Fr. Owen O’ Leary reports on a happy reunion in Myanmar.

As we approached Myitkyina my mind went back 35 years to the night I first arrived there. Seven years later I said a dad farewell to Burma, today called Myanmar as the new regime began to force us out of the country. Now in 1994 a group of us Columbans who had formerly worked there were returning on a visit at the invitation of Bishop Paul Grawng. With Sr. Doreothea Byrne, now in Korea, Fr. Paddy Conneally from Australia, Michael Healy and Cyril Murphy from Japan and Mick Healy from London I was traveling back for the Episcopal ordination of Fr. Philip Za Hwang.

The years had passed but the friendships had not been forgotten. As we drove through rice fields and dusty roads to visit again the villages and hill communities where so many Columbans had worked there were crowds to welcome us with garlands and flowers, music and gifts. We soon became experts again in dancing the Manau, the traditional Kachin dance. Many years ago some eyebrows were raised when Bishop John Howe gave this his blessing as part of Christian celebration. Today one finds it as a vibrant part of so many occasions.

The ordination was an impressive and joyful occasion. About 12,000 people turned up from far and near for the outdoor celebration. Things like this don’t happen too often so the people were going to get full value out of the event. Celebrations were planned for several days. When I say people arrived from far and near I mean just that. One group of 25 new Christians walked for 12 days from their mountain village to the down of Poutau, still a long way from Myitkyina. The has every intention of completing the journey but when the organizers of the ordination heard about then they sent then a present plane tickets fir the last 200 miles. The newly ordained bishop a man much loved by the people got a rousing start to his Episcopal career.

On the night of the ordination, as on many nights during our time in Burma there was music, song and dance. One group actually danced a twelve-hand reel learned from Fr. Tom Dowling over forty years ago. Memories of the last time I saw Tom floated back to me. It was when himself, Bob O’Rourke and I were making arrangements for the burial if Fr. John Walshe, murdered by bandits and buried in a shallow gave.

The celebrations continued and broadened their scope. There were reunions and exhibitions, candlelight processions and lunches for the Buddhist priests and local authorities. Finally two young local priests were ordained.

For us it was a joy to participate for a few days in a church that was alive and thriving in spite of so many obstacles.  The Columbans had been asked to work among the Kachins in 1936 and they worked there until 1979 when it was no longer possible to continue. Under the leadership of Bishop Howe great emphasis had been placed on the building up of a strong local church. Today that church flourishes with its own bishops, priests, sisters, brothers and above all, a laity that is inspiring in its commitment and enthusiasm. In many ways it is a dream fulfilled.

As a people they have suffered much in the drawn out conflict between the military regime and the Indigenous peoples. On the national general elections in 1990 the main opposition party won a landslide victory but the military did not step aside and today continue to rule the country by decree.

For 33 years a group of Columbans missionaries had worked in this corner of South East Asia. As our visit ended we felt happy that what had begun as a worked of hope - the foundation of a vibrant local church - had within a short time become a visible reality.

By: Fr. Paul Richardson

Columban Mission

About seven years ago, I was drinking coffee in a small coffee shop in a section of the town of Hinoba-an in Negros that is known as Dancalan Beach. Formerly, the area was almost completely Catholic, but over the years many of the people there have left the church to join a Filipino church known as the Iglesia ni Kristo (Church of Christ). Members of this church are extremely conservative, very anti-communist, and during the Marcos era, they were very supportive of his government. Almost invariably, these people tend to be very critical of the Catholic Church, especially of its social action programme. While I was drinking my coffee, a young boy accompanied by his friend came and sat down at the end of the table where I was seated, and I took their photo. The boy’s name was Jerry and both of his parents were members of the Iglesia ni Kristo, at the time that I took his picture, Jerry was carrying a home-made wooden toy armalite rifle. Looking again at the photo and recalling this incident seven years later, I wandered about the young man he has become. If I were able to locate him, this is the letter I would like to send him...

Dear Jerry,

My name is Fr. Richardson and I doubt very much if you will remember me. Several years ago, I took a photo of you and one of your friends in a coffee shop in Dancalan Beach. You must have been about nine or ten years old then, so now I guess you must be nearly 16 or 17.

Being a teenager is never easy, since it is a time of great changes for the person concerned and a time when he or she has to make a lot of important decisions. It is also a time when a young boy or girl forms opinions about life and about other people, and sometimes these opinions remain with that person for the rest of his life. So, I hope that you will forgive me if I write you this letter and discuss a topic that is very important to me, and which I hope, after you have read my letter, will also be very important to you.

That topic is the matter of your toy gun. Not that the gun in itself capable of hurting anyone, but simply because of what it symbolized or what it meant to others. Guns, except when some are made to destroy the place where the people live and work if there is an enemy hiding there and, of course they are used to kill.

