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PRESS RELEASE

LAUGHTER IS THE BEST MEDICINE – ESPECIALLY FOR EXPATS

Anthology of both published and un-published writers who live abroad helps those in transition to see the funny side, while offering practical help and resources.

FORCED TO FLY – 2nd Edition Edited by Jo Parfitt and written by Expatriates Everywhere

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“It’s a hilarious concoction of cheek burning blunders and toe curling faux pas. Forced to Fly not only looks at the fun side of expat life, it also addresses the challenges faced by living overseas. The book is full of handy tips and sound advice, a treasure trove of information for anyone considering moving abroad.” [Reina van Nieuwkerk-Rácz former Editor-in -Chief of The Underground www.expatcalidocious.com]

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Everyone knows that laughter is the best medicine, but Forced to Fly is more than a collection of funny stories about seeing the funny side of the day-to-day blunders we all make. It is packed with stories that resonate with anyone who has lived abroad. Its opening chapters, written by experts, counsellors and real-life expats who have struggled with culture shock, will provide support and advice to guide you through any dark patches.

When the first edition came out I had no idea that it would find its way into corporate goodie bags for relocating employees, nor that people would call me up, saying, “Help, my daughter-in-law has just moved to Dubai and is not doing so well. Can you send her a book, please?”

In this second edition, we have added a chapter on emotional resilience in addition to more than 20 new stories for you to enjoy from new writers such as Jack Scott, whose memoir, Perking the Pansies, is currently long-listed for the Polari First Book prize and the hilarious Debbie Fletcher, author of Bitten by Spain. Blogger contributors Expatcalidocious, AdventuresInExpatland, DisparateHuisvrouw, WordGeyser and IWasAnExpatWife make this a thoroughly modern version of an old favourite.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Publication date OCTOBER 5TH 2012

Price £9.99/€12/$15.75

Summertime Publishing

ISBN 978-1904881416 (print);

ISBN 978-1-909193093 (kindle)

298 pp, paperback

Queen Beatrix giving Wim Statius Muller a helping hand PHOTOS ANKO STOFFELS

Antillean pianist and composer Wim Statius Muller had once said: ‘You can be 84, you can be almost dying, but you play!’ demonstrating his dedication and unfailing love of music. This week Queen Beatrix awarded him the Zilveren Anjer for his phenomenal contribution to the musical heritage of Curaçao.

In the introductory speech held prior to receiving his award, Statius Muller was called the ’Curaçao Chopin’ in reference to Chopin’s enormous influence on the music of the island.

Statius Muller was not the sole receiver of an award at the ceremony held at the Royal Palace in Amsterdam; three equally deserving contributors to the Netherlands cultural heritage were also honoured on this occasion. Reint Wobbes, for his conservation work of medieval churches and graveyards in Groningen and the couple Clemens van der Ven and his wife Neeltje for their dedication to the Arts and generous donation of their historic home, including priceless antiques, to the community.

The Zilveren Anjer (Silver Carnation) award was initiatiated by Prince Bernhard in collaboration with the Prins Bernhard Cultuurfonds (Prince Bernhard Cultural Foundation). In 1950 Queen Beatrix’s father presented the first zilveren anjer to Dutch citizens for their extraordinary devotion to  preservation and conservation of Dutch culture within the Kingdom of the Netherlands. All work must be on a voluntary basis with no personal or financial gain.

Wim Statius Muller will shortly be releasing his latest CD Antillean Treasures.

For more about Statius Muller: I interviewed Wim Statius Muller for The Underground paper in January 2012.

As I sit admiring my own lovely tree I recall last year, up to my eye-balls in renovations and living in a rental that had the ambiance of a butcher’s fridge. I had decided not to have a tree as all our stuff was still packed in a 60 foot container and I couldn’t bear buying anymore decorations, not one more thing, knowing that we owned enough to decorate two houses, an orphanage and a zoo.

What a difference a year makes. We finally moved into the new house, unpacked our belongings and swore never to associate ourselves with a paintbrush ever again.

I started writing once more and joined a writers’ group and began contemplating the direction my life was taking. I knew that I wanted to write but whehter I could make a career of it concerned me, greatly. I must have been doing some serious thinking because the metaphysical law of attraction took over and something extraordinary happened.

A couple of months ago, Simone Harper Branson must have been doing the same – thinking about making a dream come true. This half-Dutch, half-English graphic designer, living in The Hague, had a vision. She was going to produce an English paper aimed at the multicultural and international community of the city she was born in. The paper would reflect not just the city but also the people living in it. She wanted to reveal what it had to offer beyond the usual attractions and with her background in design started looking around for people to help her with the content of the paper.

