The Ravine

Fiona Pitt-Kethley

For nearly two years, we have lived in Orihuela Costa, on the Costa Blanca in Spain, among a cocktail of nationalities. Last September, when my son was celebrating his seventh birthday, his Dutch friends brought round a girl from the next road who looked Malaysian. She stayed and had a slice of cake. Her older sisters who came to collect her were introduced as Norwegians. I later learned that their mother was from Kuala Lumpur and their father from Iran, but the family – they were called Bigdely – had become Norwegian citizens and lived there for years. Now they were making a new life in Spain.

On 2 April, Shila Bigdely, the oldest girl, was murdered on her way to school. She was rushing down the road because she was late. The clocks had gone forward that week, which meant she had to cover a very short distance in the dark to catch the bus to San Miguel, a few miles away. There are good lights on the road but occasionally they don’t work. I was mugged further down Calle Nicolas de Bussi (named after a local sculptor of religious images) the year before, when a gang took advantage of the darkness.

Vol. 26 No. 10 · 20 May 2004 » Fiona Pitt-Kethley » The Ravine (print version)
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