Well, judging from all the time and care that you put into designing and carving your toy gun, someone, perhaps one of your family, must have convinced you that there is a positive value owning and using a gun. And of course they have a point there. Some people do use guns to move up the social ladder, to rob people of their possession and, in the case of some landowners and politician, to force people to do what they want then to do or even to vote for them.

I am sure that you must realize that forcing people to do anything or taking away the things that they desperately need is not just. Nor is it something  that we would normally expect of a person who is serious  about his business of Christianity. It is here that I would like to tell  you something about what it means to be a Catholic priest.

You know, it was not so long ago that one of my parishioners, a good Catholic (at least that’s the way she looks at it) said to me: “Father, I hope that you won’t be surprised if many of us stop supporting the Church or even other churches like the Iglesia. Because, you see if you continue to work for the same programme as the NPA (New People’s Army), then you must be a Communist too, and we don’t want our priests to be Communists.”

Now, that’s a pretty heavy settlement, Jerry, and of course, it just isn’t true. Whether people are Communist or not, or even if they are just rich or poor, they need a decent place to live, clothes to wear when they are cold, food to eat and medicine and medical care when they become sick. While it is true that programs to provide all of these things are part of what the New People’s Army in the mountains of Negros believe in for a priest to support these programs doesn’t mean that he is necessarily a Communist. In fact, any priest or lay person who believes in this kind of a program may be a lot closer to the Church and the Kingdom of God than a lot of people realize.

The reason of this is that all of these things are a real part of what it means to be a Christian. The place where we differ from the Communist in all this is in how we decide to go about making these things a reality.

The Communists say that you can only bring these programs about using force and violence. We Christians say that one way or the other we must convince the people, both our enemies and our friends alike that sharing what we have whether wealth or power or our own abilities, with those in need is a fundamental part of Christianity and therefore the type of thing that can never be neglected by anyone who says he is a Christian.

So, Jerry, it is my prayer that your need to carry a gun as a young boy will not remain a real part of your life as you cross the threshold into manhood. At least, I hope not. And that is the reason I have written this that they will have to wait until I write to the next time.

Very sincerely yours,

Fr. Paul Richardson
        Columban Mission 
November 1994

By: Fr. Neil Collins

A couple of years ago, I spent a week in Pakistan, visiting our three Filipina Lay missionaries: Pilar Tilos, Emma Pabera, and Gloria Canama. As the Columban lay mission co-coordinator for the Mindanao in the Philippines, the experience was invaluable for me. It has coloured all I’ve said and done since.

First Impression
My first impression of Lahore, where Emma and Pilar worked, was formed on a night drive through streets packed with cars, buses, weaving motorcycle, bicycles and wagons hauled by oxen or buffaloes. I admired the skill and the coolness of our driver, Fr. Mike Gormly. But I remember even more the driver of a tricycle who gave us directions, and then followed to make sure we didn’t get lost. Such courtesy was one of the constant themes of my visit.

Filipino Meal
The lay missionaries had prepared a Filipino meal to welcome us. For me, after living in the Philippines for ten years, it was like coming home.

Cricket
In the morning I realized I was far from the Philippines. I awoke puzzled by a thump, thump, and the sound of the children’s voices coming from down stairs. It turned out that a game of creckit is being played againsts the front door. That was another of the constant, creckit in the streets, on every patch of dusty, waste ground, everywhere. At the time the Pakistanis were the world cricket champions and every boy seemed to see himself playing on the national team.

Women Only
As it was a Sunday, we went to Shadbagh parish where Mass was celebrated. Emma and Pilar went off to speak to and organize some meetings. I took off my shoes and went inside. I found a space near the back of the hall which is almost full. Something was bothering me, but it was only when Pilar came to rescue me that I realized that I was sitting on the women’s side. When I saw at least half the Congregation were men and boys, I was impressed.

Only Crawling
Emma told me she gets letters from home, asking, “What are you doing there? Why aren’t you here where the action is?” I think she is tempted at times to agree with the writers. “We’re still only crawling,“ she confessed.

Presence as Main Contribution
I was stuck by the reaction of various people to our lay missionaries. One of the young girls in the family who came to lunch was obviously taken by Emma and her way of acting. Fr. Finbar Maxwell summed it up by saying that the main contribution of the Filipina missionaries may well be, “Presence, as confident Christian women, leaders in their communities, free “. Evening brought Pilar and me to another Catholic family for a hot and spicy meal. Pilar had to drink three glasses of water!

Street Sweeper
Like many of the Christians, the father was a street sweeper, working in the middle of the night. He had a second job also. His wife worked cleaning a house. They manage to have a comfortable home and they were putting their son through technical school. Half of his school fees are paid by the government.

Chauvinism
Pilar told me one story about her friendship with them. One evening when she was eating with them, the boy ordered his older sister to get him a glass of water. Reacting to this example of the male dominant culture, Pilar snapped, “Get it yourself.” For a second everyone froze then the boy got up and poured his own glass saying, “All right.” They looked at Pilar as if to say, “If I tried that my parents would have punished me.” It’s a small example of how a foreign missionary can sometimes do what a local can’t do.

