A cup of water!

It was a warm, sunny spring afternoon and a young child, beaming and covered liberally with evidence of his gardening activities, came into the kitchen.

‘Good gracious look at you! You’ve had fun, now take your shoes off and go and wash your hands before tea.’

‘I’ve been helping daddy plant some beans and then water them.’

‘It looks a bit more like playing mud pies to me!’

‘It was fun. Can I have a drink of juice please?’

‘Water is good enough if you are really thirsty – use your mug. It’s on the table. Don’t forget to turn the tap off in the basin - you mustn’t waste water, it costs money.’

‘My teacher says that we should always remember to turn the tap off and not waste water. Some people in other countries don’t have enough she says.’

The lecturer climbed out of her land-rover into the burning, dusty compound of the local Rest House. Tired, hot and sweaty she carried her bags of equipment up the wooden stairs to her room. It had been a very satisfying workshop but now all she wanted was a good shower. She took a long swig from a small water bottle, divested herself of the sticky clothes and began lathering herself in soap. Did she never learn – the spray turned to a trickle and the trickle to drips and finally even the drips stopped. With a mixture of dismay and frustration she wrapped a towel round her and went out onto the veranda. The only sign of life was a small school-boy crossing the compound. The lady called out asking if he could find any water. Sometime later there was a tentative knock on the door and there was the lad who had somehow found a small bowl of water.

Would the noise never cease - the whine of the shells, the crash of the explosions, the crumbling of the buildings and the shouting of the people just went on and on. It had been another long, loud, hot day and he was tired, hungry and very, very thirsty; all the little boy wanted was for it all just to stop. One of the two remaining rooms of his shattered home was crowded with family, relatives and some unknown men with scary eyes, and carrying guns. In the other lay the groaning casualties. Throughout there was a terrible stench of dirt, sweat, dried blood and suppurating wounds - the water having been cut off and the wells poisoned weeks ago. He must get away. He crept through a small hole in the wall, in the corner of the room and out into an alleyway. He was determined to get out into the fields and away from the noise. There was a lull in the bombardment.

Then the firing started again – followed by a loud shout, an awful scream. Men rushed out of the house despite the shells. Soon they returned, one sobbing and carrying a tiny form in his arms. A woman shrieked and wailed as the little boy was laid on a hastily made space on the floor. She stared at his shattered leg and his bloody body. He was deathly white and still. An unnatural silence filled the room – it was still possible to be shocked. The boy moved and his mother bent over him as he whispered, ‘Can I have a cup of water?’