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.

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

credit: Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 3

Next day, dressed discreetly in the faceless burka with only eyes showing, mother and Mina accompanied Arman to Grandfather’s and this time, the officials made a cursory search and waved them through. Mother had brought bread and potato dumplings, poor food but augmented by Mina’s spicy sauce. It was a hot day but they made sure all windows and doors were closed before nervously bringing out the instruments.

Mother felt defiant and joked, ’You must sing quietly Arman, your voice can be heard as far away as the Pul-e-Khisti mosque!’ There wasn’t much to joke about in Kabul today.

‘Mother, I’m not going to sing, I would lose my job and worse; the work I’m doing is unbelievably important, I’m going now and will come back at sunset.’

For a while they forgot the terror of the regime and made Grandfather weep at the hypnotic sound of his daughter-in-law’s robab and Mina’s mizmar. At sunset, Arman returned; the women hugged the old man and said goodbye. Arman kissed his cheek and held him close. It was important the women were back in their homes before dusk wearing the burkas they had taken off at grandfather’s.

 ‘Wasn’t that a precious time for all of us, it has truly lifted my spirits,’ Mother said, ‘I will ask Arman to take you with Babek next time, Mina, I will stay home, but we must wait a few days so as not to cause suspicion.’

The next time Babek and Naghma accompanied Mina, driven by Arman while Mother stayed home. They left early, before Arman started work and the dusty roads were crowded with cars, carts and all manner of animals. Grandfather wept to see his other grandson. He made mint tea and had prepared a platter of fresh dates from his trees. He longed for news of the city and Naghma told of shopping in the market and the shortage of bread. Babek described the influx of children to the hospital with malnutrition, a desperate problem in their politically isolated country. Arman said goodbye saying he would return after work. Naghma tuned her robab and Mina her mizmar and they began to play; Babek tapped the beat on his dohol and they all began to sing.

‘Your grandmother will be listening from her grave; she played this on her mizmar with great accomplishment. Thank you,’ murmured Grandfather.

Their happiness was disturbed by a frenzied battering. The door swung open and two hostile guards stood in the doorway blocking the dazzling sunlight.

‘You are disobeying orders and will be punished,’ one said.

The other grabbed Naghma’s arm and her robab fell to the floor. Mina moved backwards and avoided his stick but lost her balance. Her mizmar slid under the table. The first guard hit Babek hard across the face and again on the leg, this time with a baton he pulled from his belt. Grandfather was not spared; he was pushed and fell against the wall. The women were ordered to cover their faces and get into the prison vehicle. The guards were thugs and beat the men as they shoved them in with the women.  

Naghma saw queues of people as they drove through the looming, black iron gates of the sprawling Pul-e-Charkhi prison. Guards were waving sticks and shouting. She had heard the jail was full to breaking point because of the daily new restrictions. Women were queuing separately from the men, all hidden beneath their ugly, grey garments. She saw women being violated with a hand or baton.

Towards evening, she saw Babek and Grandfather being pushed through a doorway; it was stiflingly hot and Naghma and Mina had joined a queue where they crouched on the ground with many other women. They held each other; they’d heard terrible tales. Both women were exhausted and it was towards dawn when first Mina was taken. Later, Naghma was pushed into a bare, brightly lit room. A government official in uniform hit her twice across the head with a heavy hand, followed by a tirade of warnings should it ever happen again.  She was directed to the door and told to go home, obey the law and attend to women’s duties. She was astounded at her mild treatment but guessed the Taliban were not coping with the terrifying but absurd situation. Out in the street several women sat against the prison wall or leaned on each other, dazed or weeping. One of them was Mina. Naghma bent and hugged her before leading her down a street to a bus stop. Early buses were moving round the city and they knew they must get home to avoid arrest for being unchaperoned

 Babek was less lucky, he was handcuffed and shoved down wide stone steps to a prison yard. He was pushed against a wall, stripped of his shalwar kameez and his hands raised and secured to a heavy metal ring. Within moments he felt extreme pain but before he could recover it happened again; five lashes on his naked body. Other men were having the same treatment. His back felt numb and blood dripped onto his bare foot, but the punishment stopped. Some men were being treated more severely and their cries died out as they lost consciousness. Babek felt sick but was freed and led out with a few men through another yard where some prisoners were exercising, walking one behind the other. He feared another beating if he turned his head, but moving his gaze, was astounded to see his father. Kamel’s head was down and he shuffled with painful steps, but, as Babek passed him, father and son made eye contact. Despite his pain, Babek felt a surge of joy; his father was alive.

