My heart sank as I saw them down the dusty trail, picking their way past smouldering, armoured vehicles. A man and a woman set against skies blackened from billowing oil fires. Normally strangers on this road provoked feelings of uneasiness, but this couple provoked in me a dread greater than any I had yet encountered, a horror greater than any bullet or bomb – they came armed with a baby. The baby’s legs dangled limply as the woman proffered it at arm’s length, like a white flag. As they approached the man made a drinking gesture and pointed at the baby. Like so many others, it was ill for lack of clean water. The woman was veiled but up close her eyes told me all that I needed to know. Desperation, fear and hope all welled up in her dark eyes.

At that moment, I was truly a stranger in a strange land. Furthermore, I was a stranger confronted with a baby. I still do not know the first thing about babies, let alone ill babies. I subconsciously fingered my rifle as I looked at the listless child. Fully loaded rifle: 12 lbs. Undernourished baby: 12 lbs. Rifle: oiled and in full working order. Baby: dehydrated and malfunctioning. Price of rifle: about £400. Price of life for a baby: my water.

But in this arid land my water was precious – I wouldn’t have any more for a while. It was 30 degrees but the sun suddenly seemed hotter. I could feel the sweat trickling down my back under my body armour. With each rolling drop I resented the child more for unwittingly presenting me with an awful dilemma. My water bottle weighed on my hip like a guilty secret.
Deep down, however, only one answer. I pulled out my water bottle added a sachet of electrolites and handed it over. The father took it and, for a moment, as we both held the bottle, we were connected. He smiled and placed his hand on his heart. And in that moment, that clash of civilizations, I discerned hope – hope for the child and just maybe hope for the future.