"The road to the village of Parga possessed a beauty even the most battle-hardened soldier couldn't ignore. Built in between the mountains of Preveza and the beaches of Igoumenitsa, Parga was a kiss from Mother Nature, a delightful mix of snow and sun, especially during the winter when the sun lit up the carpets of snow in a fiery glow. Pleasure-seekers from all over Europe found Nirvana here. Residents found their roots here and innkeepers found a steady source of income from the regular flow of daily visitors.

But Parga's flow of visitors had recently been staunched by the tourniquet of war. The Souliotes were engaged against Ali Pasha, the local Ottoman ruler and Parga was not only next door to the Souliot state but served as their supply hub.

For months, the villagers observed with bated breath as the Souliotes battled fiercely through every euphoric victory and every debilitating defeat, until the news filtered back to them that a treaty had been signed. The Souliotes were retreating, surrendering their last military strongholds in exchange for a peaceful relocation to their homes. Souliotes all over the region of Epirus rejoiced. Their warrior men and women were coming home. They hadn't won the war, it was one they couldn't win but they had flown their colours proudly and would not be destroyed. They had a future.

Then one night it snowed.

Not so light that the road was wet.

Not so heavy that the road was impassable.

Just enough snow to soak up the blood spilled in the night. Strewn all over the scene were the perforated bodies of Souliot men and women and Ottoman soldiers engaged in bayoneting the wounded and securing the captured. 153 men and women were captured, 53 were dead. In an act of bravery not uncommon to the Souliotes, 28 of the dead chose to die by their hand when defeat became inevitable. But that's not what's important. What you need to know by now is that the Ottoman army had betrayed the treaty and were marching on Souliot villages to capture and enslave the Souliotes.

Understood? Good.

Meanwhile there was panic in Parga for they had heard the news from the ones who escaped in time. Nursing mothers and the aged cursed the hour Ali Pasha was conceived as they packed up their essentials and fled for the safety of the mountains of Zalongo.

Then the Ottomans came, big, armoured men on horseback. They searched Parga for their prey but found the town empty. Then they looked to the mountain and their eyes latched on their prey, the last group of fleeing Souliotes. They were about fifty in number, all women. Some had children and grandchildren, others were barely adults themselves. The Ottomans, having caught the scent of the hare, reared back their horses and charged for their prey, as mindless as hounds after the smell of blood. The women redoubled their efforts to scale the mountain to safety but they were too late.

The Ottomans were coming. And they were trapped.

What could they do? They could never go back and there was no way to get to safety in time. And their window of decision was closing fast for the Ottomans were coming.

Then... out of despair came resolution. Someone in the group started a well-known song, then another voice picked it up, then a pair of hands started clapping. In seconds, the women were dancing, singing, jumping and clapping. As they clapped and sang, they edged closer and closer.

When the nearest woman threw her two month old baby over the precipice to the jagged floor four hundred feet below, the music didn't stop; the women didn't recoil in horror. Instead they made way for another who threw her six year old girl, then another who threw her two year old boy. And on and on and on. When the children had all been thrown, they too jumped off the precipice, their beat never changing, their smiles and claps never ceasing.

By the time the Ottomans reached the precipice, there was no one alive to be seen. They were all free."

***

"Mother... That was a nice story." Falmata, a twelve year old Kanuri girl and the audience of the tale above beamed at her mother, Maida, who smiled back. Her bright smile and smooth, tawny skin had made her a local beauty back in her village. Even now, in their dreary surroundings, Maida still commanded attention. And Falmata had inherited all of her mother's beauty and grace,

"Did it really happen, mother? Did the Souliot women really kill themselves?" Falmata asked, a curious look in her eyes.

"Everything I said that happened, happened. Now keep your voice down." Maida glanced around nervously, her ears picking up the sound of boots on sand. She waited for the sound to recede before exhaling a shaky breath. Her daughter was speaking Kanuri, an expressly forbidden language in the camp. She had tried to encourage Falmata's interest in Hausa but all attempts had proven abortive. Falmata had simply refused to learn, insisting on speaking the language she grew up with.

"Why should we stop speaking Kanuri so that those creatures will leave us alone?" She'd defended her position with the very stubbornness Maida had trained her to wield against all wrongdoing. The very stubbornness Maida wielded like a mace when she was younger and full of hope. When she still had a village, a home and a husband who loved her fiercely.

"And the children? The children died too?" Falmata's eyes were like plates, they revealed her complete disbelief and nearly took up her entire face.