Arman meanwhile discovered the abandoned house. He always brought the spare key and unlocking the door now, saw the disarray; a fallen chair, the abandoned instruments. He was overcome with fear and dread; the Taliban were ruthless and unforgiving.

Babek and a few more men were shown the exit. His body stung and his kameez stuck to the raw weals on his back, but he was alive, for which he thanked Allah. He retrieved his sandals from the regimented numbered shelving in the prison lobby before being pushed out into the forecourt with a threatening warning. ‘Next time, you won’t be leaving.’  It was night-time still and Babek struggled to stay upright. He saw another batch of men being led from the building and grandfather was amongst them. He watched as another man caught him as he stumbled. Babek limped over to take grandfather’s weight; his clothing was bloody and he was silently weeping.

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

credit: Gencraft AI

Mother: a nurse

Kamel: father

Arman: elder son

Naghma: daughter

Babek: younger son

Mina: Babek’s wife

Part 4

Arman risked being stopped by the Taliban as he drove in the early hours towards the prison complex to look for his family. He parked where he had a partial view of the entrance and waited. He stood by his car and lit a Marlboro, still available and his favourite smoke since his dad worked for the British. An official vehicle slowly drew up and parked before government buildings near the prison. He had no time to get back in the car before the chauffeur opened the passenger door and a Taliban officer got out. He looked over and walked towards Arman. He shuddered with fear; he knew it was a crime to be loitering at this hour, but the officer examined him closely, hesitated, then held out his hand. Arman was amazed but extended his hand in return, a tradition they had both learned from the west. It dawned on him that this was the Minister for Agriculture, Irrigation and Livestock who had presented Arman with his awards.

‘In the name of Allah, I am honoured to see you again and to give further praise for your ground-breaking work for our magnificent nation. You may remember me; I am Abdul Rahman Rashid and here is my card. That is my office you see over there alongside the Pul-e-Charkhi. You may call on me if it pleases you, and in gratitude, I will be honoured to bestow any favour I consider worthy, should you have need.’

Arman bowed, gave humble thanks and Abdul Rashid turned and walked to the headquarters. He was still reeling from the encounter, when a few men came out of the Pul-e-Charkhi gates and among them, was Grandfather, leaning on Babek and both walking slowly in unsteady steps. He embraced them and cautiously helped them into the Toyota.

 

Arman gave his familiar knocks and Mother unlocked the door. She was overjoyed to see the men but incensed at their state, especially her father’s and extremely concerned that the women were not with them. She boiled water to bathe their weeping wounds. Grandfather’s treatment had been similar to Babek’s but he was ninety years old and far more frail. Five lashes were more than he could endure and he too had been given dire warnings. Babek shouted in fury;

 ‘What are these rodents doing to our country? They are mad, mindless criminals.’

Arman and Mother helped grandfather lie down on the low divan and he was asleep in moments. Both knew sleep was healing. Another tap on the door and it was the women. Babek held Mina close and then Naghma; Arman put his arms round both.  The women spoke of their mild treatment, each recognising there would be no second chance. They wept to be back home but when Babek revealed the joyful news of seeing father in the prison yard, everyone was astonished. It was Arman’s turn to tell his story and for him to digest the significance of the favour handed to him by the minister. After hearing his father was alive, a request was already taking shape in his mind.

It was already morning and Arman had to go to work, but the explosion of ideas concerning his father, helped him face the day. Babek was on a two-day break so had a second day to recover. He knew his name and address but not his employment, had been recorded at the prison. Staff was depleted in every field, especially health. For this reason his crime was unlikely to be followed up and in any case, how could they do without him? Arman came home that night exhausted but excited; he had an appointment to see the minister and would prepare a request for his father’s release.

‘Salam Alaikum,’ said Abdul Rashid in a warm greeting, placing the customary hand over his heart and Arman did the same.

‘My father, Kamel Aziz, is an honourable man,’ explained Arman. ‘His only sin was to be an educated man who spoke English and to be selected by the British army to be an interpreter to the officers. When the army left, he was arrested as a traitor.  As you know, many things changed during the war and my father used his skills to maintain his family but was never once disloyal.’

