for the majority in the UK is vastly improved on the conditions described by George Orwell in the thirties.

In his classic work of non-fiction, The Road to Wigan Pier, Orwell describes the kind of housing the poor working class were enduring in the 1930s. The publisher, Victor Gollancz, sent Orwell to live among the people of Yorkshire and Lancashire to see and record their living conditions and he describes what he saw in vivid detail. ‘As you walk through the industrial towns, you lose yourself in a labyrinth of little brick houses blackened by smoke, festering in planless chaos round miry alleys and little cindered yards where there are stinking dustbins and lines of grimy washing and half ruinous water closets’. Orwell notes their essential facilities. He records the size of the family, the number of rooms up and down and any features such as a sink and access to clean water. There was rarely hot water and no bath. Many houses belonged to miners who came home black from head to foot, but no builders hadenvisaged that the miner might want a bath.

 

One house he describes near Barnsley has: ‘Two up and one down, a living room with sink. Plaster cracking and coming off walls, gas leaking slightly. Two small upstairs rooms with four beds for 6 adult persons.’ ‘But’ says the tenant, ‘One bed does nowt’, presumably for lack of bedclothes. Room nearest stairs has no door and stairs have no banister. Dry rot so bad, one can see through the floor into the room below’. The tenant again says: ‘Bugs, I keeps ‘em down with sheep dip’. ‘Stone lavatories at end of garden in semi-ruinous condition’. Tenants living in a terrace of back-to-backs facing the street had to walk to the end of the terrace and round the side to access the squalid toilet at the back. In another house Orwell describes‘Indescribable filth in downstairs room and smell upstairs unbearable.’

 

In 2025 in the UK, investigative programmes expose exploitative landlords, people smugglers and child traffickers. Illegal immigrants and children, girls, and women illegally trafficked, often live in appalling housing. Prisons too can be dreadful places.British prisons are regularly assessed for overcrowding but many still are. In some countries outside the UK, prisoners are confined in inhuman spaces; how can those conditions allow quality sleep? The people of Gaza are prisoners because none can leave. They mostly have no home, no bed and little food and water; how do they sleep? And what about the British homeless; can they sleep at night? 

 

A survey by The Sleep Charity reported in the Guardian on June 21 2025 that nine out of ten UK adults experience sleep issues and around 14 million people may be living with undiagnosed insomnia. NHS data shows that over 5 million prescriptions for sleeping pills are written each year and the number of children receiving these drugs has tripled since 2015.

 

In summary, the quality of our sleeping environment does not guarantee a restful night, even though the level of comfort for many has risen. Anxiety has always plagued our peace of mind; the need for a home, a family, a job, a safe place to live,but now the attachment to new technology especially by the young, is an additional creator of a sleepless British population.

 

It's a shame, because everyone loves a good night’s sleep! 

Shattered Summer Dreams by Jennie Hart

I planned to write of summer days

With brilliant skies and butterflies

But it was hard to separate

My lucky state from war and hate.

When summer heat is merciless

I can escape the sun’s excess

But think of life in Gaza

How a scorching day must feel

Exposed, no shade or shelter

Wounds that will never heal.

Every day we hear of ‘land grab’

The West Bank, Sudan, Ukraine

Few countries are content

With what they have

This desire for more

Is insane.

On an Afghan summer’s day

By decree

No girls and women walk the streets

None are allowed to play,

Compete at any sport

In a civilised, modern way

Why are life’s values shattered?

Why can countries not see what matters?

The Times They Are A-changin’

It was Dylan who said it

But show us Bob

What do you mean?

People laugh, people cry

People hurt, people die

Nothing has changed

Only in our dreams.

A Pterodactyl Haunting! * by Jennie Hart

I woke in a stupor

My feelings were weird

I had gone to bed sleepy

Was the wine I declared

I had been in the bar

With a friend till quite late

Just a colleague from work

It wasn’t a date

I didn’t drink much

Only one glass or two

No reason for feeling

The way that I do

I sensed that a nightmare

Had caused me to wake

I was back in the Pleistocene Times

For goodness sake!

