Read this extract, and then answer the question that follows it: Seeing my father cry, seeing my mother moan and rock in Maiguru's arms, hearing Netsai cry in fear as well as in grief, and Rambanai, waking, whimper and whine, a little of my armour cracked. I was sad for them rather than anguished over any loss of mine, because my brother had become a stranger to me. I was not sorry that he had died, but I was sorry for him because, according to his standards, his life had been thoroughly worth living. 'There is nothing to be done,' my aunt was saying to my mother, 'except to bear the pain until it passes. You must endure the pain of his passing as you endured the pain of his coming.' 'I cannot endure it,' my mother moaned. ‘Maiguru, hold me. I too am going to die.' The body was fetched the next day from the mission and buried in the family burial ground beside my grandmother and other ancestors. After a decent length of time had passed, Babamukuru again raised the question of the emancipation of my father's branch of the family. ‘It is unfortunate', he said, 'that there is no male child to take this duty, to take this job of raising the family from hunger and need, Jeremiah.' 'It is as you say,' my father agreed. ‘Tambudzai's sharpness with her books is no use because in the end it will benefit strangers.' 'You are correct, Jeremiah', observed my uncle, 'but I will not feel that I have done my duty if I neglect the family for that reason. Er – this girl heyo, Tambudzai – must be given the opportunity to do what she can for the family before she goes into her husband's home.' 'Exactly!' agreed my father. 'She must be given the opportunity.' My mother was grief stricken when my father told her what he and Babamukuru had decided. 'You, Jeremiah,' she said, and she called him Jeremiah infrequently. 'You, Jeremiah, are you mad? Have you eaten some wild shrub that has gone to your head? I think so, otherwise how could you stand there and tell me to send my child to a place of death, the place where my first living child died! Today you are raving! She will not go. Unless you want me to die too. The anxiety will kill me. I will not let her go.' 'But what will she do?' persuaded my father. 'She has finished her Standard Three. Tell me, is there a Standard Four at Rutivi? Kuedza is too far to walk. Where will she do her Standard Four?' 'Don't try to make a fool out of me,' my mother retorted. 'Do you think I haven't heard that they are starting the Standard Four at that school? Enrol her at Rutivi, Jeremiah, because I am telling you, I will not let her go.' My father did not pursue the matter, but I went to the mission all the same. My mother's anxiety was real. In the week before I left she ate hardly anything, not for lack of trying, and when she was able to swallow something it lay heavy in her stomach. By the time I left she was so haggard and gaunt she could hardly walk to the fields, let alone work in them. 'Is Mother ill?' whispered Netsai, frightened. 'Is she going to die too?' Netsai was frightened. I, I was triumphant. Babamukuru had approved of my direction. I was vindicated! 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 [from Chapter 3]

1. How does Dangarembga make this moment so sad and yet so hopeful at the same time?[25]