Jo Parfitt, a local British publisher, writer and teacher, filtered through her formidable network contacts and suggested Simone approach a number of local writers whose work Jo was familiar with. One thing led to another and I became a co-editor, together with an outstanding writer and friend Jane Dean, of a paper that at this stage was nothing more than a concept. Today we are the very busy co-editors of the English-speaking, monthly paper, The Underground, The Hague.  Once connotations with the London tube are put aside the name of the paper becomes clear. Simone wanted to dig deeper, find a point of interest that would intrigue the long-term expatriates as well as the multicultural families, of The Hague. The logo, a mole, symbolizes going beneath the surface to discover new and surprising facts – undiscovered treasures of The Hague.

The first issue was ready within six weeks.  This was only possible because we all worked day and most nights – till we had something that we felt reflected Simone’s vision. The response from writers wishing to contribute was tremendous, without them we would have had, well, nothing. It was not easy, I admit that, it was not always fun, I admit that too, but hell, it felt good when 1 November 2011, it came out to raving reviews!

Last week, the second issue, bigger and better was distributed at more than sixty distribution points. Feedback from advertisers has been amazing. One expat shop had 600 new hits on her website, from one ad in our first paper!

I write a monthly column, which evolved from an affinity for getting lost, no matter where I am. I have (had to!) been able to give it a positive twist. I honestly believe that there is a reason for everything and I look for it whenever I get lost. Believe it or not, I find the most extraordinary things and places that I share in my column. For all  intents and purposes, I am a tourist in own country, never having lived here for long periods of time. Perhaps it helps that it’s all new to me, and the beauty of this country’s cities and landscapes never ceases to amaze me.

It can’t really get better than this, new home, new career prospects, new friends and neighbours, all in all it’s been a marvellous year!

 A World of Women, A Wealth of Perspectives

by Linda A. Janssen

 I am so excited to be here today at Expatcalidocious. Not only is this a wonderful blog that celebrates the art of the tale (it is and it does), but it is also written by a dear friend and wickedly terrific writer. Since so much of what we bloggers do takes place in cyberspace, it is a real blessing to have a true ‘flesh and blood’ friend and fellow writer to confide in, share with, learn from. I am lucky indeed.

The book I contributed to, Turning Points: 25 Inspiring Stories From Women Entrepreneurs Who Have Turned Their Careers and Their Lives Around (Kate Cobb, a women’s business and executive coach is the editor and the publisher is Jo Parfitt www.joparfitt.com of Summertime Publishing), launched earlier this week.

Each woman describes her background and life situation, shares the pivotal moment or series of events that drove her to implement significant change(s), and provides a glimpse into precisely how she did so complete with helpful resources and lessons learned along the way.

I still can’t get over the reception it has received, pushing all the way to #1 on Amazon’s bestsellers’ list for books in the Women & Business category, and almost as high in the Entrepreneurship and Self-Help/Success categories. I continue to hover between amazing appreciation and disbelief. Then I put the dishes away, take the dog for a walk, throw in a load of laundry and sit back down at my laptop to work on my latest piece.

Expatcalidocious is a second generation expatriate who grew up traveling the world with her family and living in a number of different countries, then married a diplomat and continued to call various exotic ports of call her home. She has been to, seen and done more than many people do in an entire lifetime. Conversation with her is always witty, amusing, thoughtful and full of interesting insights.

The authors who contributed their stories to Turning Points remind me of her. They may not all be expats, but they do come from all around the globe. They are women of all ages and stages and walks of life. They have experienced a plethora of challenges, and dealt with them as best they could. Some have crashed and burned, only to rise in true phoenix style from the ashes of defeat. Others have learned to make peace, let go, make changes or move on. In short, they represent the world of women.

It is precisely from this wide array of varying situations and challenges that comes the true wealth of knowledge, insight, understanding and perspectives. Readers may see themselves and their lives mirrored in the story of a particular woman, or reflected in the broader collection as a whole. Either way, I hope they’ll feel as fortunate as I do when I think of how enriched my life is by the presence of my friend Expatcalidocious.

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If you’d like to find out more about our book, please take a look at the website         www.theturningpointsbook.com, or follow along on Facebook’s The Turning Points Book page or on Twitter @Turning_Points. A portion of all sales will benefit www.seedsfordevelopment.org.

