By: Sr. Maryanne Terrenal

South America & Korea
One of these cities is Seoul, the capital of South Korea. The other city is a not too well- known city in the middle of the South American continent. A pretty lass had lived all her twenty two years of life in this South American city when by force of circumstances she found herself in Seoul.

Overseas Job
Her story is repeated often in our modern world. A first year college student, she had to drop out because her divorced mother could no longer continue to pay her college fees. She took a job in a garment factory but of course the pay was low. So when a fellow country woman told her of the possibility of a high-paying job in the Far East, she easily consented. To be house maid should not be too hard, and she would be able to save; here was chance to see the outside world! Her plane fares would be paid for and the contract would be signed as soon as she got to her place work.

Prostitution Sale!
She and a few other girls were taken from one city to another. While waiting for visas. They lived in the small hotel room and their meals were served them there. The third city they were flown to was Seoul. Here our pretty lass heard they would not be given visas to the country they intended to go to as there were no diplomatic relations between the countries. They could however to go another thriving country, but there would be no housemaid jobs there. They would be employed as prostitutes. Easy living, easy money.

Pleading for Help
This young woman did not want such a job. Early the next morning before her friends were up, she stole out of the hotel room. By some stroke of ingenuity she found the telephone number of her country’s ambassador. The ambassador listened to her story but what was he supposed to do? What if this girl had invented a sad story but was really a spy or dope dealer or what ever? Her credentials must be checked thoroughly. The girl was put in a hotel by the embassy and again was told to wait. Contact was made with her mother. The mother was relieved beyond words. She had worried about the fate of her daughter. Please send her home, she pleaded. The mother was told to go to the local Ministry to ask for help. But the poor woman going to the huge government office asking for help is never a welcome sight. She was told to report the next day and then when she went, she was told to come back again after a few days. It was then the Divine Providence took over A missionary priest in Seoul heard about the presence of this girl’s story was true or false, but he thought that if the girl were living with nuns instead of in a hotel the ambassador the ambassadors expenses would be greatly lessened  and everyone concerned would feel more at ease.

 

Truth Will Out
Thus it was that the young woman came to our house. When she told us her story we know at once she was telling the truth. The Good Shepherd Sisters all over the world are committed to helping girls caught in situation like this. Hearing about her experience was nothing new. We listen to the girls like her most of our waking hours, girls fooled by society, used, abused, then discarded and abandoned. They need help in order to get out of the hole they are in.

Non Verbal Language
We were asked to keep her for two weeks. She immediately joined into the routine of the house. She help in the household chores, baked cookies and carrot cakes, listened to the girls’ blaring music, and went to a concert. She could not communicate verbally with any of the Sister nor the girls in the residence, but acceptance and love need no verbal language. During the first week she endeared herself to everyone. She could easily have done naughty things if she wished. But her very bearing showed us that here was a innocent lamb that had almost gone astray. The Good Shepherd found her just in time before she fell over the cliff.

Touch a Missionary
We know that if we waited for financial help from home we might wait forever. Her plane fare home would cost about a million ‘won’. What is one million won in Korea these days? And yet in some countries this amount would be next to impossible to raise. Local resources! We told the Ambassador about our plan. He was quite surprised that we trusted the girl so much we were going to all lengths to help her. By this time too, of course he was also ready to be convinced. He promised to contribute to our campaign fund. We thought that if tapped a few of the foreign missionary congregations, especially those with missionaries in South America, we found get an immediate response. Sure enough within a couple of days we had the cash in our hands.

Overstaying
But then there was also the matter of her illegal overstay in Korea. Not even a diplomat can override that. But we found the Immigration people a very human lot. She had to tell her painful story all over again with the help of a Korean minister who had lived in her country for many years. And miracle of miracles the fine they demanded was still within our ability to pay.

Gift of God
The day she left I stayed in the airport until I was sure her plane had gone-with her aboard. On my way home I thought of the Gospel reading of the day. “ And he took the seven loaves and the fish, and gave thanks to God for them, and divided them into pieces, and gave them to the disciples who served them to the crowed... and afterwards, there were seven basketful left over...” Jesus had multiplied the loaves all over again today for one young woman. Plane fare, fine, pocket money and gifts for home.

