On the plateau a file of women, all in black, war widows waiting to be given tea, bread and rice from two men in a pickup truck. The men spoke hoarsely, scurrying them on, found their work shameful, would rather have been up on the mountain fighting, thought the women superfluous. They had given birth to sons who now fought in war and to daughters married to warriors on the mountain. The women didn’t look the men in the eyes, spoke softly and briefly amongst themselves about the health of their grandchildren. They had miles to walk back down to meagre soil and skinny goats.
