A Christmas Gift

13th December 
There is no instruction manual for life. And life is full of cares and woes- for all of us, without exception.

Especially if you live in a part of the world where even food, clean water and safe shelter is scarce, and money even scarcer.

And yet it is the very people who have nothing, who often seem to be the happiest and most generous. Those of us who have most, often give nothing- not even the time of day.

My wife is a homelessness housing officer for the local council. You would not believe how busy she is, even if I told you-especially in the run-up to Christmas. Mostly young people, falling out with their parents.

At the age of twenty, I worked in a Youth Hostel, in Amsterdam. A den of iniquity if ever there was one.
Not only did the place cater for the casual traveller, at a very reasonable price; it also housed refugees, from all parts of the globe. People seeking asylum.
Through all the media hype about ‘Asylum seekers’ these days, even I began to think they must be inherently bad.
But the ones I knew, were just like you and me. Some were my age and some much older.
Iranians, Ghanaians, Albanians- you name it- they came in numbers.
Each had the customs and peculiarities of their country of origin.

“Give me bread!” ordered a large man from Ghana. With a face like thunder and voice to match.
This offended my polite Englishness and I point-blank refused to hand it over- like a stubborn child who doesn’t want to go shopping in Tesco. You could have cajoled, bribed or tried to drag me by the trouser leg but I wouldn’t have budged.
“We say pleeeassse over here.” I replied, thinking for a moment I was back in Blighty and not the Netherlands where, in fact, they are rather brusque.
“Give me bread!” He demanded again, the same as before.
If you can guess my reply, then you will know that this verbal game of table-tennis, developed into a considerable rally.

A large queue of Iranian men- holding hands- as is their custom; developed behind Mr Ghana.
At last, I sensed how silly I was being, and reached for four slices of buttered bread. In that moment Mr Ghana said, “Please give me bread,” a huge, broad smile, exposing his teeth; As if a ray of sunshine, glinted off some shiny object.
I couldn’t help but grin back, as I handed over the bread.
In that moment, we started a friendship of mutual respect and understanding.
The Iranians, following his cue, proceeded to ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to excess, thinking this was the password to the bank of food behind the service counter. I asked them not to overdo it, and asked how to be polite in their own language. I still remember it; (Please ignore the spelling as I don’t actually speak the language)
“Chimi- gholi?” – what would you like to eat?
“Chimi- nooshi?- what would you like to drink?

-and more humorously; ‘Chera, chop-chop- negamaconi?’ why are you looking at me left-left? (Giving me a funny look) At least- that’s what they told me!

Robert, was from Eastern Europe. About fifty years of age, he had one of those, lived-in faces. Craggy from a hard life, but smiling eyes. A bit like a cross between Sid James and Gandalf.

He was given the job as cleaner and I would see him most days, mop in hand, cleaning the well-trampled floors. He was anonymous- not the focus of our activities at the Eben Haezer youth hostel.
I always stopped to speak to him. He didn’t ever say much. He was a quiet soul, and humble too, but always made me feel special when he said anything to me. I wish I had asked what job he did, in his country of origin, or whether he had any family there. Who knows?
On that day- that special day- I received the best gift I had, and have ever received- at least, of the worldly kind.
Robert only received ‘pocket money’ in exchange for his labour and a roof over his head. It was his day off.
As I finished work, I signed out at reception in a large ledger.
Robert burst through the double doors, with a big smile on his face.
Perhaps he had had a bit of luck on the horses- I thought, having no idea what he did on his days off.
He carried a book, and made a bee-line for me. Thrusting it into my hand, he said; “This is for you. It is really good book. I know this writer in my own language and I think you like it.”
I looked at the front cover; The Bourne Identity, by Robert Ludlum.
For those unfamiliar with it- It is about a government sponsored assassin, who was struggling to find his place in the world-where he fitted in – His identity.
It is for this reason- I love the series of books and the films. Forget Bond- I’ll take Bourne every time.

A few days later Robert, uncharacteristically, failed to appear at work. I asked where he was.
His papers were not in order, and the immigration police had come looking. I never saw him again.

As I go Christmas shopping in Exeter today, I’ll look at all the homeless people on the street in a different light. Any one of them could be Robert; or you, or me.

Dedicated to Robert- wherever he may be. 2016