About Arsema Dawit
The body of murdered London schoolgirl Arsema Dawit was taken back to her African family and buried in a heartbreaking ceremony on an ancient hillside where thousands came to weep and pray.
Women sobbed openly and Arsema's distraught father collapsed with grief as his daughter was lowered into her grave.
In this setting of almost biblical simplicity - cattle and donkeys wandered through the eucalyptus trees as four Orthodox priests intoned the requiem - one question was on everyone's lips.
How did this much-loved girl, torn from her roots to escape a cruel military regime in Eritrea, come to die horrifically in England, the country that had promised her a life of peace and safety?
Arsema, 15, was taken to Britain by her mother five years ago.
If she had stayed in Eritrea she would have been drafted into the military during her last year at school, trained in arms and explosives and sent indefinitely to frontline trenches on the country's borders.
Her brother Robel, 14, and sister Feruz, 12, would have come in for the same treatment.
Their mother Tsehainesh, a former soldier herself, made the agonising decision to flee.
She left behind her husband, who is trapped in the military. But on June 5 this year Arsema was stabbed to death in the lift of the block of flats in Lambeth, South London, where the family had been allocated a home as asylum seekers.
Police had been told she was being stalked by a man obsessed with her, but had taken no action.
Eritrean student Thomas Nugusse, 21, has since been charged with her murder and remanded to appear at the Old Bailey on August 21.
Last Tuesday, outside the simple village church at Adiaklom, 15 miles south of the Eritrean capital Asmara, a sudden gust of wind sent loose earth and stones swirling around Arsema's grave.
Preachers held back a knot of near-hysterical women pressing forward for a last glimpse of the coffin, Arsema's slender body lying inside wrapped in a cream-coloured shroud.
Crying bewildered tears, the women whispered behind traditional white funeral shawls, exchanging the few details they had gleaned about her death.
The Orthodox priests' gaudy garments of pink and green were the only splashes of colour.
It is incredible to people here that Britain was not able to protect Arsema - that instead of finding safety she suffered a bloody death at the hands of a knife-wielding maniac in broad daylight.
Despite their own country being riven by years of war, they cannot understand how the British police force - an institution in which they trusted - was not able to prevent her becoming a tragic victim for the second time in her short life.
More than 30,000 displaced Eritreans now live in Britain, most of them granted asylum on the grounds of their certain fate as cannon fodder.
Border conflicts with Ethiopia mean that a paranoid government spends all its money on the military, commits all of its young people to a lifetime of fighting and has no economic development.
There are no exports, no foreign exchange or investment, no outside aid allowed, no opposition parties and no independent media.
Unemployment is rife and there are no welfare benefits. This is a police state despite the hundreds of millions of pounds of foreign aid it has received in the past.
By contrast, Eritreans imagine life in Britain as the ultimate dream - freedom, jobs, affluence and safety.
Yet in this tiny country of just three million people perched on the Horn of Africa, two important and palpable strengths survive that Britain has already lost - unassailable law and order and intact family values.
Here, the extended family is the undisputed bedrock of daily life. A harsh dictatorship may run the government, but the matriarchs rule the home.
Teenage girls such as Arsema have their school duties, domestic duties and church duties.
They walk safe streets and all their friends are known to their parents.
Children of all ages play outside until after dark in the warm evenings and the crime rate is minimal.
Adolescent girls may not spend time alone with boys, and young people meet in groups at coffee shops and parties.
Male family members protect the honour of single females, and any teenage romances must be conducted in the open.
Courtesy, respect and obedience are the norm - all values taught at home.
Older Eritreans say they learned how to live this way from the British, who ruled the country as a protectorate until 1952 when a botched UN commission left it unhappily federated with Ethiopia.
Ten years later, the Ethiopian leader Haile Selassie declared Eritrea to be a province of his country.
A fierce 30-year liberation war broke out in which women famously fought alongside men in the trenches and in which hundreds of thousands died.
The resolute Eritreans won independence and their president, Isaias Afwerki, was embraced as the people's hero. But within a few years the country was broken and Afwerki started to resemble that other liberation hero turned tyrant, Robert Mugabe.
Afwerki has totally militarised his people, with men such as Arsema's father, Dawit Hayle, losing their entire youth to the struggle and living a harsh life in barracks, deprived of their families.