 

The Kingdom- Here and Now!
Did I say this was a tale of two cities- of Seoul and of another city across the world? I think I’d like to change that. This is a tale of two cities: The city of man, where there are some who would lead others to their ruin; and the city if God where there are disciples who distribute the heavenly bread around. Both cities are in the world. Choose!

 

A poor woman is going to a huge government office asking for help is never a welcome sight.

By: Pilar Tilos

Pilar Tilos, a Columban lay missionary in Pakistan spent many years in every type of parish ministry in her home town in Hinobaan, Negros Occidental. Here she tells us of the struggle she had to break the language barrier before she could begin her new mission ministry in Pakistan.

Starting Straight Away
October, 25th, 1990, four days after we arrived in Lahore, Fr. Pat Raleigh, in-charge of the language studies, gave us an orientation for the language program. We were told to study Punjabi (the local language of the people) because we would be working in the rural areas. The language course was to be for a full calendar year and the classes were to be held in the house where we lived in Iqbal town.

Like Lola Chewing Betel Nut
On that very first day of the language class, I felt quite nervous although I was a little bit excited about learning another foreign language. For me it was a privilege to learn another second language besides English and Spanish. The first lesson in grammar was to familiarize the “hard” sound and the “soft” sound. The hard sound is a consonant sound written in a capital letter and when you produce the sound the tongue touches your palate. It sounds as if your mouth is full of food while speaking at the same time. I was reminded of my grandmother, speaking to me while chewing her “minama”.

Pinching our Noses
The soft sound is also a consonant sound but is written in small letters and when you produce the sound your tongue is between your two teeth. They also had a lot of words that have a “nasal” sound. If you just listen to the speaker, she/ he has a speech problem. It really sounds funny and is so difficult to produce the correct sound. Sometimes we have to pinch our nose in order to produce a correct sound. I could hardly open my mouth after five minutes on the phonetic exercise.

Reading from Right to Left
The Punjabi is written in script and you have to start writing from the right side going to the left side. When I saw their book for the first time I asked myself: “Can I write it? Can I read it?” it looks like scratches we make when we are not sure the ballpen has still any ink. I find it hard to write on the line. We were also like babies learning and struggling to speak. It really needs patience. Anytime I wrote the words I was reminded of our adult literacy class back in Hinobaan, Negros Occidental. They way to write is the same as for those adults learning how to read and write. It is only now that I sympathize with them. Nevertheless, inspite of difficulties encountered while learning the language, there was still an excitement, joy and happiness to learn the Punjabi language especially when we could recognize their alphabet and could read some simple words. After three weeks Emma and I were thrilled to be able to read out “Pakistan” from a billboard.

Learning Crisis
Sad to say, the feeling of excitement, joy and happiness for the first three weeks gave away to frustration as we went on with the language class. There was a lot more pain than joy encountered. I became irritable. There were times that I would have liked to throw the book at the teacher. I could not look at them anymore. I felt bored. I was really fed up with the language. I stopped studying and started and started cutting classes although the class was held in our house- I just locked myself in my room. Many times I had sleepless nights.

Try Going Out
My personal supervisor suggested to me to get out from the house, go out to the “llaka” (community) and talk to the people there. I followed the suggestion and thank God I felt great again.

The Poor Egged Me On
Meeting people during the weekend helped me a lot to study the language again seriously. These urban poor people gave me hope and determination to continue learning the language. I even said to myself, “how could I communicate with these people if I will not learn their language?” Well, because of the poor people I met in different communities every weekend, with the encouragement and the concerns of the two languages teachers, Columban Fathers and the student overseas Training here in Pakistan, friends here and there, I was able to finish the language studies for a full calendar year.

Over at Last
I was so delighted that the language class was over. But, then, I had discovered that it was only the formal study was over! I realized lately that I was starting all over again. But this time it’s an informal study course and the people (children to grandparents) are my teacher. Oh, they are very strict! They will correct you at once if you mis-pronounce the word. It is quite hard to have so many teachers teaching you at the same time but, I enjoy it. There is life in it!

I was reminded of my grandmother, speaking to me while chewing her “minama”

There were times that I would have liked to throw the books at the teacher.