Very Hospitable
The Pakistanis were very hospitable to me as a man. Each time I went to a mosque, someone would approach me, grasp my hand, and say, Welcome to Pakistan.” When I went alone, and becoming confused had to ask for directions, people would go out of their way to guide me. In shops, in a very fine local museum, at the airport, it was always the same, a little initial suspicion, then a handshake, a huge smile and helpfulness.

Look Straight Ahead
But when Pilar and I shared a horse-drawn buggy with a Muslim family, Pilar had to sit in the middle, with the mother on one side and me safely on the other. “I have to walk like a buffalo,” Pilar complained, meaning that a woman could look neither right or left, in case she caught the eye of the man.

Pilar, Emma and Gloria
In the prayer groups that Pilar, Emma and Gloria organize, they help the women to reflect on their lives and in their faith, so such incidents and the attitudes that underlie them must be discussed. But it’s their own example and freedom that is the loudest message.

How About You?
Since I’ve come back to Mindanao I have met many possible lay missionaries, men and women, married and single, who wish to go as partners in mission with the Columbans. I carry a packet of photographs from my visit to Pakistan, and I find that they explain what lay mission is about much more eloquently than I can. Difficult, still crawling, effective – all of these describe the work of our Filipina lay missionaries and, Emma would add, “very enriching.’

By: Fr. Victorino Coronado, CICM

Unheavenly Haven
The parish of Phaeton in Haiti near the border with the Dominican Republic, it is not an ordinary parish. Phaeton is special in many ways as the poorest and the smallest parish in the diocese of Port Liberty. The place itself occupies 37,000 hectares of land formerly reserved for a sisal plantation its fiber being used for ropes, rugs, and other materials. Thousands of laborers and landless peasants coming from all over the country were employed in this desolate barren desert, euphemistically called “Plantation Dauphin” i.e. haven of the crownprince, by a US based company.

Wheel Turns
Some twenty years ago the plantation was forced to close its doors because of the decline of its product in the world market. Competition against the synthetic fiber made its operation a money loosing business. The rich transferred to other factories while the poor stayed behind, trying to survive the best they could in this place of desolation. Yes, survival has been the way of living for many Haitians and it is also true for the people of Phaeton.

CICM Arrived
CICM missionaries arrived in 1954 hoping to turn this unusual settlement of “moun vini” meaning to say, rootless peoples coming from everywhere with only desperation in common, into a livable and a living Christian community. With ups and downs this effort succeeded. Today there is a Christian Community of St. Therese of Lisieux parish with a few hundred faithful.

Integration
I arrived in Phaeton in 1993 for my internships. Because of the 1991 coup de’ tat and its consequences of increasing terror by the military, the misery and hunger caused by embargo imposed by the international community against the Pucthis (but only hitting the poor) and the blurred position of the Church towards its people, INTEGRATION in such a mess was very difficult. My adoption to this new reality was not an easy one, I have used up all my patience, and I have to struggle everyday to open my heart to accept this people who I want to serve; at the same time creating room for understanding because for the “ground we are approaching is holy”.

Forgotten Place
Armed with a smile, I got involved with the kindergarten kids, with young unemployed people, aimless and with no future, with fishermen ill equipped and trying to make a living in the sun, with slum dwellers hungry and despair, with the sick and the handicapped. In a word: the poor people of God in a forgotten place.

Big Preparation
Of course all this, was part of my preparation for ordination to the Deaconate. Days before the celebration, the whole village was cleaned up to its best form as in the heyday of the flourishing Dauphin Plantation. Saturday, one could feel it in the air, preparing something great, decorating singing and rehearsing.

Ordination Day
And the day if ordination came, everybody was present: Welcoming visitors is something the Phaeton people had not been able to do for years; 18 CICM confreres came from three dioceses, 5 diocesan priests and tens of sisters came from other congregations including 2 from the ICM community.

Church was Packed
The churched was packed to capacity, it was beautifully decorated with flowers and Haitian and Filipino flags. The children danced during the entrance procession waving the same red, white and blue flags of both countries. Behind the altar was the ICM emblem COR UNUM et ANIMA UNA; to the left was the giant poster illustrating the theme of the celebration: Mk. 16:15 “Ale toupatou sou late anonse ben nouval la bay tout moun.” (“Go into the whole world and make disciples of all peoples.”)

Hidden Talent
My own artistic talent was visible in the booklet prepared for the said celebration with songs readings and explanation of the ceremony which all bore the missionary dimension. On the cover page of the booklet was a presentation of CICM family, both the provinces of Haiti. And the last page was from the CICM constitution and had my message.

