Sixty-six year old Fatme, the mother of Wartha Najur, was busy herself in a makeshift cooking area, without roof but looks like a small cave which is an extension of a tent room when we came to their “house tent”. I approached and greeted her, “marhava” – hello and “saba elker” – good morning and she responded me with her broad smile and wel
coming nod. I looked into the big cauldron and smiled at her as she took a sip of the broth. She began to talk to me with sign language, but alas I could not understand. Then she pointed out to me what she was cooking and took some meat, showed to me and then pointed out to the tent-house of the sheep. I realized then she was cooking the meat of the sheep. Ola… I smiled to myself, surely this
would be our lunch. When she…
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