They don't want to see their sons and daughters sacrificed in the same way. They believe Britain owes their children a chance of freedom.
Last Monday, Dawit, a thick-set man in his mid-40s with a soldier's muscular physique, looked steeped in sorrow as he presided over a gathering of family mourners at his sister's home in a suburb of Asmara.
Surrounded by weeping relatives, he greeted everyone who came to the house, inviting them into the makeshift funeral parlour filled with flowers and wreaths.
Women were busy making tea and offering sweetmeats to visitors.
Later that night, he would spend time alone with the body of his daughter, flown in from London at his insistence to be buried beside his ancestors.
He would weep at the sight of her beautiful, unmarked face - her fatal wounds not visible to him - and cry repeatedly: 'Why? Why? Why?'
Speaking softly and close to tears, he recalled the painful way he heard of Arsema's death: 'In our culture, the news of a family death cannot be told in a phone call.
Relatives must be called together to break it gently to the person concerned.
'So when I was told there was a call to my barracks about my eldest daughter being ill, I was suspicious.
I was told to get to Asmara, to my sister's home - that Arsema would be brought there because she was sick and needed our traditional ways of healing.
I knew something was terribly wrong. This form of deception is meant as a kindness, but it strikes a dagger into your heart. You know something worse awaits you.
'I had not seen my lovely daughter for five years. Her mother and my other two children were with her in London in safety, away from our hard life where boys and girls must join the military.
' My heart was broken in two when I heard the truth - that Arsema was dead. My little girl, who ran to me all those times I came home on leave, who never left my side once I was home and who cried heartbreaking tears every time I left.'
His memories of Arsema are of a small, solemn child who did well at school and had a lovely singing voice.
In recent years, she was a member of the choir at St Michael's Church in Camberwell, near her London home.
Dawit and Tsehainesh met and married in the field of conflict, in a service conducted by officers of Eritrean's Patriotic Liberation Front.
He was detained on the front line while she was given a government job in transport logistics.
They decided to start a family but were only ever together during Dawit's 30 days' annual leave from the army.
'When my wife became determined to take them all to England I was filled with sadness,' he said. 'But we hoped one day to be together again.
'In Eritrea, a man must remain at his patriotic duty until the government allows him to go back to his family.
'That time is a long way off for me. I knew my wife was right to leave, but it was hard to accept.'
Even harder was the fact that his wife could not accompany their daughter's body to Eritrea for the funeral.
As an asylum seeker in Britain, Tsehainesh may not have been allowed back into the country.
According to Eritrean culture, the rituals of mourning must be over before any bitter truths are told.
So Dawit was left questioning how his child had died and, getting no answers from the family, used the internet to come face to face with the stark facts that now haunt him.
'In our way of life, we deal with these things differently,' he said. 'We cannot allow one person to cause loss and suffering, not only to a victim of violence but also to his or her family and friends.
'We believe in an eye for an eye. An equivalent member of the perpetrator's family must be killed, or the family must negotiate for that not to happen.
'They will agree to pay for the victim's funeral, for the goats and sheep to be slaughtered for the feast and for an amount of money to be paid in recompense for the lost life.
'If this is not done, a judge will try to resolve the matter. If he fails, then the family can expect retribution.'
What compounds the horror of Arsema's death for her family and friends is that it is one of their own countrymen who has been charged with her murder.
One woman mourner confided between racking sobs: 'Here in our home community everything is known to the family.
'It would have been impossible for a young man to have become obsessed with a girl and follow her around the streets.
'The men in his family, and the older matriarchal figures, would have reasoned with him - and, yes, punished him if necessary. We hoped for better things from England.'
Arsema's father cannot comprehend the British system of dealing with the perpetrator in virtual isolation from the victim's family, with no means of vengeance.
He said: 'I feel great sorrow, a burden no father of a young child should have to feel.
'We believed our children would have a fine English education and find careers. They would one day support us, as all dutiful Eritrean adult children do.'
Once his compassionate leave from the army is over, Dawit will travel back to the front line, where UN peace-keepers patrol a no-go area between Eritrea and Ethiopia while internationally recognised border lines are being drawn up.
There he will wait for the next chapter in his personal tragedy - news from the murder trial in August.