Arman made his case with passion and the minister sat immobile. It was impossible to read his thoughts and Arman feared he had said too much. Abdul Rashid remained silent, looking beyond Arman, staring at the wall. Then he spoke;

‘Arman Aziz, you have done well; in your studies; in your contribution to our great nation, and now in your earnest plea for Kamel Aziz. Tomorrow, I will go to the Pul-e-Charkhi prison and announce your father’s release. I have an honourable relationship with the prison governor; he is my brother. You are a worthy son and I believe your father is a good man.’

There was no more to be said, Arman gave his most gracious thanks, bowed and left the building.

 The next day, Kamel Aziz brought light into the darkest corner and the family gave praise to Allah.

The Typewriter by Jennie Hart

credit Jennie Hart    

A curious tap, tapping aroused Leah from another tormented night’s sleep. She was used to unexpected sighs and creaks but more often it was the raucous behaviour of drunken youngsters on a late night out in York city centre. ‘What on earth is wrong with me?’ she thought. She heard Ali’s soft gentle breathing and wished she could sleep so easily. Once more she’d had a nightmare, which played out all her current anxieties especially her anger over the brutal war in Gaza. Israel and Hamas were killing women, babies and children. ‘How could they do that?’ She longed for a baby but could not conceive. Babies, living and dying tumbled around in her mind. She shuddered at the thought of Donald Trump as the President Elect, but could his unpredictability lead to him doing something worthy; like ending that war?  

Leah and Ali had both experienced racial abuse. She had known people who were blatantly racist but claimed not to be, saying, ‘My best friend is Jewish,’ that kind of thing. Leah’s family were Jewish and had lived in York for many generations. She knew of the past and the persecution of her ancestors. Leah lectured in History at the University of York so knew in detail of the Jewish Pogrom in the twelfth century city. She was thankful for her peaceful life. Ali’s own family had suffered discrimination too; his grandparents fled from Iran during the time of the Shah and settled in London’s East End, but Ali considered himself totally British. He had moved to York to help his brother set up the basement Café Cardamon and he and Leah now lived in the apartment above. Leah had been a frequent café customer and now they shared his flat. Ali was devoted to the café and between them, he and his brother had created an authentic Middle Eastern interior welcoming customers of any origin.

Human Fallibility by Jennie Hart

He had just begun a portrait of the Earl of Balfour. Never finished. Obviously. Well actually, not even begun.

(Note: First line of this story taken from tenth line of the tenth page of the novel by Kate Atkinson, ‘Life after Life’)

Khaled Nassar had been given permission by the National Portrait Gallery to copy the portrait of Lord Arthur Balfour by John Singer Sargent. Khaled’s patron was a descendant of Arthur Balfour so there was no problem in receiving the go ahead, but now Khaled knew he could not continue. How could he bear to look at this portrait for days on end knowing what misery this man had caused, even up to the current year. But how could he tell the Balfour descendant the reasons for his withdrawal?

Donald Trump’s announcement of a surprise deal between Israel and the United Arab Emirates contributed to Khaled’s decision. The current Palestinian President, Mamoud Abbas, denounced this treaty asking where the Palestinian people were when this deal was made? The president, claimed it would never stop Palestinian families being driven from their homes in the West Bank.

Khaled’s head was in a turmoil. Israeli settlements on the West bank and demolition of Arab homes in East Jerusalem caused constant pain for his people. His mother had lived through years of misery when there had been no regard for human rights and the situation was worsening. He knew his mother’s mental condition was poor and she only slept with large doses of sleeping pills. Medicines were scarce and often unavailable. Khaled had not visited her for two years, always in fear of being prevented from returning to England, his country of choice. His younger brother had been injured during a demonstration in Gaza and could only walk with the aid of a stick. It made Khaled very sad but also very angry.

He had no idea that agreeing to paint this portrait would stir up such emotions. He spent the first day at the gallery setting up his easel and studying the masterpiece. This was without doubt, the most prestigious commission he had ever received. That evening he returned to the apartment he shared with his partner Juan, a Mexican musician; or more precisely, an American musician of Mexican descent. He knew Juan would listen but would be amused that Khaled could allow the past to interfere with the present and affect his livelihood. Juan’s family were Catholics but Juan himself was of no faith considering God to be man’s invention. He would have little sympathy for Khaled’s plight.