By: Eamon Sheridan

Fr. Eamon Sheridan is a young Irish Missionary working with Fr. Dodong Redulla and other columbans in Taiwan. Here he tells us of a tragic death and its strange consequences.

Mostly Illegal
It is estimated that there are between 30,000 to 50,000 Filipinos working in Taiwan. Most are working illegally. They have filled a large gap in the labor market, and contributed not insignificantly to the “Taiwan economic miracle.” However like Sri Lankans and other illegal migrants they are forced to live in fear being caught and put in detention center where they can stay for up to six months before they are sent home. Let me tell you a story of two Sri Lankans who I knew.

Once Beautiful Island
Over the past thirty years Taiwan has become an industrialized country, and a leading economic power in Asia. It now has the worlds largest foreign reserves. The cost of this rapid change has been great. What once called Formosa (beautiful island) by the Portuguese has now become terribly polluted. The polluting of this once beautiful place continues with only lipservice to the values of environmental protection.

They have a Dream
The human cost has also been great. A tiny percentage of local labor is unionized. These unions are weak and almost powerless. Workers are protected by a Labor Law that is weak and rarely implemented. However, migrant laborers, who come from all over Asia and even as far away as Africa, are the ones who suffer most in this situation. Recently some have been allowed to come to Taiwan legally and fill the gap  in the labor Market. However most are here illegally, they work mostly in small family run factories with no protection from the labor law. They work at jobs that the Taiwanese will no longer work at. They come here with a dream to escape the cycle of poverty in their own countries and to build a better future for themselves and their families.

Struggling for Life
Nisanka Gunateleke was a young 28 years old Sri Lankan who came to Taiwan in 1989 in search of his future. He was one of about 3,000 Sri Lankans working legally in Taiwan. He worked with ten other Sri Lankans in a small factory that made computer casings. They worked hard for what they earned.

Saman and Nisanka
I met Saman, Nisanka’s best friend, about two years ago. At that time he was very sick. He had no Chinese language and did not know what to do. I brought him to the local Catholic Hospital where he was nursed backed to health. After that we became friends. He and Nisanka would often come to my house and I would visit them in their factory after work.
Tragic Crash
On the Wednesday before Holy Week of 1992 at a lunch break Saman and Nisanka borrowed a motorbike to go to a factory nearby to see if they could find work there. They wanted to change jobs because a few days before, their present employer beat Saman for refusing, at four o’clock in the morning, to go and buy beer for him and his drunken friends and the prostitutes he had brought back to the factory. It was to be Nisanka’s last journey. A large truck forced them into the side of the road where they went over a bump. Saman lost control of the bike and they feel. Nisanka hit his head. He was conscious but after a short while he fell into a deep coma. He died on Friday morning at three o’clock in the morning surround by his friends.

Muslims, Buddhists, Christians...Together
At least forty Sri Lankans gathered at the hospital over those days. Four of them were Catholic, and they asked me to pray with them for Nisanka. As we prayed in the corner of the hospital the others gathered around in silence. Two were Muslims and the rest were Buddhist. One of the Catholics suggested that a Buddhist monk be called. One of the other knew of a Sri Lankan monk in a monastery not far from the hospital. He rushed to get him while one of the Muslims went to get the Holy Koran. The saffron robed monk arrived and was brought to the bed. Muslims Christians and Buddhist were united by a common concern for Nisanka. It was a moving scene and I felt close to God. When we had finished there was a great sense of relief among the Sri Lakans.

False Accusation
However Nisanka’s death was not the end of the journey. For Saman the passion would continue. That Friday morning before Passion Sunday the police arrested Saman and charged him with causing the death of his friend. When I heard this I went straight to the police station. Saman was handcuffed to the chair, tears were rolling down his cheeks. Six policemen stood around him laughing at his inability to understand Chinese. They asked me if I could speak the “barbarian’s language. Saman and Nisanka had worked for their employer for over two years. Now, however, he saw them as liability. He washed his hands of Saman at the police station and of Nisanka at the hospital. He told me he wanted nothing more to do with them. After a long day Saman was eventually released into my custody. He waits trial and a possible three year sentence. We eventually managed to send Nisanka’s body back to Sri Lanka. His friends collected the money over 4,000 US dollars.