Sunshine Soup, Nourishing the Global Soul
Jo Parfitt
Summertime Publishing
Paperback, 405 pages
Price € 10.00
www.joparfitt.com

When Jo Parfitt announced that she was going to publish her debut novel she confessed that she was terrified. From someone who has published twenty-seven books this might come as a bit of surprise, but then Sunshine Soup, Nourishing the Global Soul is her first work of fiction, it’s something personal and that is scary. Previously Jo has written non-fiction amongst others, A Career in Your Suitcase (a bestseller), Release the Book Within and Write Your Life Story. She has even co-written a cook book, Dates, her second cook book. And now she has her novel Sunshine Soup to add to her impressive repertoire.

The story, although not a biography, is inspired by Jo’s own life. She has been an expatriate all of her married life and has seen the ins and outs, the good and the bad of living overseas. Sunshine Soup follows an English family from their comfortable life in England to the scorching dry desert of Dubai where they experience expat life for the first time.

The main character, Maya, soon discovers that once the boxes are unpacked and husband and children leave for work and school respectively, she is left on her own to re-create a life, from scratch. Unlike her structured life back home where she had co-owned a deli  with her two best friends, in Dubai she is alone with not much to do. Help comes in the shape of Barb, a larger than life American and seasoned expat who has made it her mission to take stray expat wives under her wing.

With her newfound friends Maya slowly starts adjusting to life in Dubai and rekindles an old flame, her love for cooking. She finds solace and purpose in creating new recipes based on local produce.  The book features fabulous recipes such as Anchovy and Lemon dip, Squash Goulash and. my favourite, Arabic Coffee Ice Cream.  Seriously, it’s worth buying the book just for the recipes!

Whether you are a weathered expat or about to move overseas, Sunshine Soup will give you an insight into what you can expect. Jo has the knack of portraying stereotypes and making them into flesh and blood characters, so recognizable that when reading the book you will think that you know them. I certainly know Barb.

Pécs

During the Yugoslav War (1992-1995) I was living in the town of Pécs in southern Hungary, a mere 40 km from the Croatian border. At night we sometimes heard heavy artillery fire in the distance. The war was practically on our doorstep and Hungary was closely guarding its borders.

I was working as a Dutch language teacher at the Janus Pannonius University. In the evenings I gave private English and German lessons and also took on translation work to supplement a meager teacher’s salary. Through a colleague at the university I heard that German doctors working for Medecins sans Frontieres were commissioning translation work. They were running a provisional health care centre in Bosnia for Bosnian women refugees. They needed a request for extended funding translated from German into English. To validate their claim they included vivid descriptions of the atrocities that had been inflicted upon their patients.

To this day, recalling the horrific stories still sends chills down my spine.

Serbian soldiers would surround villages and systematically take all the women folk from their homes. Family members or friends trying to stop the soldiers were shot at point blank. Mothers, daughters and grandmothers were raped in front of family members forced to watch. Some women were taken to so-called rape camps and were continuously gang raped, tortured and humiliated sometimes for months on end. Others were set to work cleaning torture chambers in what once were local school buildings, kindergartens and hospitals turned into detention camps. There the women cleaned during the day and were continuously raped at night. Women and girls who became pregnant were allowed to leave once they were too far into the pregnancy to abort.

All of these Bosnian women were Muslims.

The rapes were a strategic part of the war campaign. The Serbs knew that a raped Muslim woman was likely to be shunned and ostracized by her family and would almost certainly be unmarriageable. The Serbs wanted to shred the intricate cultural fabric that held the Muslim communities together forcing them to leave or flee Bosnia ‘voluntarily’.

Women gave birth to ‘hate babies’ often blindfolded, unwilling to see the product of their horrendous ordeal. Some women did keep their babies, but the majority ended up in orphanages.

Wendy Roberts, a reporter for the BBC World News returned to Bosnia in 2005 and interviewed some of these brave women and spoke to two ‘hate babies’ now teenagers for a radio programme called Heart And Soul, ‘Bosnia’s War Babies’. Sadly, not one of the stories has a happy ending.

These were the women the German doctors, in 1993, were trying to help. The report stated that the majority of them were unable to talk about their ordeal. Some women had clearly been pregnant but flanked by taboos, frightened and humiliated they staunchly denied ever giving birth or having been raped. The psychological damage was colossal and without the help of this centre the woman would have nowhere else to turn.

I never made a copy of the original nor did I keep a copy of the translation. I deleted it from my computer. I wanted to delete it from my mind but the images are engraved in my memory. Nearly twenty years later I feel ashamed that my twenty-six year old self had not had the incentive to do more with the information. I could have written about it, I should have, but I didn’t. Today I know better.