‘Just suppose’ began Khaled, ‘That your mother still lived in Mexico city and you couldn’t get to see her because of Trump’s wall. How would you feel?’

‘Oh man, it ain’t never gonna happen, that wall!’

‘That’s not the point, your family are US citizens now and safe but just suppose…’

‘Listen man, you need to make some cash; we got this rent to pay and if you gonna get freaked out over every portrait you get to paint, we gonna be out on the streets’

 

Khaled continued to prepare his materials, choosing the oils he would need to recreate the sombre colours dominating the portrait. He must also match the soft delicate shades of the carpet on which Balfour was standing. He knew this commission was a gift and he was a fool to be swayed by his principles.

 The minute he got home, Khaled had set up his laptop and googled Lord Balfour. Not being familiar with the workings of the British aristocracy, he was curious to find that there was a Lord Roderick Francis Arthur Balfour alive today. This current Lord Balfour had a daughter, a celebrity in the art and media world in her own right.

‘Similar age to me I guess’, mused Khaled.

The subject of the National Portrait gallery painting was Arthur James Balfour the first Earl of Balfour born in 1848. First he was Prime Minister, then Foreign Secretary and also, being an aristocrat, a Peer of the Realm. Khaled was not sure what that meant but he was used to being confused by Britain’s hierarchy.

Khaled didn’t follow politics; unlike his two brothers. He was an aesthete, an artist, a young man who longed for the world to be a beautiful place where all would be fair and every one might live in harmony. He knew he was an idealist but dreams kept him alive and gave him aspirations.

A powerful remark attributed to Arthur Balfour struck him as profound. It was a statement which said:

 ‘Nothing matters very much and few things matter at all’.

Did Lord Balfour believe that? He repeated it to Juan who considered the remark then described it as nihilistic and verging on hopeless. Meanwhile Juan strummed a soulful and mesmerising tune on his treasured Spanish guitar. He was an accomplished player.

Was Khaled going to uncover that this Balfour was a man endowed with power but lacking empathy with fellow human beings? Reading further, he learnt that this particular aristocrat when Foreign secretary was responsible for an agreement that had had a devastating effect on the Middle East. It was ‘The Balfour Declaration’, and he learned that this declaration continued to exert its power today

As Khaled investigated further his anger began to mount.

‘Stop playing for a minute and listen to this,’ he said to Juan.

 ‘The Balfour Declaration of 1917,was a public pledge by Britain, declaring its aim to establish “a national home for the Jewish people. The pledge is generally viewed as one of the main catalysts of the ethnic cleansing of Palestine in 1948 and the creation of the Zionist state of Israel”. ‘

‘So what man? It’s all a long time ago. Come and chill out and relax a little.’

Khaled knew this could not possibly be all of the story and of course, there were many links he could follow. Who was this Lord Balfour? What kind of character was he? Did he single handedly bring about the Balfour Declaration? One article told him that through the declaration, Britain became the imperial sponsor of a Jewish state. A Jewish national home was to be established in Palestine by expelling the indigenous people en masse. There was apparently an assurance in the document about protecting Palestinian rights that proved worthless. Balfour it seemed, went along with this.

‘Juan, Juan, hold off that beautiful tune and listen to this:  ‘In 1919, Lord Arthur Balfour argued that “Zionist aspirations were of far profounder import than the desires and prejudices of the few hundred thousand Arabs who now inhabit that ancient land”’

‘But man, you are getting holed up in the past; all that has gone now. Look to the present, my Sugar man. Just do what you can do today.’

‘But don’t you see? The plight of my mum and my brothers is caused by Balfour’s racism one hundred years ago. How can I stand for that?’

‘But Honey man, how do you know he was a racist and not just a kinda puppet of that crazy government?’

‘Because. Listen to this. Tell me if you want more proof: “In Ireland, he introduced an Irish Crimes Act and thousands were jailed. When he was Prime Minister he insisted that in South Africa, Europeans must enjoy greater privileges than the Black natives, saying later that Black people were “less intellectually and morally capable than whites”. “Men are not born equal,” he said’

‘Times never change my boy. Got no faith in our smart politic boys today. Set fire to their own mama given the chance’

‘ Last thing and I’ll read no more. Listen: “He was a callous man and tried to justify the use of Chinese slave labour in South Africa’s gold mines and he opposed giving aid to people at risk of famine in India”. What else was this guy but a heartless murderer?’