I felt I was flying

In some sort of form

Not a hawk or an owl

Swooping down for a worm

No! A huge pterodactyl

With fine scaly skin

That was me, waking up

In the bed I was in

I felt my arms flapping

Like wings on the bed

I flew to the mirror

And it has to be said

I looked very strange

Not ugly not elegant

Just a plain pterodactyl

Not a horse or an elephant

So lessons are learned

No wine before bed

Then you’ll sleep like an angel

Not a pterodactyl instead! 

*This was a warm-up activity in 2022 - A Word Maze. 

Between us, we chose 8 random words and inserted them into a story, poem or prose,

written spontaneously in 10-15 minutes

These were our chosen words:

stupor, weird, sleepy, elegant, bar, sign, wine, pterodactyl

UHTCEARE* by Jennie Hart

 Under the potent night sky

Hang threads of memories which linger till dawn

Taunting my restless mind

Constant feverish thoughts break through my half-wakefulness

Each moment extends into my never-ending moonlit hours

Adding to and multiplying scenes from times past

Reminding me of thoughts I need to bury

Empty from my mind; face another day

*Uhtceare (plural) is an old English (Anglo-Saxon) word for pre-dawn (uht) cares and anxieties (ceare (plural) or caru (singular). 

Trouble sleeping is clearly not a modern thing. 

In our May meeting for the warm-up task, we took this ancient word to explore some of the things we might write about for the June writing task on sleep.

An Unexpected Smile by Jennie Hart

credit Jennie Hart

She was a nun on a bike wearing habit and veil

No satin or lace or red leather

A ‘sit-up-and-beg’ bike with handlebars high

But in black to protect her whatever the weather!

Her knees had an angle of ninety degrees

From her limbs to ensure a firm grip

Her crucifix swayed as the pedals she turned

She didn’t fall off not a tumble or slip!

She had a wild look as she ploughed through the traffic

She swayed too and fro as she took the fast lane

She pinged on the bell and her dazzling cross dangled

Her speed was excessive she looked quite insane!

The road made a dip as with vigour she pedaled

She ceased to hold on and free-wheeled for a while

We stood on the kerb mesmerised for a moment

By her manic expression then Unexpected Smile!

A further encounter with God in his glory

Was a priest in a cassock who sauntered along

On the Mall on a Sunday in May in the morning

And the message he carried was heart-achingly strong.

He held an umbrella wide-open announcing

Wise words to the crowds who watched for a while

As all over the brolly was inscribed ‘God is Gorgeous’

And each tourist in turn gave an Unexpected Smile!

credit Gencraft

Conversation With My Younger Self

 I remembered the gothic entrance and the huge black door that always creaked on its hinges, but once inside, I didn’t recognise anything at all. It was the annual Infant School open day and this was my first visit to my former primary school in over fifty years. Small rooms and narrow corridors had disappeared, creating a feeling of lightness and space, despite the building being early Victorian. I remembered the harsh stone floors, now smartly tiled in olive green and enhanced by brightly coloured children’s paintings displayed on pale ochre walls. There was still the recess opposite the reception class where our daily milk, not yet snatched by Mrs Thatcher, had been heated in tiny bottles to an insipid warmness, on blue-flamed gas burners. I once spit some out on my chair because I found it hard to swallow and told my teacher that another child had done it; a dishonest thing to do, but the culprit was never found!

  I crossed the Hall where we once sang hymns or played with hoops and skipping ropes and came to the old Junior Corridor and the top year classroom at the end. It hadn’t changed much. Mr Boyes had been my teacher there and I had loved him. That was the year I took my eleven plus, but in those days, we called it the Scholarship. Today the whole building housed infants only, so the grouped tables in shiny melamine, were infant-size, unlike the aged oak desks I remembered.