In 2008 the Serbian war criminal Radovan Karadžić was captured and extradited to the Netherlands and today stands trial for his war crimes at the International Criminal Tribunal of the Former Yugoslavia (ICTY) in The Hague. I was jubilant, finally there would be some form of justice for the victims of the man known as The Beast of Bosnia.
This self proclaimed president of the newly found state of Srpska had ordered the genocide at Srebrenica, which at the time was a supposed “safe area” under UN protection, killing 8000 mainly men and boys. Under his command Serbian soldiers committed atrocities to Bosnians placed in detention centers and rape camps. Their aim was to cleanse Bosnia of non-Serbs.

This summer the last Yugoslav war criminal, Goran Hadžić, was finally arrested and is now detained in Scheveningen prison, a mere ten minutes drive from where I live today.
From 1991 till 1993 Hadžić and his rebel forces participated in ethnic cleansing in Croatia. He is accused, amongst other war crimes, of instigating the massacre of 260 people who had sought refuge in the local hospital in Vukovar and expelling 22,000 non-Serbs from their homes. Currently he is in pre-trial but when finally sentence is passed on this former general and self proclaimed president of the Republic of Serbian Krajina, it will be a triumphant feat, a sign to the civilized world that crimes against humanity will not go unpunished.

According to the ICTY official website there are fourteen war criminals currently on trial, three in re-trial, nineteen stand before the appeals chamber and seventy-nine have been tried (or died before sentence could be passed). A number of them have already sat out their jail sentences and have been released. As far as the International community is concerned justice has been served. But it’s cold comfort for the *20,000 rape victims of this atrocious and unnecessary war whose legal rights were brutally violated.

• A UN report stated that the likelihood that women who have been subject to sexual violence will ever receive compensation for their suffering was doubtful.

• Margot Wallström, the U.N. Special Representative on Sexual Violence in Conflict, stated that only 12 cases out of an estimated 50,000 to 60,000 have been prosecuted.

*Serb and Croatian women were also raped, however, Bosnian Muslim women were the main victims and according to the Investigating Commission of the European Union 20, o00 reported rapes took place between 1992-1995.
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Links:
Association of Women Victims of War (Bosnian: Udruzenje Žene-Žrtve Rata)
A non-governmental organization based in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina that campaigns for the rights of woman rape victims during the Bosnian war (1992-1995).

Women for Women
Their programs in Bosnia and Herzegovina include direct financial aid, rights awareness classes, job-skills training and emotional support. The one-year program was developed for Bosnia and Herzegovina’s special challenges and demands, and includes training that helps women earn an income and support themselves.

War Child and the Bosnian war 15 years on
At the height of the Bosnian war, amid a hurricane of killing, rape and ‘ethnic cleansing’, a movement striving in the opposite direction responded in the most powerful way they knew: with rock’n'roll.

Bosnian Genocide
A blog dedicated to remembering the war. It is a collection of relevant newspaper articles that were written during and after the war.

Kiki’s dramatic exit on the back of an imposing stallion had left the Chief, his brother, hell, the entire village staring in awe at the dust cloud slowly settling behind the kicking hooves of the majestic arab horse. When Kiki returned, a few minutes later, the horse was as tame as a kitten and the villagers crowded around her cheering and clapping.

‘The minute I was in the saddle some boy whacked the horse on the bum and it shot off with me hanging on as if my life depended on it. Luckily, just before we reached the boundaries of the village the horse ran into a sort of enclosure and stopped. In fact, I later heard it was the execution courtyard which might explain why it felt so eerie. After that it was a cinch to get him to return to the village square where a welcoming crowd stood cheering and clapping, clearly surprised that I was still sitting on that harried horse!‘ she later recalled laughing.

My mother’s apparent interest in the skilled needlepoint of the women had not gone unnoticed; the Chief had a suggestion. He knew a local doctor in a nearby town who was a collector of rare tribal and nomadic textiles famed for their intricate embroidery. The Chief asked Badruddin if we would like to go and go see. Everyone was keen except Willi. He still wanted us to leave and head on back to Karachi, uncomfortable in the midst of a tribal conflict and so many weapons.

‘Deez people will slit your sroat for nussing,‘ he told my parents with a nervous laugh staring intensely at my father whose concerned face soon cracked into a smile. He slapped Willi on the back and laughed. Clearly my father wasn’t bothered.

The majority vote won in favour of visiting the doctor and we all piled into the cars with guards hanging on outside, rifles swinging merrily on the bumpy dust roads. Willi was mortified but refused to be left alone in the ‘Vild Vest’ as he put it.