Khaled was exhausted. He sighed and held his head down. ‘Have you heard of the Nakba? I knew about this from school and from my baba. In 1948, during the Palestinian war, hundreds of villages were burnt down and 700,000 Palestinians fled from their homes and went to refugee camps and millions are still there today. That includes my family. My brothers. My mum. You know my baba died? Poor health and depression. He saw no future for his sons. That was the Nakba’

 Juan sat up straight now, focusing intently on Khaled, ‘This ain’t no good man. You gotta decide. This is your life and you only got one o’ them. How ya gonna live it? Are we gonna have a great life together or are you gonna die of depression like your poor papa?’ 

Juan continued. ‘You’ve struck a nerve in me man. I see where you are coming from but you have left out one thing. Human Fallibility. If you are going to commit to an ideology you are gonna have to forget the human within.’

‘This Balfour dude; what do we really know about him? Was he loved by his mama? Was he bullied at school? Was he beaten by his papa? All these things that make a man, we know nothing about. Maybe all his growing up he was crushed. We don’t know and maybe never will. Have you heard the phrase “The sins of the fathers are visited on the sons”. Who was his papa? Did he treat him bad? Are Balfour’s sins gonna ruin your life? Take a break man; stand back. Don’t do this damned painting  but try to let go of this damned hate. You’re a fabulous guy and it doesn’t fit. Help your mama, support the causes, but today is today, yesterday is gone. Just let go.’

Khaled felt calmer. He knew Juan would talk him through. He always made great sense; it was that immense and powerful musical spirit. Now it was bonding with his own special creative spirit.

He poured a glass of wine and passed it to Juan then poured another for himself. No, he wouldn’t do the painting, but yes, he would let go.

 first published August 2020

Llwyngwril Station by Adam Rutter

credit Adam Rutter

Behind the station platform

Stands a house

Red-brick home with grey gable

Faces green fields

And the sea

Running through the edge of Llwyngwril

A railway track trails between trees and hedgerows

Leaving a gap from

The redundant platform

On the other side

Covered in grass, briers, bushes

I see platform edge

Between the branches

Grass buries the old rail loop

Pecking on the grass

A goldfinch

A Broken Silence by Elizabeth Obadina

Nothing moved. Steel grey skies hung over steel grey seas. The bullfinches and great tits whose antics he’d been watching since the Jul[i] festivities had ended had deserted the now stripped julenek[ii] and disappeared into a tangle of bare branches weighted down by frozen snow. 

Suspended at the end of an icicle, a glob of water refused to fall. The world seemed to be holding its breath. Life felt in limbo in January 2023.

Somewhere in the house the thud, thud, thud of meltwater dripping on to wooden boarding drummed; incessant, urgent, like the heartbeat of something living straining to break through its icy restraints.

“If only they had listened,” the old man thought as he listened to the thudding beat and remembered long-departed lovers, old friends and neighbours who had all lost their faith.

Escape from Gore by John Ayres Smith

Story Outline: Pope Francis pays for and organises (in the middle of the night) a long-range helicopter (an EH101) to collect Julian Assange (Wikileaks co-founder) from the Ecuadorian embassy in London and fly the 900 miles to The Vatican City (which has no extradition treaty with the U.S.). The Italian-made helicopter has an exceptional 1,100 mile range. Note: manufactured in Vergiate – Italy.

“Some bloke wants to know if we could make up a bulletproof coffin”.

This was the extraordinary words of a metal worker shouting across to the owner of a metal fabrication works in Deptford, south London at half past eight on a rainy Friday morning in the summer of 2018. As promised by the enquirer, just before noon on June 15^th. the email arrived with an odd-looking bland header showing a Gmail address and only a one word name: Frank

The works was always noisy with the sound of metal on metal – crashing power hammers, rotating lathes, screaming metal saws and indistinct human voices barely communicating as yelled words were exchanged between workbenches in an all-male factory environment.

John Richardson, Managing Director of South London Fabrications Ltd. couldn’t catch all the words which he misheard as something to do with a roof and that some bloke was coughing. His foreman was walking rapidly towards him with a mobile phone in his hand but by the time those bizarre words were repeated at close range, the caller had rung off and the foreman said an email would come in with the spec.

Not Belonging Any More - Donald's Last Friend by Marie Sever

In the waning hours of a presidency, Donald huddled in the Oval Office with his last remaining friend and pondered his final decisions. At that moment he felt as though he'd botched every decision in the previous four years, and he was not overly confident that he could, somehow, so late in the game, get things right.