Beauty of Missionary Life
Msgr. Hubert Constant, ICM missionary, gave a moving introduction on the beauty of missionary life, the exchange between different cultures and the universality of the church. “This is not going to be an ordinary celebration, it is not only a feast for the parish but it is a Pentecost experienced for the people from different countries and languages being one in heart and one in soul.”

Our Father
The most moving moment came during the prayer of the Our Father. The extended parish choir most of whom could not read and write began singing the Our Father in Tagalog and concluded the same prayer in Creole, impressing and heartwarming! When I spoke I said: “I myself after two months of intense language study could hardly pray the Our Father in Creole. How did you manage to sing and memorize this prayer of prayers in my language?”

To be the Caretaker
The bishops sent me, though still only Deacon to be the caretaker of the parish for three months as Fr. Joseph had to go for his well deserved vacation to his home province. This underlines the shortage of priest here in Haiti.

Festive Celebration
In the afternoon we had a heated soccer match in the Church grounds. Unfortunately my team lost. At sunset people gathered again in the church for a spiritual concert, a tribute to the newly ordained deacon: hymns, songs, readings and prayers all expressing the festive mood of the community.

By: Ma. Brenda Villarin, DC

 In those days I was at the peak of my practice as a member of the Cardio-vascular team at home in the Philippines. I truly loved my work. To be away even just for half a day was too much. The Sisters and my Superior teased me saying “We can hardly remember what you look like. We hardly see you.” Then a letter came from Paris informing me of the decision of the General Council to send me to Ethiopia (1976). I could not believe my eyes. I know I did offer some years back (perhaps 1967 or ‘68) but “not now Lord. I’m far too happy to let go of my community, my work and friends and to be far away from home.” It was a difficult decision to make but I made it and left for Ethiopia.

Left Me Broken
After many different works I was asked to help in famine relief work in Makele, Tigray. We started with about 8,000 people and it escalated to 30,000 on our site. Death rates ranged from 12 to 60 a day. This was a profound experience that really left me broken in my utter helplessness. I was angry with God. “How can you abandon your people – letting them die like flies? Are they not yours as well? How can you leave me to cope with it all?”

Stark Sufferings
I worked in the camp for three months but that seemed eternity to me. When I was taken out I got sick. It was in fact a time of grief and mourning for me for the people who had died in my arms and I had not had time to grieve and mourn for them at that time. It took me two months to recover my physical strength but my psychological strength has taken a lot longer to recover. I made a private resolution never to work on relief again. Shortly after that, I was asked to work in Conchi, Nekemte, Wollega area. I was only to show the local personal how to run the programme of food distribution. In this experience I saw suffering once again. Once again, I told myself that never again would I expose myself to such stark suffering which rendered me so vulnerable.

Resettlement Village
After many works I moved to Dembidollo and was appointed to work in the re-settlement villages. We were given 35 villages at once. There were three sisters working in the villages. I was the last to join the team. Our main work was seeing the sick people in the camp, giving vaccinations, giving basic goods and feeding the children under five. We had two other lay staff helping in preparing the things we needed for going out and in filling in the registration cards for vaccinations, the resettlement  villages were very new in the sense that the people were less than a year in residence. They were all in need of shelter, clothing, medicine, food. As soon they as they saw any distribution going on, they mobbed us. It was a most frustrating experience. The volunteer sister -- with all her goodwill, got so frustrated that one day she made the announcement that she would return to her country. There I was left, high and dry.  I could not get a staff that would suit the work I envisioned so I got a part-time worker who was a student, and a driver to help me. After a couple of weeks we cut down our villages and that made the load more reasonable.

Community Based Health
I was still in great muddle. There was a lot of work to be done but I was stuck with medical work and vaccinations. I knew I wouldn’t get any extra help so I decided to teach the Community Health Workers and the Traditional Birth Attendants how to fill the vaccination programme would have a bit more order and system. It took me half a year teaching them about vaccination and how to fill in the cards. It was a very exhausting job but gratifying in the end. We used to finish late vaccinating people we only got home at 7:30 or 8:00 pm. In Alem Tefari we mostly had to stay overnight to do the second village next day. But when we got the Community Health Agencies and Traditional Birth Attendants to do the registration the day before and got the women holding their cards when we got there, we were finished in half to one hour’s time depending on the numbers of mothers and children. It was great!

Health Education
The next thing I wanted to intensify was “Heath Education”. I continued my monthly session giving heath lessons, demonstrating teaching methods and skills, asking the health workers to do a return demonstration in teaching. It was an exhausting job to do again, the results in the villages were great. It created and enthusiasm in health leaders, in country teachers and in the people.

I have touched on a few of the things that God has called me to. At times its been rough but He has been with me all the time even when I was unaware.

By Fr Joseph Panabang SVD

Cry of Balintawak
When I came from home-leave, I brought along a native bolo that miraculously passed all the airport check-ups. Asked what it is I replied, “It’s the Cry of Balintawak” (for it resembles the one Andres Bonifacio was raising.)