The town where the doctor lived consisted of a main street lined left and right with shoddily built red brick houses along a dusty, littered road. The doctor’s house was next to a small shop, more like a kiosk with an open front. An ancient looking man was peeping from behind a counter that was stuffed with small packets of sewing needles, cotton threads, pincushions, zippers and colourful buttons. The shelves were packed from floor to ceiling with bits and bobs needed for sewing.

The elderly doctor, who originally came from the Punjab and had attended medical school in Lahore, answered the door and greeted us politely in English. He wore a dusty dark green suit with a white shirt and shiny black tie. His clothes contrasted sharply with the favoured shalwar khamis, the baggy trousers and long shirts, worn by both men and women alike. He was clearly delighted to receive guests and ushered us into what must have been his sitting room. There was no furniture, only a very large carpet on the concrete floor on which we sat down having first removed our shoes at the door.

‘Chai?’ he asked, smiling and then shouted instructions to a servant boy hovering in the hallway to get the tea.

The doctor was a kind, soft spoken man. He was very knowledgeable about the history and culture of his people. He wanted to preserve some of it and had started collecting embroidered garments and wall hangings; some more than a hundred years old.

‘Before I begin I must tell you that nothing I will show you is for sale.  All items will go into the museum I will build one day,’ he told us looking over his half moon glasses. We could tell he meant it.

The collection was magnificent, one by one, a boy would bring in a new item that was first handed to the doctor who explained the significance of the designs, all deftly sewn by tribal women. He knew the origin and exact age of each item that had always been handed down in one family from generation to generation. He would pass it on to my mother sitting to his right for closer inspection. Each individual piece was an exquisite work of art with intricate stitches, designs and vibrant colours.  Even Willi was impressed, for the first time that day he relaxed. When we were about to leave he asked the doctor if there was a bus in town that could take him back to Karachi!

‘Of course, we have busses. They stop along the main road at the end of town. Just stand by the side of the road and flag down any bus coming your way’, the doctor informed him.

‘How long must I wait?’ Willi inquired clearly not prepared to stand around all night.

‘You wait as long as it takes for a bus to come,’ answered the doctor clearly amused by the question.

There wasn’t much of the town to see so soon we were racing back to the village, again our bodyguards hanging on tightly on the outer side of the cars. They had patiently waited by the wayside whilst we had been visiting. Suddenly the car with Willi and Badruddin stopped and my father had to hit the brakes. Willi stepped out and walked over to us.

‘I have decided to take a bus home tonight so Badruddin’s agreed to drop me off on de main road. If you want to stay, den I wish you good luck!’ he added and stepped back into Badruddin’s car.

My parents were shocked. The buses were not air-conditioned, luxury coaches with onboard toilets and mini-bars. They were antiquated shells of their former selves, decorated like Christmas cakes with bells. The drivers were renowned for chewing mountain loads of beetle nut to stay awake and plank gassed their way through life till a road accident abruptly ended it. On these buses only the lucky few had a seat, most passengers sat on the roof.

‘I think he has more chance of falling off the bus and killing himself than being killed by a trigger happy tribal chief,‘ my father told my mother who could not believe someone could be so foolish.

Returning to the village we noticed a police car parked by the gates entering the village. Badruddin was sent off to find out what was going on, whilst Willi went to pack his bag. Badruddin returned a few minutes later, looking a bit pale.

‘It seems that last week a man was executed here, you don’t want to know how,’ Baddruddin added, clearly disturbed by the news.

‘And the police are here to arrest the Chief?’ my mother wanted to know.

‘Oh, no! The Chief has every right, he is officially a judge and has the full authority to pass sentence. If he says you should die, you die!’ Badruddin added.

My parents now looked upon the Chief through new eyes. A man who had the power to decide between life and death and had no scruples to pass a death sentence was not someone they cared to hang out with. Willi who had packed his few belongings joined us but no one spoke. He assumed it was because he was about to leave, had he known the truth I think he would have run right then and there. Instead he gladly shook the Chief’s hand waved everyone else goodbye and stepped into Badruddin’s car happy that he was going home. After he had left my parents stood quietly discussing whether we also should leave, but they decided against it. We had planned to spend the night, it was dusk and the area was dangerous.

We spent the night in the village, outdoors, sleeping on primitive rope beds constructed of simple wooden bed frames within which lattices of ropes were stretched. We had taken along our sleeping bags but the beds were not very comfortable and nobody slept soundly.