‘No one appreciates everything I have done for the country, Herbert. Apart from you, they have all abandoned me.

The Waning Hours by Elizabeth Obadina

 The fifteen minute exercise...

As part of our monthly get together, we are given fifteen minutes to write on any given topic. This January it was to write a continuation of the following opening paragraph:

In the waning hours of a presidency, the 45^th President of the United States of America* huddled in the Oval Office with his last remaining friend and pondered his final decisions. At that moment he felt as though he'd botched every decision in the previous four years, and he was not overly confident that he could, somehow, so late in the game, get things right.

There was a knock on the door and his face lit up. ‘This’ll would put some fire in your belly if you could talk,’ he told the bust of Winston Churchill balanced on the Resolute Desk opposite him. ‘Come!’ he barked. The door swung open and a marine entered carrying two paper bags on a silver tray. The golden double arches printed on each bag revealed the provenance of the forty fifth president’s favourite food. ‘One for me,’ he instructed the man, ‘and one for him,’ he added pointing at the stern face of Britain’s wartime leader. ‘Enjoy!’

A frown passed over his face as the door shut softly behind the departing marine. The forty fifth president had forgotten something. Had Churchill been animate he might have suggested that the forty fifth president was missing the ...

Donald and Harvey by Martin Edwards

 The fifteen minute exercise...

As part of our monthly get together, we were given fifteen minutes to write a continuation of the following opening paragraph. For the next quarter of an hour, our zoom chat was silenced by the quiet, but intense, clatter of keyboards whizzing backwards and forwards across our cosy digital divide – just like a busy press room. Here’s my effort…

In the waning hours of a presidency, Donald huddled in the Oval Office with his last remaining friend and pondered his final decisions. At that moment he felt as though he'd botched every decision in the previous four years, and he was not overly confident that he could, somehow, so late in the game, get things right.

 ——————-

Harvey remained silent. He usually kept a low profile. There was a knock at the door. 

“Mr President, Sir”. It was his secret service minder.

“Yes, Mike?”, said Donald wistfully, oblivious to the impending disaster that was about to unfold.

“You’re wanted in the Situation Room, Sir”.

“What’s up, I’m busy with Harvey at the moment, we’re doing some important work here. Really important. The most important work any president has ever done - and I’m still doing it even though I should be on my way to Mar-A-Lago. We’re making lists. Long lists. The longliest lists ever”. Donald paused. With an exasperated sigh, he stared at his life-long buddy, Harvey.

“What should I take with me to remind me of the last four glorious years? Decisions. Decisions. Decisions”.

Brexit Unpacked ~ a flashback to October 2019 ~ by Geoffrey Speechly

 

Friends, writers, colleagues: I come to bury Brexit

Not to praise it: for the evil that it will do will last forever

And the good that to remain will sink down to dark history.

So let it be with Brexit. The noble Boris hath told you

That Brexit would be successful; if it were so all would be well

And Boris is an honourable man, so are they all

All honourable men whose intentions we do not doubt

Obscure though they seem to us, poor citizens of the realm

Who so find them. Boris speaks of a plan and Boris is an honourable man

But we have yet to understand its meaning, nor, so we are told,

Can our brothers in the land of Europe follow the bold but incoherent

Strands of Boris thought, demanding clarity and waiting in vain

For satisfaction. The last day of October in our English land

Is the day before we remember the good that now is gone. If Brexit rules

Then we the fools of uninformed ambition, led by Boris, for Boris

Is an honourable man, so are they all, all his men of stark emotion

Bereft of forward thought and stern in purpose to lead our country

On to economic isolation from our nearest neighbours.

I must pause a while, for my mind and heart must ponder

On the wonder that myopia may lead us far away from good Europia

That union, still evolving needs our members to be the midwives

Of a better future, but this brave Boris will not have, and Boris

Is an honourable man, so are they all, all honourable men and

Firm in their undisclosed resolve and knowing not theirs

Is the path to utter desolation. I fain would end on a happier note

And if, though contrary to tradition, a fully properly instructed vote

Could bring that political rarity to a decision clear

Even to my doubting mind that might dispel my fear.