Ripe for Exploitation
This is the story of one small group of Migrant Workers. It is a story that is repeated many times over in Taiwan and throughout the world. I have had the privilege of meeting people from Nigeria, Ghana, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, India, Pakistan, Mauritius, the Philippines, South Africa and Nepal. They all come from common background of poverty. All of them are unprotected by the weak Labor Law and ripe for exploitation. There is no shortage of employers whose only object is to increase profit and those who see these workers and the environment we all live in as a means to an end.

 

Hope Foundation
Hope Workers Center in Chungli where I am now involved was founded by Columban Fr. George Hergott in 1987. Fr. George is now working in the US. However the work of the center continues. It now deals full-time with migrant workers problems.. Chang Hsu Fang and Lee I Kuan, the two Taiwanese employed there work many more hours than they are paid for, to fight for justice for these people. It is often a thankless job but one that should be at the heart o the Church’s mission.

Filipinos are Missionaries
I say Mass for a group of Filipinos every Sunday. Their faith has moved me deeply. They are truly missionary. They bring their faith right into the factory and home they are working in. The small group of Filipinos I meet with every week, when they heard of Nisanka’s death collected NT 10,000 (the same in pesos) to help me send the body home to Sri Lanka. Each week they invite many of their Taiwanese workmates to church.
The biggest contribution of Filipino migrants to Taiwan will not be economic, it is and will continue to be their faith expressed in their care for others. I know a group of Sri- Lankans who will always remember that care.

 

 

By Fr Joseph Panabang SVD

Bakit?
At out Filipino gathering, during our sharing of experiences, Sr. Alice  Amarga, RVM was telling how she almost died of her first malaria attack. Her doctor was able to save her but she could not understand why after a month her doctor died. So she kept asking. “Why, why Lord?” Yours truly could not resist suggesting: “Maybe the Lord admonished the doctor, ‘bakit mo binuhay siya?”

Snakeman
During our Filipino gathering it was revealed tat one of the Filipino priests is fond of looking for snakes. When Pina Manalo, our Filipino architect working in Accra arrived, she was asked by her Lebanese co-worker about this priest. The Lebanese said to Pina: “I hear you have a Filipino priest her who looks like snake?”

Ininglish Pa
It was the bout between Nelson Azumah of Ghana, the reigning World Super Featherweight champion, and Jeff Fenech of Australia. Deep in the bush we were watching the fight live on black and white television run by a car watching the preliminaries with all diligence and rapt attention and listening attentively to all the commentaries in English. Because of the delay we became restless except him and we started getting edgy and noisy. He stood up and started blasting everyone. Our catechist whose name is “Hurt’ knew the man well. He stood up and holed, “How come you are so engrossed in the commentaries did you notice they are in English?” we all laughed and our friend stopped blasting us.

My Church, Go, Go
We were crossing a traffic roundabout circle on our way to a Filipino gathering when the police stopped us. One could guess their intention. One police bent over us through the window about to do the forbidden business when their boss shouted, “Roman priests!” then that police (looking as if he had a drop drink) said: in broken English, “Roman asore; meye asore, my church go, go.” As we sped away, Fr. Victor Leones said, “Roman church, my church? I should have asked him to make the Sign of the Cross.”

Who was the Priest?
At home we call him “mayor.” Here we call him District Secretary (DS). Our DS was accused of embezzle of government funds. During the court hearing held in the open loud speakers blaring through the whole town, the DS admitted he indeed gave a considerable amount to a party in honor of a Methodist Minister. At this point, someone grabbed the microphone and asked in a loud voice; “Did you also give to the Roman Catholic Priest who really did something for the town?” much to the amusement of the crowd. [ Was that priest you, Fr. Joe? Ed]

Going and Coming
Sr. Nelia Gura, RVM once asked me what I mean by saying missionary life is an endless series of excitements: “Simple, while preparing to visit a village, I feel excited to go and the following day I feel excited to come back.” Her smile told me she knew just what I meant because she had had the same experience.