  I took a coffee from a staff member serving drinks and sat down at one of the mini tables opposite a girl who looked older than the little ones trailing round with their parents. I said ‘hello’ and sipped my coffee then couldn’t help briefly staring. I recognised the shiny straight fringe, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and when she opened her lips to sip her orange squash, I caught sight of her two quite large, front teeth, so familiar. I knew I was facing my eleven-year-old self who tentatively smiled at me. I smiled too and asked how she was, and she looked uncertain. Was she wondering who this stranger was or did she feel a familiarity too?   She could not know I was who she would become.

  She was wearing my favourite seersucker blouse, the one made by Auntie Joan; the white one with a Peter Pan collar and scattered blue spots. I noticed the little gilt brooch hiding her top button, the one with the capital ‘J’ in gold lettering on a black jet background; it dangled from the glossy framework. Should I refer to my younger self as ‘I’ or ‘She’? I wondered.

‘I love your pretty brooch,’ I said ‘What does the ‘J’ stand for?

‘My name’s Jennifer, but my mum was going to call me Christine; then she heard the name Jennifer on a programme on the wireless; you know, ‘Ray’s a Laugh.’

I did, and I remembered mum telling that tale. ‘I prefer the name Jennifer,’ I said, ‘And what a funny coincidence, my name’s Jennifer too, but I’m always called Jennie.’

‘That’s nice but I get called Kitty all the time; you see, my surname is Kitt. We have the shop down Riverhead called Kitt’s. We sell everything. It’s my mum’s shop.’

‘Is your mum here today?’ I asked and suddenly felt incredibly nervous; mum had died forty years ago and the thought of seeing her now was unimaginable.

‘No, mum has to be in the shop. I’m in the Juniors but have just been helping the infant teachers on the open day; washing up mugs and glasses, but we’re finished now; most mums and dads and children have had their drinks.

‘What about your dad, is he here today?’ I didn’t need to ask but wanted to hear her reply.

‘My dad? He never comes to anything; he goes to Hull on a Saturday.

‘How is your dad?’

‘Why, do you know him?’

‘I’m not sure, I might.’ I said.

‘Well, he didn’t like me coming to school today; you see, he thinks I should be helping mum in the shop, but mum didn’t mind me coming.’

‘Well, if he’s gone out for the day, why shouldn’t you?’

Jennifer shrugged her shoulders and looked blank and a little bit puzzled then said, ‘I’ve just got my scholarship and I’m going to Bridlington High School.’

‘You’re a clever girl then?’

‘Not really; my dad doesn’t know I’m going yet.’

Jennifer looked slightly anxious and I knew exactly how she felt, because she was me, the young me, and I knew her so well.

‘How do you mean?’ I tried to bring her out.

‘I daren’t tell him; he thinks school is a waste of time. Mum wants me to go to Brid High School but the uniform costs loads, and dad never pays for anything.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘If you go to the high school and pass your exams, you might become a teacher or a doctor and earn a lot of money; can’t you tell your dad that?’

‘I can’t tell him much.’

‘Perhaps you should tell him you don’t want to be a shopgirl.’

‘He’ll go into one of his black moods and won’t speak for days; it’s awful for mum.’

‘Can he be nice?’ Jennifer scowled and I absolutely knew why.

‘He’s kind sometimes; he bought one of my paintings once; it was of a tiger. Mostly, I don’t like him much, my heart sinks when he comes up the path’

Jennifer looked anxious and I reached out and took her hand.

‘What is it? ‘

She was very quiet, then she said, ‘He’s always touching me.’

‘Oh, ‘I said, ‘Can’t you tell mum?’ I knew I never had done.

Jennifer shook her head and drank her squash. My heart ached for my younger self. I felt her pain.

‘You must tell your mum; a dad shouldn’t do things like that.’ I thought of Childline; a life-line for young people; there was nothing like it when I was eleven.

‘Well, it’s not just him, it’s Uncle Cyril when he brings Grandma Kitt and comes to stay.’

‘Don’t you like Uncle Cyril?’

She gave a definite ‘No! He’s my dad’s brother and he creeps into my room at night and wakes me up. I hate it but am scared to tell my mum.’