No Cheating
Market day at Kintampo, our mission Center, is every Wednesday. During the evening service, our parish Priest addressed the parishioners who are mostly traders, “As you count your money. I hope you don’t also forget to count how many people you cheated ... A sermon greeted with mixed feelings.

Yeboah, Yeboah
Emmanuel Yeboah and David Ayoo from my village tried to persuade me to come for the funeral of a church member. Emmanuel presented their point telling me that his people are fed up because it is always “Yeboah, Yeboah ... talking” as he put it. Then he continued, “If only a priest from the parish could come, they will listen and believe him as the rich man told Lazarus that if only someone from the dead would rise and come back to earth and preach, they would believer him. Having  the  same story in mind, I replied “yes” and Abraham told Lazarus that if they do not believe in the prophet, even if someone rises from the dead, they will not believe him.” The two went back for the funeral services.

Adams Apple
Where I was waiting for my tire at a vulcanizing shop, Kwaku, the playful child of the vulcanizer began playing with me. Then he became fascinated with my Adam’s apple and he started jumping to reach it asking in a squeaking voice that attracted the children, “what is that?” “A voice box”, I replied and tried some kind of vocalization to demonstrate it. how he laughed, how he love it, you won’t believer it. “If Edgar Allan Poe, he would call it “The Children’s Hour”, I muttered to myself as I left Kwaku still squealing with delight.

That Devil, Malaria
Fr. Merten  Wells , SVD, a strong energetic and athletic man who defied malaria since he entered Ghana, finally succumbed to it just when he was abut to start the Mass. He believed the malaria would go away so he continued Mass. He was wrong. He was forced to go into the sacristy and lie down. During the Eucharistic prayer, he woke up again to continue the Mass. Still dizzy, in his usual positive thinking, he said to himself. We shall overcome.” The people heard it and in full voice began to sing: “We shall overcome....”

Hallo, Hallo?
Sr. Aloysita, SSPS, when I stopped at their convent asked me, “Do you have a  telephone in Kintampo?” “No!” only telephone booth,” I said, alluding to old faded red telephone booth at our Kintampo post office still in the same position where the British left it many years ago, only there are no telephone wires.

By: Sr. Sonia Sangel, FdCC

Dreaded Malaria
Enamasa brought her one-year-old baby, Sagira to St. Therese’s Clinic Port Moresby where I work as a nurse. The child is severely dehydrated due to three days vomiting and diarrhea associated with high fever. Looking at Sariga’s physical appearances I have the impression that she is positive to the dreadful Malaria Falciparum. She looks very sick, and is shaking with chill and she sweats. Her eyes are sunken and jaundiced and her abdomen is distended with a enlarged spleen. I at once took her vital signs and sent her blood slide to the laboratory for a malaria smear. I started administering the Oral Dehydration Therapy. The child is like a parched land, a thirst for water, I showed and instructed the mother to continue to feed her with Oresol to replace the water and salts that had gone out of her body over the past three days. For her high temperature, I gave her a cool bath and a Quinine intramuscular injection. Finally after an hour and a half the peak of crisis subsided a little. Still anxious that she might not fully recover I thought of baptizing the child.

Dilemma
We all know that Missionary work is an explicit proclamation of God’s word as Jesus commands: “Go and make disciple of all nations” (Mt. 28:19). As a young Missionary I thought my life will be more meaningful if I bring God close to people in every way possible. In view of this experience with Sagira I question myself: Do I want the child to have a life of grace through Baptism.

God as Life
Having lived closely with the Papua New Guineans I realize how God has been at work with the Papua New Guineans even before the missionaries ever came. God made Himself known to them through their experience of life, not in the life of each individual or group but in the life in which the whole Cosmos shares. The people of Papua New Guinea who depend largely for their survival on the cultivation of staple crops such as sweet potatoes and yams have myths and rituals to express all the different kinds of life flowing together and influencing each other. “They see God as life, in fullness, life for people and spirits and pigs and gardens and rivers.” (Christ The Life of PNG by E. Mantovani & M. MacDonald).

Enamasa & Sariga
And that’s why Enamasa before  she left St. Therese’s Clinic gratefully whispered to me that the Good Spirit of ‘Papa God’ had brought her child back to life and to health with the water of the Earth which we gave to her child. From then on they, from time to time visit us in the Clinic bringing some fruits from her garden. The complete recovery of Sariga is a religious experience of life for them. It is their own unique way of relating to God. Indeed God meets His people where they are, in their particular environment. He meets them in particular culture. Paul confirms this in his letter to the Romans 1:19. Creation is and remains God’s medium, of revelation.