 

By: Fr. Joe Panabang, SVD

Killing Ground for Elephants

Among my village treks to which I always look forwards with excitements is the one to far- flung Kunsu. Kunsu means ‘killing ground for elephants.’ More than eighteen miles away from mission center, the road is too much. At the height of the rain only tractors with trailers can go though. During dry season, the big cargo trucks go there to get sacks of charcoal by the hundreds. Atop these open cargo trucks, loaded to overflowing, the passengers find their comfort. I usually join these poor, yet happy people enjoying the ride. Having learnt some Ghanaian popular folk songs from a language school, I would without hesitation intone one of them. In a second, the whole group is singing freely to the swaying a swinging of the car across the labyrinths and greeneries so wild with joy that no one thinks of the real danger lurking behind the wheels. If there is no truck, I would walk with companions carrying my things reminiscent of African explorers in the olden days.

Disaster

As I have said, I usually join people sitting on top of the charcoal. But during my last trip fort the first time the driver upon the request of the catechist, allowed me to sit beside him. Leaving only Kunsu only several miles away but already eight o’ clock in the evening, the driver was trying to negotiate an uphill, muddy incline. Four times he tried; four times he failed. At the fifth time, it look like we were making it when, the truck started to lean over on its right side. Slowly, slowly, gradually, so gently, the truck continued its fall unabated while our heads were already pointing to the earth like astronauts, until it finally touched the ground without a single jerk. By this t time I was already lying over the person at my right side now pinched pitifully between me and the window frame. We were lucky. Between me and the window was a small hole, enough to crawl out. As the man on my right crawled out first, I tried to move the truck in case the fall was not complete. Then I crawled out too.

First to Emerge

As soon as I emerged, I was greeted by my catechist shouting, “Father, Father, I’m alright,” He was the first to escape having  hauled his legs out of the charcoal only to leave his newly bought slippers behind in the rubble.

 

 

 

Shocked but not Hurt

The passengers worked fast to save those buried in the rubble. No one died, no one was hurt; but everyone was shocked. Still blinking in amazement at such a gentle fall, I went around examining closely the truck with all the tires pointing southern sky while the engine oil flooded out on the fatal trailway.

Danger in the Dark

Undaunted and determined to return home, some of us dared to walk the remaining distant though it was already dark. As we walked we also wondered at our extraordinary escape.

Guardian Angel
I was convinced that there must have been a lot of angels sent by God to “left us up lest we dash our foot against a stone” or in this  case to hold backs the truck till it landed so smoothly like a cat, to our astonishment and disbelief . The group turned to me for an explanation. I said “if you don’t believe in God and angels, who else were holding back the truck?” Silence descended on all, broken only by an outburst of praise and thanks in the dark from people who realized they were living a second life.

Who Protects Whom?

By the stroke of luck, another cargo car was coming from behind but more overflowing than the first. Up again all of us climbed but this time it was different. There was more fear and trembling. Phobia if you like. How many decades of the Rosary I prayed on the top of the car, I just can’t remember. Everyone wanted me to take off the native haversack (made in Kalinga – Apayao out of strong rattan) strapped tightly to my back. How could I? The Blessed Sacrament was there inside whose protection is a life and death obligation. I just told Him, “Lord, if I die at least I die with you” and now in hindsight, the Lord must have been telling me “you fool, how long do you pretend to be in control? Rather was it not I who protected you?”

By: Sr. Cecilia Cuizon, SSC

Sr. Cecilia Cuizon is a Filipino Columban Missionary working in Iquique, Chile. At Christmas time she reflects on her present ministry in that city.

Christmas in Iquique

This year for me seemed to fly so fast that I did not even notice that it was time to send greetings to my loved ones. Here in Iquique, the joyful melodies of Christmas season are not heard until the 23rd or the 24th of December. Christmas is mainly for Children in Iquique. No wonder, fathers have to set aside a bit from their salary every year for their children. When Christmas comes, all workers dressed in deferent styles, with Santa Claus in the middle of them and with their vehicles decorated (because there is a price for the best decorated vehicle) deliver the gifts to their respective children. So, a group of children wait for Santa Claus’ truck to pass by, all day and all night in case they will miss him.

City of Winners

Iquique is supposed to be “THE CITY OF WINNERS AND THE CITY TO BE LOVED.” You can see it printed everywhere and in different places. However not all enjoy the same privilege.