I shuddered and remembered.

‘Oh my dear Jennifer, he really shouldn’t do that. Does he hurt you?’

She started to cry a little. ‘Not really; he touches my feet through the covers and then he tries to hold me, but …’

Jennifer didn’t need to finish; I knew it all; the same every time. ’There is so much ugliness in the world,’ he would say, ’I just want to hold something beautiful.’

Jennifer looked distressed as she realised she was confiding in a stranger. She would never understand who I was.  She finished her drink and pushed her chair back. ‘I’ve got to tell Miss Hairsine I’m going; mum will need me in the shop over teatime.’ She didn’t say goodbye, just spoke to the teacher and sped from the classroom. It was all over in a moment and there was so much more I wanted to ask.

And what more should I have said? Could I have changed the course of my life? Persuaded my young self to tell mum? Before mum died, I did tell her of my fear of Uncle Cyril, and she confided she used to dread Cyril coming too. He used to trap her in a corner, she said, and be indecent. She had never told dad or anyone.  

I eventually, told my husband of dad’s predatory behaviour, and later, one or two close friends. If I had spoken out, the course of my life might have changed, but in a strange way, I had loved my dad and could not have born his humiliation, nor my mother’s.

I read a quotation by E.F. Benson, a British writer from the late nineteenth century. It reflects my feelings:

‘The fear that takes hold in bright sunlight can be the deepest of all.’

In the Darkest Corner there is Light: Part One by Jennie Hart

credit Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 1

Naghma moved restlessly around the gloomy living space and gazed towards the two blacked-out windows; faint streaks of morning light seeped through. She shared the typical mud-and-stone-built house with her mother, her elder brother Arman who was unmarried and her younger brother Babek who had brought his young wife Mina to live with them.  Since the latest decree, no woman must be seen through any window facing the street, and new buildings in Kabul were ordered to be built with none overlooking women’s areas. Naghma had applied the black paint herself while thinking bitter thoughts on the latest edict,  

‘Those pathetic bullies, what are they scared of? Do they think they’re going to see us half-naked? What other nasty ideas will they come up with?’

Privately, Naghma dreaded each day, but for her family’s sake, she strived to be optimistic. As a child, she had been fun, seeing light in the darkest corners but it was getting increasingly difficult. She was a tall young woman, with bold, dark eyes, the only parts of her body visible when she stepped outside. She cared for her brothers and knew they equally despised the regime. Babek preferred to be clean-shaven, appreciating the soft, fresh air on his skin, but today, each man must wear a beard. He was stocky in build, like his father with the compassionate nature suited to his profession. He was a qualified junior doctor at the Kabul Jamhuriat Hospital where their mother was also a nurse. Her position was fragile and might be terminated with no warning at the whims of the Taliban.

The family were very angry at Naghma’s plight; four years ago, she had completed her medical studies and was to be a doctor at the Indira Ghandi Children’s Hospital in Kabul. She was fond of children and had enjoyed helping Paternal Grandmother care for Babek while her mother was working. When the Taliban gained power they allowed only experienced women in the medical profession to remain; Naghma’s graduation was too late. Babek’s wife Mina was a comforting friend to Naghma, she was an educated girl but her career had also been terminated. It was at the Jamhuriat hospital that she met Babek while training to be a nurse but when she was forced to stop working, Babek had asked her family if they could marry and she came to live in the family home.

Naghma could not bear to witness her mother’s anxiety, now virtually a widow but a strong woman and not yet old. Her husband, Kamel, a modern father, had wanted his children to have the opportunities he’d been given. His education had been his downfall because, after studying languages, he became an English teacher and an ideal recruit as interpreter for the British army. After the rapid departure of the British from Afghanistan in two thousand and twenty-one, Kamel was arrested and the family still knew nothing of his fate. Their mother was under suspicion as the wife of a designated traitor and under regular surveillance. She frequently saw guards watching the house from the street corner and since Kamel’s disappearance, she had been called each year for questioning before the National Security Committee. The family lived close to a number of bus routes and each day Babek chaperoned his mother to work. Women were harassed by the Taliban if not accompanied by a male family member. If mother wanted to visit her parents in a distant village, it was unlawful for her to go alone.