The following morning we were woken up by a commotion. My father was chasing an overzealous cockerel around the village square. He was trying to hit him with his shoe. Apparently the cockerel had woken my father time and time again once he had finally fallen asleep at the crack of dawn.

We were planning to leave after breakfast and start heading back home to Karachi. Because everyone had slept fully dressed, it hadn’t taken us long to get ready for breakfast. Delicious thick slices of fresh papaya and mangos with juicy flesh were served with ink black coffee, bitingly sweet.

During breakfast, the Chief approached my parents and with Badruddin translating asked them something so unexpected that both my mother and my father were lost for words. The Chief had asked for my sister Kiki’s hand in marriage, not for himself but for his brother, who still only had one wife. Her riding skills the previous day had clearly impressed the brother. Badruddin quickly added a warning, ‘They are dead serious, be careful.’

My mother thought fast. She had no intention of leaving one of her daughters behind with this murderous lot and a quick glimpse at the shining execution axes propped up against a wall close by dissuaded her from saying to him what was on her mind. The Chief was waiting for an answer.

Suddenly she knew what to do. Looking the Chief straight in the eye she asked Badruddin to translate.

‘My daughter is still too young. In our tribe girls do not marry till they are a woman,’ she said forming the shape of a pregnant belly and then wagging her finger to emphasize Kiki was not yet ripe for childbearing.

‘But within a year she will be a woman  and we will come back then. All right?’ she offered and Badruddin translated.

The Chief and his brother who had been hovering in the background exchanged a few quick words and then the brother rushed off to return with a pitch black cloth intricately embroidered in a myriad of bright colours. It was a wedding shawl. He gave it to my mother, grinning from ear to ear. It was a token of their agreement. Hands were shaken and the brother looked terribly pleased. Kiki and I had thankfully not heard any of the exchange; I hate to think how horrified Kiki would have reacted had she known that her lot was on the line!

‘Shukran, thank you,’ my mother thanked the brother for the shawl and to my father she added, ‘let’s go!’

Papa sprang into action. He sternly told me to get into the car with Kiki and lock the doors. My parents then said their farewells. My mother dashed into the haram to shake the wives’ hands and of course her new best friend, the eunuch. For the last time guards hung onto the outside of the car. My father sped away from the village and the ominous situation. No one spoke a word till we hit the main road where we waved the guards goodbye and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

‘So how many camels did they offer for Kik?’ I asked trying to break the tension after our parents had told us what had happened.

‘None,’ was my mother’s answer.

‘How insulting!’ said Kiki and we all laughed.

Kiki, my younger sister, and I had politely greeted the eunuch whose hand was soft and moist. Still looking slightly piqued he ushered my mother and us two girls to a corner of the room where we could sit on large handmade cushions. Smiling young girls served us mint tea and sticky ripe dates that were meticulously arranged on a large round copper platter. We communicated with the women standing around us watching by pointing and smiling at their skillfully embroidered dresses and stroking the heads of the many toddlers with smudgy kohl rimmed eyes hiding behind their mother’s skirts. The rotund eunuch finally seemed to relax and ended up being an extremely jovial chap who cackled like a hen, screaming with laughter whenever one of us attempted to say anything in Urdu.

At noon a little boy, most likely not older than six, came running into the haram. He had been sent by the Chief to collect the three of us for lunch. We said farewell to the women and children by shaking dozens of hands but the eunuch we thanked a trillion times for his hospitality.

Lunch was out on the dried mud ground of the village square where a large table and chairs had been set up under the shade of two towering date trees. The meal consisted of delicately spiced saffron rice with a buttery chicken curry. We used the steaming hot flat chapatti breads to scoop up small amounts of the rice and curry biting off chewable portions.

My mother, Kiki and I sat at one end of the large table whilst my father sat with his two colleagues, Willi and Badruddin, at the other end together with the Chief and his brother. The brother’s wife had just given birth to a baby a couple of days before. The baby boy was swaddled tightly in a white cloth, again magnificently embroidered and lay on his proud father’s lap asleep throughout the meal. Behind them stood their ever present bodyguards, faces stern and eyes directed downwards, rifles always slung over shoulders. My father asked the Chief about his horses, having seen the stables when we had arrived and the Chief agreed to have one of them brought in from the meadow where it was currently grazing and if my father would like to he’d let him ride it.

We on the girls side of the table wonderd whether my mother’s head was still sore from the eunuch’s slap but she assured us that she was all right and we had best not to tell our father till we got home. Then she noticed two very large decorative looking axes propped up against a wall close to where we were sitting. The thick long wooden handles were carved with intricate patterns that looked like Arabic letters and my mother stood up to admire them from up close. The Chief and his guards all turned to watch and when she saw them staring she gave them the thumbs up as a sign of approval and the Chief smiled back his red teeth gleaming; his brother just chuckled.