Two-Way Reality
Furthermore my life as Missionary is enriched as I join the Catholic Nurses of Port Moresby General Hospital in the breaking of the Word of God in the weekly Bible study. I have come to discover what the two-way reality of ‘Missionary’ is through the term dialogue’. As I give them my own reflection on the Word of God, the group responds to the message according to their own cultural experience of God’s revelation which in turn deepens my experience of God.

Vast Virgins Forests
On one occasion as we reflected in the Parable of the Sower, the nurses shared how the Papua New Guineans treasure their land, their forest, their rivers not only as sources of livelihood but also as something sacred to which they belong. No wonder they still posses vast virgins forests, clear vast running rivers blue sea and sky and rich mineral resources in this fast changing world. Instead the Westerners and my people in Asia tend to look beyond the beauty of the same creation to its economic potential to be exploited. They see forest to be logged, rivers to be harnessed, and minerals to be mined. I think in this aspect of culture the Melanesians have something to offer the world.

By: Sr. Carmela Santos, SPC

It is the feast of the Sacred Heart and the Church of St. Joan of Arc in Islington, North London is nearly filled to overflowing. The sanctuary is ablaze with color. The organ is belting out the glorious entry hymn and the congregation rise as Holy Mass begins. But something does not seem to be right. I see people craning their necks to catch what the celebrant is trying to say. Obviously, the microphones are not in good working order. Some kids begin to fidget and loud threats from glaring mums add to the hum and murmur around us.

Mary from Ireland
From my seat at the rear of the church the homily is completely inaudible and my thoughts begin to wander as I spot some of my friends. That’s Mary now, an Irish friend, sitting next to a pillar and clutching her novenas and prayer books. She has been taking care of her paralyzed husband for years; it’s most edifying to see her enduring and pleasant disposition, her genuine concern for other parishioners with problems, inspite of her own heavy ones.

Ida from Nigeria
And there’s quiet, unassuming Ida from Nigeria, sitting near Mary, a votive candle beside her ready for the Sacred Heart. Ida literally lives her waking hours in the church and spends her little pennies on stipends, candles and pilgrimages. She seems to have a way with the Sacred Heart, our Lady of Perpetual Help, St. Joseph, St. Martin de Porres who must be looking after the many destitute and unfortunate souls she has taken under her wing, she tells me.

Eric from Scotland
Is that not Eric, the frail-looking hunched Scottish lad who greets Jesus with a fond hand salute? You would swear the Lord was standing right in front of him. Despite the ravages of chronic illness, it’s amazing how he manages to get himself to the church in the early morning. And always with a smile and cherry word for everyone!

Arthur from Goa
On the right I can see Arthur, a Goan, and his inseparable white stick. Arthur, who has been an active parishioner in St. Joan of Arc for over 30 years, went completely blind two years ago. This horrendous blow would have shattered and embittered a lesser soul, but Arthur who is nearing 90 has taken this overwhelming calamity with incredible equanimity. He smiles away as he says: “I’ve had terrific blessings in my long life. Don’t you think, I should take the rough with the smooth from the hand of God?” He certainly does not let his blindness deter him from daily Mass, taking that quarter of an hour up–hill climb to the church.

George from Kenya
George, who is from Kenya, sits behind Arthur and makes it his business to bring him to Holy Communion safely and back. George works in the bank. His unstinted devotion to the Eucharist takes him to daily Mass before starting work. He has several times given up marriage prospects to take care of an ailing mother and brother – a rather uncommon sacrifice for a young eligible bachelor, he has instead adopted a Romanian orphan, victim of the war and sponsors his education and subsistence.

Jim and Kathleen
Jim and Kathleen, a lovely Irish couple sit towards the front. In their retiring years, they devote a lot of their time to helping the down-and-outs, the street people, the housebound. They collect clotting, beddings, tin-food, woolies and organize jumble sales and Bazaars for this purposes, they are just celebrated 40 happy years of married life.

Paddy
I can spot Paddy miles away with his ample proportions and snow white hair. He arrives in church before the doors are open and I see this lone early bird in the dimness of the church fingering his rosary beads and waiting to prepare the altar for Mass.

Angie from Italy
And that’s Angie to the left in maroon overcoat. Her devotion to Holy Mass and the Church is exceptional. Her Kindness and generosity shines out remarkably in the way she lavishly gives to the Church and the sick. Over many years, she has donated lace altar-frontals, statues, vases, altar Lenin, wine to St. Joan of Arc and visits the sick regularly. Many priest who have come and gone have been the grateful recipients of her prodigious largess and Italian goodness.
All around me I see these family people, working people who come to Mass not just on the feast of the Sacred Heart but virtually everyday of their lives, come rain, sun, snow, sleet. These people in the pews are the saints of our time, unheralded, simple souls like our Lady who, I’m sure endure Life’s hardships and heartaches with more than a smile, their lives as they trudge their individual paths towards the Lord give hope and courage to those who know them and lives around them. They are the true loving examples if ‘lived Christianity’ that touch and inspire more than any cold, abstract homily any day.