"Everything I said happened, Ata, it happened."

Falmata exclaimed in shock and clapped once.

"Why would they do that? Kill themselves and their children?" She demanded to know, her indignation apparent.

Maida smiled sadly.

"They had no choice, Ata. It was either they killed themselves before the Ottomans got there or live the rest of their lives as slaves. What would you have had them do?

"Fight, mother. Fight until they all died."

"And their children will do what?" Maida laughed. Falmata looked crestfallen for a second, before recovering.

"Fine then. But they should have taken the warrior's route. It's only a coward who seeks fame by undertaking meaningless suicide."

"Meaningless suicide? What do you know, you this child?"

"Yes, mother. Meaningless suicide." Falmata was on a roll, her nose flared and an argumentative lift in her voice.

"What was meaningless about their impossible choice? It was a slap in the face of their oppressor, a blow for women worldwide who face oppression," Maida said.

"Would it not have been a better blow for women if the Souliotes had fought and died bravely? I thought these people were warriors."

Maida froze, a pained look on her face.

Falmata noticed.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, mother." She said, "I can be too talkative at times."

"It's alright, Ata."

It is not alright, Maida thought. There was so much she wanted to share with her daughter. So much that had happened in the many weeks they'd been held at the camp. She wanted to unburden her fears, her disappointment in herself. Everything Falmata had become, the warrior she professed to be, it had come out of her teachings and her husband's guidance. Maida was a warrior in her own right, a recognized fighter in her village. When the borehole had broken, it was she who pestered the local government until they sent workmen to fix it.

You had a village and a husband who loved you fiercely.

Yes, I did.

When the army came and she and other villagers had welcomed the soldiers, believing them to be saviours from the terrorists and then they began rounding everyone up and killing all who resisted, she fought then.

When her husband was shot dead in front of her and her child, she fought then.

When she was dragged kicking and screaming into a lorry and shuttled off to Rann, she fought then.

When she was faced with unwanted advances, casual threats and propositions from the soldiers and aid workers, she fought then.

Until the hunger set in.

Yes, and then Falmata fell ill.

She was left with no choice then, wasn't she? The army commander openly admired her beauty and youthful body and had told her so on several occasions. All she had to do was please him and she would receive anything she wanted. Anything she wanted...

Food and medicine.

Yes. She needed to save Falmata.

But you sold yourself to the enemy. You kept telling yourself that it was a one-time thing, for Falmata. So why did you keep going back to his tent whenever food ran out?

I...

You are a warrior no more, Maida. What would Falmata think?

The question threw Maida off-balance. She told her daughter the story of the Souliots in order to teach her a lesson. She wanted to open up the canister of raw emotions she'd sealed inside her soul, to talk to her daughter about the turmoil inside her as warrior raged against sheep. And how she could not help but feel a sense of betrayal every single time the commander collapsed his body on top of her, his passions fully spent. Every time food was generously pushed into her hands whenever he recovered.

But she took one look at her daughter's features. At her smooth, long neck and her full, brown lips. And she knew the truth. Whatever sheep traits Maida possessed, Falmata had inherited none of it. It was her father's spirit that dwelt within her. A warrior. Maida knew what she would say if she knew. That the medicine saved her life would mean nothing to her. 

So she didn't speak of it. Instead she smiled and rose to her feet, smoothing out her dress.

"When the Ottomans got to the precipice, they looked over the edge and saw two children, still alive," Maida said, aware she had Falmata's full attention.

"They were the last to jump and the corpses of their mothers cushioned their fall. The Ottomans captured and made slaves out of those children. You can make whatever insinuations you want. But think on this, Ata. If a living dog is better than a dead lion, doesn't a living coward have more hope than a dead warrior?" Maida opened the tent and made to step out.

"How, mother?" Falmata asked, just before her mother disappeared from sight.

"Life, my daughter. Every second of life brings new chances...for a coward to relearn the ways of a warrior. Now think on that, Ata. I need to get us food." And with that, Maida left. Her thoughts churned as warrior faced off against sheep once again. Her brain warned her to watch her step but her feet knew the way to the commander's tent already.

The warrior, defeated, wept in a corner as the sheep trotted round the circle, victorious. Maida smiled sadly as she opened the commander's tent. She wondered what would happen if the warrior finally won. Would she kill him, lead a revolt, report to Amnesty International? Perhaps one day, she would finally gather the courage to act like Ata would.

But none of that mattered right now. Right now, there was no food at home.

Perhaps one day, Ata would understand.