Willi, my father’s German colleague, had been very quiet throughout the visit and acted like a fish out of water. Unlike my father, who tended to bond with people instantly, Willi was clearly uncomfortable.

‘I do not like all ze guns,‘ he told my father, ‘we should not have come to dis place,’ he added pulling out a crumpled handkerchief and wiping his brow.

By now Badruddin was also starting to show signs of discomfort and as they all stood up from the table he quickly told Willi and my father that the two axes my mother had just admired were in fact execution axes, and the ‘patterns’ were the numbers of hands, or heads the axes had severed.

My father, never one to panic, wanted to take a closer look at the instruments of torture but Willi grabbed his arm.

‘Let’s go, now!’ he hissed.

Before my father had a chance to react a boy riding a superb Arabian stallion came galloping towards them and skidded to a halt just metres from where they were standing. Willi blanched and my father smiled and walked up to the horse to nuzzle its nose. The boy jumped off and handed the reins to my father with a huge grin. Since my father had grown up with horses in his native Hungary he did not heisitate. He climbed into the saddle, gave the horse a swift kick and trotted off with the village children cheerfully running after him.

On my father’s return my sister asked if she could have a go. She galloped into the distance to the utter disbelief of the Chief and his brother who was still holding his baby. They were flabbergasted that a mere girl could ride, and well.

In the mean time Willi had started trying to also convince my mother to leave and she told him, ‘No!’ Leaving immediately was impossible, we needed the support of the Chief to get back across hostile territory and without an escort we would be taking an enormous risk, besides she saw no immediate threat. Then something happened that made her abruptly change her mind.

to be continued….

An intricately handmade doll acquired in a harem in the Sindh region of Pakistan is a particular favourite of mine. It’s a magnificent piece of handiwork made entirely by a little girl, about eight or nine years old, who had created an exact replica of her own dress for the doll. But it’s the story that goes with the doll that makes it sensational.

My mother, my younger sister Kiki and I had ended up in the harem thanks to Badruddin, a Pakistani colleague and friend of my father’s, who had organized the trip to this remote rural village a couple of hours drive from Karachi. Tribal enmity in the region was rife and worried about his trigger-happy neighbours the tribal chief, on hearing that we were coming, had insisted we accept an armed escort for our protection.  This came in the form of eight bearded and turbaned men in scruffy baggy trousers and oversized shirts, nonchalantly swinging silver decorated rifles over their shoulders. The village could only be reached by four-wheel drive and at the agreed location where the tarmac turned into a hardened dirt road our armed escort stood waiting for us. My sister Kiki and I didn’t fancy having to share the backseat with one of those rather fierce looking men who never made eye contact with a woman. To our relief they attached themselves to the side of our two Jeeps, holding onto the roof railings and standing on the car’s door ledges. One of them banged his hand on the car roof signaling to my father to start driving. In the other car was Badruddin with a German colleague, Willi, and despite there being room in their car the bodyguards opted for the more uncomfortable option of clamping themselves onto the exterior.

After an exceedingly bumpy and uncomfortable half hour drive with very nervous looking men hanging on for dear life to the outside of the car we arrived at what looked like an enormous mud wall. My father slowed down and one of the men jumped from the car and fired his rifle into the air, twice. At once the towering heavy gates to the village swung open and now all the men jumped off the cars and started shooting bullets of joy. Clearly they were relieved we’d arrived safely!

The first to greet us was the Chief. He was a robust, well fed leader of his people who greeted my father and his colleagues enthusiastically revealing red stained teeth caused from chewing beetle nut, a practice much favoured in Pakistan.

Mama, my sister and I were escorted to the women’s quarters, the haram, to meet the women. A dusty mud walled building with a corrugated iron roof with no windows was where the women and the younger children of the village were waiting to greet us. The haram consisted of one huge room, the hardened mud floor covered sparsely with threadbare carpets and beautifully embroidered cushions. A little girl pushed by her mother came forward and handed Mama a beautifully embroidered little doll. She was bending down to thank the little girl when Kiki and I saw a man with an enormous pot belly wearing nothing but a pair of baggy black trousers walk up to our mother and say something to her. My mother who had clearly not heard him did not respond and so he slapped her, hard, on the head.

‘When I felt the smack I turned to see who or what had hit me and was rather surprised to find a half naked man with an enormous brown belly grinning down at me,’ my mother later recalled.

