She’s pointing at a picture. Squatting beside her, I look at it in the grey evening light. It is of a man, not old, not young, wearing a red T-shirt that shows his powerful arm muscles. He is surrounded by what look like paintings, with lots of black and grey and red and orange, except that they seem to have other things stuck on to the paint – chips of stone, bits of barbed wire, curls of wood. They have an angry look about them, but the man himself looks calm and strong.