A WHITE HOUSE REFLECTION by Geoffrey Speechly

In Washington the evening sun was sinking slowly behind the White House. In the Oval Office He was diligently preparing for his pronouncement to the United Nations that evening.  It must have the right image; stern, resourceful yet flexible, the leader of what he called in public the Free World and in private the Me World. Did he look right? He turned to the long mirror on the west wall and focused on his reflection to check – but it looked a little odd. He waved his left arm in its accustomed neo-patrician gesture but the mirror’s inhabitant did not move. Then he heard the words “Hi Donny Baby!”. Shocked, for the first time in his life he was silent. Then “Who are you? “he managed to croak out. The figure laughed: “If you had a conscience, I would be it, Donny Baby, but no.  I am the conscience you rejected when you were a kid. “ “But, but …” Never normally at a loss for words, the sharp quip, the downsizing sentence for an intelligent but brow-beatable opponent but this was different. The image was perfect, body, neck, large intimidating face, the clothes identical. “What do you want, you evil devil, you?” He had recovered a little of his customary pugnacity.

Human Fallibility by Jennie Hart

First line of this story taken from tenth line of the tenth page of the novel by

Kate Atkinson, ‘Life after Life’

Arthur, Lord Balfour National Portrait Gallery

 

He had just begun a portrait of the Earl of Balfour. Never finished. Obviously. Well actually, not even begun. 

Khaled Nassar had been given permission by the National Portrait Gallery to copy the portrait of Lord Arthur Balfour by John Singer Sargent. Khaled’s patron was a descendant of Arthur Balfour so there was no problem in receiving the go ahead, but now Khaled knew he could not continue. How could he bear to look at this portrait for days on end knowing what misery this man had caused, even up to the current year. But how could he tell the Balfour descendant the reasons for his withdrawal? 

Donald Trump’s announcement of a surprise deal between Israel and the United Arab Emirates contributed to Khaled’s decision. The current Palestinian President, Mamoud Abbas, denounced this treaty asking where the Palestinian people were when this deal was made? The president, claimed it would never stop Palestinian families being driven from their homes in the West Bank. 

Khaled’s head was in a turmoil. Israeli settlements on the West bank and demolition of Arab homes in East Jerusalem caused constant pain for his people. His mother had lived through years of misery when there had been no regard for human rights and the situation was worsening. He knew his mother’s mental condition was poor and she only slept with large doses of sleeping pills. Medicines were scarce and often unavailable. Khaled had not visited her for two years, always in fear of being prevented from returning to England, his country of choice. His younger brother had been injured during a demonstration in Gaza and could only walk with the aid of a stick. It made Khaled very sad but also very angry. 

He had no idea that agreeing to paint this portrait would stir up such emotions.

A Boy Called Pabel al Bahri - by Elizabeth Obadina ~ a story ­inspired by the 10th line of the 10th page of the children’s classic 'A Bear Called Paddington' by Michael Bond

  “That’s why she taught me to speak English.”

p10 line 10 A Bear Called Paddington by Michael Bond, publisher Collins 1958.

“Yes,” said the boy. “I emigrated you know.”

A sad expression came into his eyes. “I used to live with my grandmother in Basra, but she died and there was no one else who cared for me.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve come all the way from Iraq by yourself,” exclaimed the lady from Kent Social Services.

The boy nodded. “Granny always said she wanted me to emigrate when I was old enough. That’s why she taught me to speak English.”

“But whatever did you do for food?” asked the Reverend Brown from The Refugee Council. “You must be starving.”

Bending down, the boy unbuckled a battered black rucksack and brought out strips of what looked like wood. “I ate jerky,” he said rather proudly. “We liked Jerky, it came with the Red Crescent food parcels, that and packets of almonds. I finished them when I was still in the lifeboat.”

“But what are you going to do now?” said the Reverend Brown. “You can’t just sit here on the beach waiting for something to happen.”

“Oh, I shall be alright … I expect.” The boy bent down to buckle up his bag again. As he did so the lady from Kent Social Services caught a glimpse of a photograph in a plastic ID lanyard around his neck. As it swung free she saw the writing on the back of the picture. It said simply, I WILL LOOK AFTER YOU ALWAYS.

She turned in some concern to the Reverend Brown. “Oh dear, what shall we do? We can’t just leave him here. There’s no knowing what might happen to him. He says he wants to get to London. We can’t allow that and anyway London’s such a big place when you’ve nowhere to go.”