The White Knight

Some years ago I found myself in the Balkans. It was just after the ethnic war had taken place.

Gainfully employed as a civilian camp follower and by any standards well remunerated I found it difficult adapting to the peculiar way of life that camp followers the world over know and accept. Being amidst what was an apparent and very real hostile environment makes for copious excesses. You name it; all the vices are buried just over the surface.

Being at that time on a ‘spiritual’ quest I decided some charitable efforts might not go amiss. Where to start was the problem.

It was Christmas and I was feeling sorry for myself. I missed the role play of being a jolly fat man in a red suit.

Scanning the military propaganda I discovered some small but effective works being reported. I read of a mother and three little girls squatting in a fire bombed house furnished only with destitution. Hopelessness was every page of their festive calendar.
And so with chocolate and teddy bears I learned the true meaning of the word humility.

It’s difficult to describe how this Santa felt knowing how far off the mark his gifts were.
Sure baubles and trinkets are a lovely idea but when you have nothing to eat bread and milk is a better proposition than cocoa solids and stuffed animals. What’s more the mother sent her oldest child, a sprightly twelve year old, to a neighbor to see if she could borrow a cup and some coffee to entertain this crumbling ho-ho-ho merchant standing in front of her. I may add the neighbor’s home was some way off through a minefield.

The middle child was eight years old, had lost an eye to cancer in her earlier years and was now struggling to keep the other. With no water or electricity cross infection was not only possible but probable. The family survived weekly on the price of a cup of western world coffee; the cost of her daughter’s sight would be fifteen years savings if the children didn’t eat.

I’m not going to blow my trumpet on this one folks. It’s a bit too personal and I choke up when I think back on those times.

Only one thing needs saying. Today the family are all fine. Mum has a job. They live in a fully serviced home in a pleasant part of town.

The oldest is married. The youngest is an imp and Brana, the lovely girl who melted my heart is a happy and vivacious teenager with as bright and clear an eye as I’ve ever seen in any human being.

Moral of this story.

Even the King of the Jungle is just a big pussy cat. If the price is right he will roll over and let you tickle his tummy.

And to those of you who wish to complain about the price of petrol, ‘piss off’ and get a life.