‘My ear was quite sore but judging by his highly pitched voice I realized this must be the harem overseer, a eunuch, who was demanding my respect, so I quickly obliged and shook his hand!’

Our mother then hastened to introduce Kiki and me to him, certain that we otherwise would also be in for a good thrashing.

to be continued….

My parents already owned a holiday home in Burgenland, in the south of Austria that my father had bought for no other reason than that it was close to the Hungarian border, the country of his birth.

The house, although sound, was in dire need of an extreme makeover and my brave mother agreed to move there with us and kill two flies with one stone. We would have a home to live in and she would oversee the renovations.

Papa had already spoken to some of the locals who had assured him it would be a cinch to get builders in and have the house done up in no time.  So we had packed up our very comfy life in Surrey, England and moved into the house located in a remote village about a forty-five minute drive from the capital Vienna. The plan was that my sisters and I would attend the British School there.

It was soon clear that the one and a half hour bus drive to school in Vienna and back would be too much for a five, seven and ten year old and being the ever flexible expats our parents decided to search locally. The big Catholic School in the nearest town, run by nuns, came highly recommended.

When the time came to enroll us into the school we seemed to check all the boxes. Were we catholic? Check. Were we baptized? Check. It was all going smoothly till they hit a small stumbling block; we did not speak German. The charming nun who was helping with the application forms had never faced a situation like this before so she picked up the phone and dialed for help. The assistance came in the form of a black robed Mother Superior, her stern face framed by a white starched wimple.

‘Grüß Gott,’ she greeted in a gentle tone, smiling at my mother, ignoring my father.

My mother who spoke fluent German unlike Papa, who spoke ski holiday German, explained the situation and was disappointed when also Mother Superior’s answer to the possibility of us three attending the school was a firm, ‘Nein’.

No German, no chance.  Faced with this final refusal my father swore under his breath in Hungarian and Mother Superior’s eyes lit up.

‘You are Hungarian?’ she asked now also smiling at my father.

The conversation between my father and Mother Superior continued in Hungarian, clearly also her mother tongue. Before long she invited my parents to her office for a drop of pálinka a Hungarian drink not for the fainthearted.

A solution was quickly found. My sisters and I would be privately schooled in the local convent inhabited by retired nuns. If after six months our German was up to scratch we would be allowed to attend The School.

And that’s how we ended up with our leather rucksacks on our backs being educated in the convent by an ancient nun who had previously been an English professor at Vienna University. Schwester Margit taught the three of us everything from Maths to German. At the end of each school day we would gather around the grand piano in the refectory that was in the basement and we three little girls would loudly sing the religious hymns in German that the Schwester had taught us. On warm days the large basement windows facing the gardens would be thrown open and nuns walking by in their black and white habits would pop their heads through the opended windows smiling delighted at the sight of us singing.

After a couple of months, with the help of wonderful Schwester Margit paired with the fact that none of the children in our village spoke a word of English which forced us to practice our German, we were ready to attend the real School.

With one problem solved we were faced with the next; the issue of our belief. Schwester Vladimira, a Croat, who taught Religious Knowledge, had discovered that I was unable to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Horrified she had reported this straight to Mother Superior who being Hungarian, had said that she would take care of this.

In Austria boys and girls prepare for their First Holy Communion at school and the ceremony held in the town’s large church is celebrated with the entire class. Both my older sister Helen and I had missed this chance and so Mother Superior, taking matters into her own hands consulted the Bishop. Despite her persuasive arguments permission was denied, the Bishop declared that we had clearly not been brought up with God and were therefore not worthy to receive his flesh nor his blood.

When my mother, a good catholic girl, was informed of this she was outraged and requested an audience with the Bishop. Hearing the reason for his refusal, the fact that we hadn’t been taught the Lord’s Prayer, my mother had breathed a sigh of relief.

‘My daughters should have asked in which language they should recite the prayer, they know it in both English and Dutch. I will make sure that they now also learn it in German,‘ she told the Bishop.

Helen and I received our First Holy Communion on a Sunday morning in May at a private ceremony in The School’s chapel. The congregation consisted of my parents and one hundred nuns singing ‘Ave Maria’ as Helen and I walked down the aisle holding a candle each. My sister wore a pink Jackie-O suit and I wore the more traditional white dress, white gloves and a white lace veil. My sister looked beautiful and serene. I was missing two front teeth and with my veil constantly slipping and standing skew whiff on my head I probably was a sight for sore eyes, but walking  up to the altar of the chapel to receive my, first ever, holy communion I felt like a princess.