City of Losers

In one corner of the city near the seacoast, there is a prison called “CENTRO DE READAPTACION SOCIAL.” I have been helping this prison since we arrived here last 1987. In one sector there are about eighty women with small children: mostly in for robbery and drug-trafficking, prostitution and other crimes. Also in another sector, is a sector, is a sector for young boys ranging from 10 years old to 17 years old, in for many different reasons.

In yet another sector there are about five hundred men ranging from 18 years old to 70 years old or more who are detained for drugs, robbery, and other related crimes.

I was in Prison and you Visited me

Inside the prison, there is a space provided to attend the spiritual needs of the prisoner. Here I stay for the times that I have to talk to them personally and individually. With me is a Diocesan priest and some lay people. Everytime I go visit them, there is always a crowed waiting to pour out their problems, to be listened to, to be loved and to see the Lord very concretely.

 

They are Amazed

Most of them are not believer in Christ. They have not even heard of Him. But what encouraged them to come and meet us in the beginning is: Why are we inside with them if they themselves want to be outside?

Yes, they have question that at times I never guessed. Why do I have to spend my time with them when in truth and in fact they had done damage to the many different people in the society?

Not for the Gifts

The answer to the question was not very clear to me at the very beginning. I know it by theory. I am a missionary. One day, when I came back to my vacation from the Philippines. I went to visit them for the first time and they all gathered together not for the gifts that I brought for them because I did not bring anything but because they wanted to pray with me that I came back alive inspite of the earthquake that devastated the Philippines while I was there. Everybody was worried about my own family, my relatives and my friends. I was moved to tears because of their concern.

No to Love

Here I am in the midst of people whose family have abandoned them and who do not believe any more in love, or the family, or friends, or relative, or the authorities.

Selling their Bodies

I began to talk to them about their own families. I learned that the children have gone wild as the wives are out all the time and some time have to sell their bodies just to feed the children. The question that the disciple asked Jesus in John 9:2 which saying: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind” is also my question to Jesus and to the society.”

I believe that the Gospel saying: “AND THE WORD WAS MADE FLESH AND DWELT AMONG US” has to be lived and be meaningful.

But How?

An idea came to me, Christmas seasons is the time for giving, the time of sharing, the time for giving love. We will try again to ask the Christian communities to become God’s partner in this labor. Deep in Faith in the Risen Lord, we went ahead and, “all have accepted them as their grandchildren” So prisoners who have nobody for Christmas to share their loneliness and joys found people of good hearts this Christmas.

By: Fr. Bob O’ Rourke

It was Fr. Bob’s first Christmas in Burma. It was to prove the most memorable of his life.

I had been in Burma just two months and I was to spend the Christmas of 1963 in Tingsing. It was to prove the most memorable Christmas of my life.

Tingsing was a small mountain village, a four-hour walked from the nearest road. The church, a frame structure with a galvanized iron roof, was set on knoll. Next to the church stood a bell tower with three bells. Everything for its construction had been carried up the mountain by hand, so you could appreciate the justifiable pride of the parish priest. Fr. Larry McMahon. Imagine the work involved in bringing in those bells.

It was the custom for people to come from the out villages to Tingsing for the Tingsing for the Christmas feast, and they began arriving on Christmas Eve. Some would herald their arrival with shots from the homemade rifle. Other groups would blow a bugle, or beat a drum to announce their presence. All would report to the rectory on arrival bringing a donation of eggs, or chicken, or a bottle of homebrew. Then after finding out where they where they were to be billeted, the catechist would lead them off.

The main billeting area was a ‘mandat’, usually an impoverished building with a thatched roof, but no walls. Larry mandat had a galvanized iron roof, and half walls, with dirt floor.  People would bring their own mats and blankets for sleeping, and pots for cooking. Piles of firewood for cooking would surround the ‘mandat’.

Confessions were scheduled for the afternoon, and almost every baptized child and adult was expected to go to confession. Since I was still mixing up “good morning” and “good evening’ in Kachin, Larry heard all the confessions. The catechist took choir practice, and as with all recent converts, the people wanted to learn as many hymns as possible, so they eagerly attended the practices. Catechists brought in their lists of people to be baptized, and a time was set for the examination.