Arman was tall like his mother and sister and might have been an athlete. When young and not studying at the madrasah, he had liked to run and fly his kite and work strenuously in the garden, growing vegetables and helping his father tend his treasured trees; a pomegranate, apricot and fig.

At school leaving age, Arman received training in agriculture through the Aga Khan Development Network. There was an urgent need to grow food for the Afghan population and since the extreme decree forbidding most women to work, the economy was failing. The Agronomy department, where Arman held a senior position, lay in the Kabul River Basin. At eighteen hundred metres above sea level, Kabul was one of the highest capital cities in the world and the Hindu Kush formed a stunning mountainous backdrop. Only a small percentage of land in the Kabul River Basin was designated for agriculture because there were several more cities in that region, and an expanding population, but of all the crop-growing areas in Afghanistan, this was the most important.

Arman had progressed in his studies and was a senior researcher in crop cultivation, most importantly, potatoes, a valuable food crop for the under-nourished Afghani people. Amongst mothers and children, malnutrition was rife and potatoes were a life-blood. Much of the land was poor and drought-ridden, yet also likely to flood. Arman’s carefully researched solutions had come to the attention of the Taliban and he had received commendations. He was a frequent advisor to the Canal Irrigation Board and his ideas helped the success of the sophisticated irrigation techniques in operation, channelling water in a series of canals and capturing surface water, especially when the river flooded.

He was especially passionate about the soil. Chemicals were used in commercial farming but were not the preferred method, as they were harsh and expensive to import. The Afghans, a rural nation, had a long and deep love for the trees and flowers they grew and for all aspects of their land. Arman had developed the age-old idea of using the poorest land to grow nitrogen-fixing crops that could be harvested and made into nutrient-rich fertiliser. This was all part of a major project using circular agriculture to ensure organic material from poultry and livestock farms was also kept in the food chain loop and nothing wasted. Arman’s colleagues and students were proud to be working with him and excited when his achievements came to the attention of the Taliban. Most attended the ceremony when he received his latest award. Even so, Arman hated the totalitarian government and disliked the narrow, unreconstructed thinking of some of his fellow workers, in particular their views on women’s rights, but he never shared his thoughts. He had learned a phrase from the British, ‘Walls have ears’.

Naghma’s lively mind and sense of humour made her family smile, so despite the constant fear from local officials, she begged her family to be positive;

‘They’re tyrants, they’re not going to win; good will win and we’ll look back on our suffering as a bad dream.’

In the Darkest Corner there is Light: Part Two by Jennie Hart

credit: Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 2

At home with Mina, Naghma secretly pursued her education and was fortunate the family owned a laptop. So far there had been no government decree to ban internet access and WhatsApp was a popular chat site, but many websites were controlled by the state. She was thankful her brothers were supportive, unlike some men, who wouldn’t hesitate to tell the authorities if they disapproved of their women’s behaviour. A young woman who lived nearby, had carelessly gone out with her ankles showing and the guards had beaten her so badly they had broken her legs.

Naghma’s sister-in-law, Mina, knew she had been fortunate to gain a qualification in nursing, but since the ban on women working, she looked back on her past life with longing, despite its limitations. Confined to the house, Mina helped Naghma prepare the daily meals and was surprised that making delicious meals out of sparse ingredients excited her. She used cayenne and cumin, coriander and turmeric or whatever was growing in the garden, to transform basic vegetables into appetising dishes. Mina’s uncle ran a canteen offering lunches to city workers and when she was younger, she had learned her cooking skills in her uncle’s kitchen. Uncle had been impressed by her talent. Later, her main focus had been her nurse’s training, but now, every Afghan woman was rethinking her future.

