Madame Hamida

There was a funeral in the village yesterday. A lady had died the previous day and as I walked through the backstreets, I followed the mesmerising and haunting sounds of the Qoran being recited. The women were all walking in the direction of the deceased's home. As I walked discreetly behind them, their black abayah's flowed in the gentle evening breeze that arrives at sunset time. There is something powerful about the ladies here walking in groups. I had the pleasure of doing this once with my neighbours and the feeling was one of supremacy, control, safety and being untouchable.

The men gathered at the Mosque, sitting on the stone seats outside or standing in the street, forming a semi circle wall of bodies to encourage the men to go inside.

I felt I wanted to sit and listen to the Qoran, as it is magical to hear it being recited, but this would have been very wrong. So with the people behind me, I carried on and strained to hear the words as I turned into another street.

This is Madame Hamida, who sits all day everyday in her shop, selling crisps, sweets and cigarettes to her neighbours. As I sat and chatted with her, she encouraged me to sit down and rest.

She is large than life and without a smile can be a little intimidating, but this lady has been courteous to me for almost 6 years now. A smile came to my face, as the local children arrived on their bicycles and on foot with just 1le to spend at her shop. 'Ya Hamida' they called...it took me back to my days of being a child, when we used to walk down through the fields, to our village shop. Faced with countless jars of penny chews and traditional sweets, we would spend our 20p very wisely. It seems that nothing has changed .