A water buffalo had to be slaughtered, and the meat divided up between the various groups. Rice too had to be distributed. So the village was I festive mood as others continued to come in. Bells were rung in greeting, rifles fired, trumpets blown, greetings exchanged, and petition made for medicine, while choir sung, and the animals were slaughtered, and list for Baptism were made, and I took it all wide-eyed. Larry recognized each group, and would tell me a group was from such and such a village, and would comment on their degree of Christian fervour, which he knew from visiting down through the years.

Plumes of smoke began to rise through thatched roofs in the village below us, as people prepared meals for themselves and their visitors. Women and girls could be seen carrying water from the river in the bamboo containers.

Baptism would take place before the midnight Mass. After dusk, with a slight mist falling, the weather turned cold. A slight lull set in, as people had eaten, and were resting before the midnight Mass. Then at ten-thirty the bells broke the silence, inviting everyone to the Baptisms and Mass. Larry did all the Baptisms, and I assisted him, as he went around the circle of adults, children and babies. It was a High Mass in the pre Vatican II tradition, with singing and incense. Afterwards, Larry celebrated a second Mass, because those were the days when a priest was expected to celebrate three Masses for Christmas. About one-thirty we went to bed fasting and the blankets felt good in the cold night. I fell asleep with the images of all that I had seen and heard.

We had a quick breakfast after the morning Masses, and then Larry had “sick call”. A group of gathered outside the rectory, and Larry set up his phonograph player, and played some record, usually bagpipe music. Everyone who was ailing came along and explained their illnesses; medicine for malaria or dysentery, for eye sore or aching muscles and bone, for anemia or open cuts and for prevalent  huge goiter, about the size  of a baseball, hanging from the women’s throat. One man had cut his thumb about a week before, and it was festering. Larry patiently cleansed the festering wound, lecturing the man on keeping the wound clean, and then wrapped the hand in a new white bandage. He went away proud.

A big meeting was held in the ‘mandat’ at 2 P.M. Everyone was there. Village chief, catechists, teachers, and Fr. Larry all spoke. For one who did not understand much Kachin, it seemed from the fervour of the presentations that some of the world’s major problems were being solved. I sat beside Fr. Larry, and he kept me informed on what they were saying: some had not paid their dues for the feast; a catechist had not visited a village for a months; village leader were not insisting on the people attending Sunday worship. The meeting dragged on for about three hours, with nodding much in evidence. When it was over, everyone was congratulated on how well they talked.

The houseboys prepared a Christmas dinner of chicken and rice and a few-spuds. Larry’s friends and family had sent some Christmas goodies, so we had a nice big piece of fruitcake.

People kept coming to the door to discuss one thing or another with Larry. The night was getting cold, but we still had to make one more courtesy visit to the ‘mandat’. We circled around greeting people, and asking them how the feast went. Everyone seemed to think that it was a big success.

We returned to the house and lit a fire in the fireplace, and sat there reading our Christmas mail, and talking about Christmas home. It was a cozy scene with a fire and a cup of hot chocolate.

We could hear the steady beat of the jungle drums, as the people danced in the ‘mandat’. It was nice to have all the activity of the day behind us, and let the cold and tiredness ooze out of our body.

About 11:30 a knock came to the door. It was one of the catechists to tell us that a young woman had just given birth to a baby in the ‘mandat’, and since the baby was premature, they were afraid that it would not survive the night, and would the priest come down and baptize the baby.

We gathered the water, book and oils and a flashlight, and made our way down to the mandat. It was a cold starlit night, and as we entered, drums and dancers were in full rhythm. In one dark corner a circle of women sat on the dirt floor around the fire. One of them, a girl of about fifteen, held a little bundle to her breast. She was the mother who had just given birth. She had come from a far away village, without her husband, and looked a little frightened. Larry baptized the baby, a first born boy. I went back to bed with the sound of the drums still in the air, and fell asleep with sights and sounds, and the mother and baby imprinted on my memory.

“As we entered drums and dances were in full rhythm. In a dark corner a circle of women sat on the dirt floor around a fire.

By: Sr. Francesca San Diego

St. Paul Sisters Rediscover the Vision of their Founder.

Sr. Francesca San Diego is a Filipino- a Sister of St. Paul- working with nomadic people in Cameroon. There she and her companions continue the original plan of their founder working with the poorest of the poor...