‘When we are free, I want to open a restaurant,’ she said to her mother-in-law, Babek will help me, but for now, I will invent new recipes and share them with my friends.’  

‘When we are free’, was a daily aspiration.

‘It’s good to have a plan, to look forward Mina, I will help if I am not too old, or, if you have a child. Once I stop working, I could care for the baby. Let’s hope for an end to this cursed life.’

Mina’s other desire of course was to have a child with Babek, but she was still young and both had agreed to wait until their baby could be born into a safer world. Mother looked for the light in life too but she trembled at the thought of her families’ future.

Afghanistan was a nation of music and it was a terrible blow to all Afghans that the Taliban had declared music a corruption and had forbidden it. Naghma still sang to herself while in the kitchen and Mina often joined in. Mina sang with Babek too, but all knew the risk they were taking. They had heard of women being stoned for less. Arman just smiled and shook his head; too much was at stake for him. Before the repressive government, Naghma and her mother had played the robab, a popular instrument the British had likened to a lute and Babek played the doho,l a type of cylindrical drum. Mina played the mizmar, a wind instrument she had once played in the school band. Arman sang in perfect pitch but since the edict, he never sang. They were all afraid. Even the books they possessed had been scrutinised by the authorities and any with unsuitable subjects, had been taken away.

Mina was speechless at the music ban; her own mother had taught her the traditional dances of the region and when very young, she would dance and sing with Mother and their neighbours after the evening supper. ‘How can we ever dance without music?’ Mina said to Naghma, ‘It’s was a cruel law.’

Mother came home from the hospital that evening with Babek and she wept. Government officials had taken over the hospital, even entering the operating theatre, and by the end of the day, all women employees other than a very small handful, had been told to go home and stay there.

‘I’ve been caring for women young and old in that hospital for years and the personal care and kindness I give the women, cannot be given by a man. What despicable, ignorant cowards they are not to revere our role! What a sick government we have.’

‘How terrible for you Mother-in-law, and even more of our income will be gone; can we manage do you think?’ asked Mina.

‘We shall manage Mina,’ They say I will get a small proportion of my pay, but I am more anxious about those sick women. I am also concerned about my husband, I’ve heard nothing. Soon I plan to go again to Pul-e-Charkhi prison soon and make enquiries, but I can only go if Babek or Arman come with me.’

‘Poor Mother,’ said Naghma, ‘How can they do this to you? There is one good bit of news; the powers have decreed that women can go out alone in the city providing they are fully covered; you only need a male chaperone if you are travelling more than fifty kilometres’

‘Well, I can’t believe anything they say, probably tomorrow they will change their mind and I will be arrested for going out alone!’

It was Paternal Grandfather’s idea to take the musical instruments to his home and if they wanted to play them, the music would be muffled by his thick stone walls, his orchard and surrounding scrub. He lived alone on the outskirts of Kabul in one of many scattered dwellings.  Paternal Grandmother had died of a heart attack and grandfather blamed the Taliban. Grandmother had never recovered from her son’s disappearance and she had no longer wanted to live. Grandfather was grief-stricken at her death too but prayed to Allah on behalf of his son and hoped that no news was good news. Arman drove a battered old Toyota Corolla, essential for getting to work and agreed to take the instruments to grandfather’s hidden beneath some sacks of potatoes. Guards on the city boundaries randomly stopped and searched vehicles, so it was a risk, but Arman had some status in the city and was waved through. The next day was his day off and as mother no longer had work, unlike Babek, Arman agreed to take Mina and his mother to Grandfather Kaspar’s.  

‘We’ve been talking about doing it so let’s go today.’

 Naghma said she would stay to use the computer while the rest of the family were out. Since the Covid pandemic she had secretly been studying the latest papers on the behaviour of microorganisms, hoping that one day, women would work again and she could become a specialist in infectious diseases. She desperately wanted to heal children; she had seen their suffering and preventing illness in infancy was vital. Naghma was skilled in quickly closing down a suspicious website and opening an approved one should any prying Taliban call unannounced.