For a good while now I have not had much respect for politicians. The expenses scandal, the use of official cars to travel 100 yards, the nest feathering, claims for bathplugs, dog food and duck houses - all most off-putting. There are a few for whom I have some respect: Dennis Skinner, Jeremy Corbyn, Rachel Reeves and Jess Philips. These are all Labour MPs and I am a Labour Party member. Even so, I don't have a deal of time for many of the Labour MPs. As for the Tories, well... I'll explain another day, maybe.
I had never heard of Jo Cox until yesterday, when the news broke of a shooting and stabbing in Batley and Spen. A short while later the news came of her death. A woman aged 41, an MP who had worked for Oxfam, entered war zones and held the hands of women who had been gang raped and thus excluded and ostracised from their communities.
Jo Cox was a woman who didn't just express sorrow and regret as to what was happening in war torn countries; Jo Cox was a woman who actually went to those places with little regard for her own safety. Most of us, the vast majority, in fact, including myself, make sympathetic noises, may even be sufficiently moved as to make donation to a cause, safely ensconced in our own homes. Joe was different.
A local Batley girl, she was bright enough to gain a place at Cambridge University. Her time there was not the most comfortable, largely because not many people there had an accent like hers. I have personal experience of how an accent can affect those around you, those around you being best described as snobs. My son, a Sheffield lad through and through, was also bright enough to secure a place at a top ranking university - Oxford in his case. Initially, he was asked by fellow students to say the words, bus, path and stuff - and those listening would laugh and marvel at how northern he was. Later, and no longer in awe of their wealth and their 'poshness' he told those who asked to f... off.
Elected in 2015 as a Labour MP for the place in which she grew up, Jo achieved her dream of representing the people she knew and understood so well. It was these people and all disadvantaged people for whom she campaigned. She spoke her mind and was not cowed by the fact that she was relatively young, inexperienced, and spoke with a Yorkshire accent. I imagine that her love of climbing mountains, which she did 'to relax' is evidence of the measure of the woman.
The pictures, so recent, that are in my head are of her striding confidently, dressed in a blue jacket and red trousers. Another image I have stuck in my head from the recent coverage is of her speaking in the House of Commons, putting her point forcibly to those in attendance.
An image of my own creation is of Jo, husband Brendan and her 2 young children living on a houseboat in East London. She's putting them to bed, kissing them goodnight, relishing the feeling all of us experience when you know the children are safe and quiet, and you can enjoy whatever part of the evening remains, albeit it sometimes as little as 10 minutes.
Of course her husband will miss her terribly, but he is a man in his early 40s who can remarry. This is not intended to sound heartless, but in time, he will meet someone else. What I find so heart breaking about Jo's death is that she had to leave the children that she loved. Those 2 children will never know the ferocity, the protectiveness, the unconditional love a mother gives.
Time will tell what the motive for the murder was, but in many ways it is immaterial - Jo is dead. Perhaps what will come out of it is a gentler, more honest, more sensitive politics. Bt would even that be worth her life?
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