For Love of Country : Military Policewoman www.silvaredigonda.ca and Amazon

We were not in the Middle East long when we learned through the grapevine that two Canadian soldiers were being returned home. This was because one was of Egyptian background and the other Israeli. We were stunned. They were Canadians. I approached them as others did to offer them support and tell them how bad we felt for them and recognized them as Canadian soldiers who should remain. They were like so many of us who had various backgrounds. I never did get used to the women covered completely and walking behind their men. Not all women did that and they said it was religion, but I had a problem believing it was not something more. Time passed rapidly in the desert. Though everyone spoke English, some did so in a limited fashion. I became afraid that my own grammar would diminish, as I had to keep my language simple to be understood. I was afraid that after six months I would continue to speak this way when I returned home. During my first ten days I worked all except one, when I went to Tel Aviv. I worked exclusively with the Dutch Police. Their method of work is entirely different from our own. At least it was in that situation. I spent my first day with Luke examining various report forms. The Sgt Major later informed me that we have over 500 various types of forms or reports. I would never again complain about Canadian paper work. Apparently this was a MFO requirement and not the Dutch way either. When I first spoke to the Colonel he informed me that we had a variety of cases: suicide, homicide and sexual incidents. One of the Dutch military police asked me to guess the age of an Egyptian man. I guessed forties, maybe early fifties. I was surprised that he was in his twenties. The harshness of the sun had drained his youth. His skin, parched with the dryness, seemed baked into place. I was sitting at the station and some Italian officers came to visit. I made coffee and told them how the Dutch didn’t like my coffee. I spoke to them in Italian, grateful that I could practice speaking it. They were quite sympathetic, assuring me that my coffee would be wonderful. As they drank, they spit it out simultaneously, forgetting their manners. "

This is dishwater!” one exclaimed. The moment of truth had come and I must have looked quite offended because they immediately tried to take back what was said though they did not drink any more of my coffee. One of the Dutch policemen made another pot for them. Excerpt From: Silva Redigonda. “For love of country : military policewoman. www.silvaredigonda.ca and Amazon