Through no faults of his, the good preacher’s sermon was completely lost to many of us that day, but the Lord had provided me with one  from the pews, giving me more than an insight into the real and only things in life that matter.

By: Werner Paczian

Ninety Two Tanks
In early May 1992, more than two hundred men from the village of Tresnjevac in Serbia at the so called “able to fight” age were drafted into military “exercise” by the authorities. People from Tresnjevac knew these “exercises” would take place at the front line in Croatia or more probably in Bosnia; the war was escalating in those days. In a spontaneous reaction, pushed even by women, men decided to resist being drafted into the war. People from Tresnjevac started a demonstration, even though this was forbidden by the local police. While people were marching through their village they realized, that Trensjevac was surrounded by 92 tanks.

Zitzer Club
This event made protesters even stronger and hundreds of people entered the garden of the “Zitzer-Club”.  It was the beginning of a long term peace camp, which lasted sixty-two days. Three days after surrounding the village, the tanks and troops disappeared.

Zitzer Spiritual Republic
On June 26, 1992, the Zitzer Spiritual Republic was founded, the village of Tresnjevac symbolically declared independence from Belgrade, the capital of Serbia. This happened after nearly two months of draft resistance by more than two hundred men, who where protected and supported by nearly the whole village, that means about two thousand people.

Symbolic Membership
Since that time, the Zitzer Spiritual Republic (ZSR) has received more and more support from all over the world, even from different peace groups. Hundred of people from outside have asked for symbolic membership in ZSR; in Germany for example about 500 people became members of ZSR after sending their proposal to Tresnjevac.

Vilmos   Almasi
Some months ago three draft resisters were sent to prison after being tried in Belgrade. One of them, Vilmos Almasi, a main leader of the peace movement in Tresnjevac, was sent into prison on May 16, 1994 and had to stay there for four months despite the fact that I had a five-year-old daughter and has to work as a farmer to ensure his family income. Meeting Vilmos Almasi in the beginning of May 1994, he would refuse army call-up again even if “the punishment is five times higher than this time.”

Hunger Strike
Because Vilmos Almasi had to stay in prison, two men from Tresnjevac and the mayor of Kanijza (a city of Tresnjevac) started a hunger strike. They were protesting against the fact that war-re-sisters, not war criminals, are punished.

Telephone Tapped
All in all, in the last few weeks pressure on Tresnjevac is increasing, citizens of ZSR have proof that their telephone lines and letters are censured by authorities. Despite that they are determined to keep on with their campaign and fight for the draft resistance all over Serbia.

Never Before
As far as we know it never happened before in the four years old war in former Yugoslavia and maybe it even never happened anywhere in the world that a whole village, about two thousand people, young and old, women and men, resisted war participation by collective action. They did not even give up when they were surrounded by tanks. They countered by offering the highest and the most peaceful ‘weapon” you can imagine: their own lives. Being strong enough to face an “armada” of tanks, and being successful concerning the tank- occupation, people of Tresnjevac have proved, that collective civil resistance can even damage the power  of the warlords and armies and that this might be the only real  way to stop war not only in former Yugoslavia but all over the world.

Dream to Reality
People from Tresnjevac have proved that the slogan of the worldwide peace movement “imagine there is a war and nobody takes part” is not just a dream, they have made it a reality.

Worldwide Spiritual Republic
As important as standing together in front of tanks is the fact, that later on the people from Tresnjevac did not stop their activities, did not say “now we are saved from war, let us return to our former daily time again,” Having discovered that peaceful power of a whole village can be stronger than war-blinded authorities, women and men, from Tresnjevac decided to create a forum for peaceful human beings from all over the world to extend the idea of civil resistance. This was the beginning of “Zitzer Spiritual Republic”, ZSR, says its constitution of civil disobedience without any territorial claims. Last June 20, 1994, a peace group from Bremen (north Germany) announced the inauguration of the first symbolic ZSR consulate in Germany.

Sr. Maria Evangeline Nakila, RVM

Scared
My first mission was at St Joseph’s School in the downtown area of the famous city of San Francisco, California. I was scared then because of my language skills. Still I moved on and took summer courses in Class Management to make myself ready for school work.

Inner Tension
After my few months of apprenticeship the following year 1991-1992, I was a Third Grade Teacher in our Parish school of St. Joseph. There was tension deep inside me trying to adjust to the American culture. But with humility and simplicity like Our Blessed Mother Mary, I learned everyday from them and the teachers with me in our school their customs, beliefs and language. Praised be God!

Adult Choir
It was a joyful experience for me to be with the community. With my talents also in singing and playing guitar at Holy Mass I joined the parish Adult Choir and the children in school too in any singing engagement.

Change
But then, God is always making great demands on me. The following year I was moved to another state, Sacramento, California. Here I was always with my community at any prayer service in the Church or at home  with Filipino and American communities who needed our spiritual support. Oftentimes we were needed at a baptismal Mass or a Funeral Mass to sing religious songs.