Skinned or Scalded
When I decided to be a religious, I also wanted to be a missionary nun. I was filled with the desire to offer my life to serve our sisters and brothers in far-off lands who had not heard our good news and I was ready to be skinned or scalded” in the process. Twenty-six years after-and eight years of mission life in Cameroon, Africa brought the reality and deeper meaning of sacrifice; of death and of resurrection.

Deflated Ego
I had to learn two languages simultaneously: French and Ewondo. The French, to be able to communicate with the Sisters and with the educated adult and school children; the Ewondo to be able to communicate with the elderly and the non-schooled natives who comprised the bulk of our patients coming for consultation and treatment. This called for superhuman effort to study these languages in-between work and to dare speak amidst the amusement of my hearers. After sometime and a whole gamut of feelings of helplessness, frustration and a deflated ego, I did learn to communicate in these foreign tongues...and to laugh with them. In the process, too, I discovered the truth that “love knows no language barrier.” They could see I was there for them- and they trusted.

They Call us Doctor
In Cameroon, we sisters-nurses are addressed as “Doctor” for indeed, when the sick come to the mission clinic, we diagnose, treat and care for them. Licensed physicians prefer to work in the city or in government hospitals in big towns. Every morning, we treat from eighty to one hundred patients- most women and children. Our lay staff work eight hours a day. The sister-nurses work six days a week and are on call every night including Sundays, because the patients or their families insist that only the “soeur-docteur” can help them. Very often, we get patients who are dying, and children who very dehydrated, because it is only when the witch doctors or traditional healers have given up that families rush to the clinic to try the “white man’s medicine.” Most of the time, we work in collaboration with the village healers for the peace of mind of the patients and their families. When we have done all that we can, and only the agony of waiting is left, then we invite the relatives- Moslem, Animist and Christian, to call on God to help their sick love one. There, I saw a miracles happen. There, I felt His presence as He went about instructing the ignorant, healing the sick, comforting the afflicted- through us. There, I experienced the Apostles’ awe and wonder- when they placed in Jesus’ hands the little they had- five loaves of bread and three fish.

Tribal People
For three years, I worked in a remote, underdeveloped region of the Cameroon. There was no electricity or running water. We were only four sisters in the community faced with the numerous demands of the Apostolate. Two of us concentrated on working for the total human development of the Pygmies –the most unprivileged group in that region. We had so much to give- and we had so much to learn from these people. What mattered was not how well we could treat their sick...but how much we knew and understood their customs and practices, to be able to use effectively our knowledge of health care. They had their own intricacies of relationships, individual roles and functions that we had to acquaint ourselves with and respect, if we wanted to walk with them according to their own rhythm. We searched out and tapped agencies that could help them out with technical aspects of development. This meant acting as “drivers” for the staff of said agencies to bring them to the Pygmy camps... feeding them, and more often than not, granting them free medical services.

All Things to All People
When a Pygmy camp asked to be helped in digging their own well, we had to be with them everyday to encourage the men to go on, especially when the water would burst out and their fear of being engulfed was so strong. When another camp asked to be helped in preparing their community’s cacao plantation, we took turns in being with them as they tilled the soil, transported the seedling and supervised the planting and upkeep of their field. When four camps asked to put up their own pre-school, we trained and guided four generous young men to be the teachers as well as community leaders.

The Call of the Forest
In this kind of work, there is no way of measuring results of the days and months of work with them, for the pygmies are nomads at heart and the call of the forest is strong. With out any notice, the whole camp can leave their present dwellings and stay deep in the forest for months. There they commune with God, their hold their traditional celebrations, and enjoy the rich produce of the forest. When they come out, we usually know because they come to us to sell the dried meat and wild animals they have hunted. When joked why they don’t give us ‘for free” as they do the village chief, they say because we Sister are not strangers to them. Pygmy logic? A compliment? A day or two after they have settled down, they ask us to visit their camp...and we begin again.
Yes, love is patient- and when there is love, one is welling to do all and be “all to all.”

Licensed physicians prefer to work in the city or in the government hospitals in big towns.

Without any noticed, the whole camp can leave their present dwellings and stay in deep in the forest for months.