I also walked with a community of married men and women in the heat of Sacramento, California who are members of a singing group. Because I can easily adjust to be with anyone, they discovered from me the talents God gave me -- singing and playing the guitar. So I became their leader with another RVM Sisters, Sister Maria Fe Bigwas.

Another Surprise
In Sacramento too, I sang with the Filipino Choir Group every second Sunday and last Sunday of the month at St. Charle’s and St. Anne’s. We were also attending social gatherings wherein the RVMs were always invited to start the prayer or to mingle with the people. Another surprise in my life that God was asking me. You know what? When he knows that I am already satisfied or fulfilled with my work. He will move to me to another place.

Off Again
So, through our Mother General’s consent, Rev. Mother Maria Assumpta David, RVM. I flew to New Jersey to do the will of God, a teaching mission. I am the fourth grade teacher of our parish school here, Sacred Heart, So Plainfield, New Jersey from that time until now. But our new pastor, Rev Michael McGuire asked me to organize a Children’s Choir in the School. So from Kindergarten through Grade Five, I have 25 children. We’re singing in school if there are special activities and at every 9:00am Holy Mass on Sundays.

My Secret
I’m always busy every moment of my life doing God’s work in this new place where I was scared at the very start. Why? Because of Italian – American culture, beliefs and customs. But praying everyday and every moment is my secret; to be courageous and daring to do and seek the will of God. Prayer coupled with a smile on my face and listening to the needs of the people around me makes me feel younger and younger every day. Thanks to our gracious God and to my family who taught me the real essence of what sacrifice for the good cause and for God is all about. Also to my different RVM communities where I was assigned before and at the present; to our beloved Congregation. RELIGIOUS OF THE VIRGIN MARY who bear the name of our Blessed Mother Mary, our spiritual mother and our sure way to know Jesus Christ in our life.

The Story of Mitsou Tomosawa

 At 8:15, one August morning  50 years ago, the Doomsday Clock struck midnight. The United States dropped the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, Japan. The bomb killed more than 75,000 and injured nearly 100,000 of the 245,000 residents. The city was destroyed.

There was a great flash of light, as if millions of flashbulbs were ignited at the same time. It was so bright that we couldn’t see anything. And instinctively, I started to run toward the air raid shelter.

Seconds after the bright light, there was a tremendous flash and explosion, and after that I didn’t know what happened …

All through that day, morning to evening, people came walking, and all these people, most of them were naked, some of them you couldn’t even recognize whether they were a man or  a woman; practically all of them were walking with their arms extended, their hands hanging down, and their knees slightly bent, almost on tiptoes. Large blisters were on their bodies, with some fluid moving in the blisters. They were staring ahead.

And during the night we couldn’t sleep because of the moaning and crying of these victims. These people crying for their mothers, for water; and that evening I climbed up a chimney at a factory near our home. And I looked toward the city, and the city was burning.

The next morning I went up again, and then I saw that the city was no more  …

I also noted that during the day when I went to the city that I came across a streetcar and saw people sitting and standing in the streetcar, and I felt strange that people would be resting in a streetcar at a time like this. As I came by, I realized that all these people were dead. They were burned beyond recognition. They were standing up with their hands on the crossbar. And there were people sticking their heads in the water tanks that were prepare in case of air raid fires. They were dead with their heads in those water tanks.
People were lined up – many, many hundreds or thousands were lined up on the river bank that ran through Hiroshima, and they were dead. Hundreds of bodies were under the bridges, piled up. And I also noted that on the bridge that I always walked over to my school there were footprints of people who were probably standing at that time.
During the days and weeks that followed, I saw many people in our neighborhood with burns. There was very little medication, and even at the army hospital there were few doctors and nurses available. There were very few medicines. So the only thing they could use was the type of medicine like Mercurochrome or some sort of oil or ointment ot put on their bodies. And soon their burns became infested with maggots; you could see the maggots crawling all over their bodies.

I can still remember the peculiar odor that these people had. I shall never forget the odor …

I have seen people who didn’t have their bodies. They were wearing helmet, no bodies, just their skull. And hundreds of thousands of people continued to flow towards the section of the city that I was leaving, because there was a post there, and they evacuated there.

And [as for] people who died at the hospital, at their home, there were no facilities to cremate them or bury them, so they were just piled up in a huge pile of bodies, and burned close by.

And I still remember the looks in my friends’ faces that had lost their parents and brothers and sisters. They just didn’t know what happened. They knew it was some kind of a bomb. They didn’t know what kind of bomb it was. And we really realized that, and we thought that Hiroshima would never be rebuilt, and it looked just like hell, hell on this earth; the city just turned into a desert of death.

(Mitsou Tomosawa, Hiroshima survivor, translated from Japanese, Common Cause Magazine)