Christmas A letter from Bangladesh
Every Christmas, we at NCR, as well as many others,
receive a letter from Maryknoll Fr. Bob McCahill, who, many years ago, decided
his lifes ministry would be the simple act of being present to the people
of Bangladesh. He arrives in a village, makes friends and helps the locals when
they allow it, but his main objective is simply being there. Following is his
letter for 1999:
Dear Friends,
Missioners frequently claim that they receive more from the people
they have come to serve than they give to them. That claim, it seems to me, is
not exaggerated.
After living four months in a new town, Gaffargaon, I was finally
invited by a poor family to build a dwelling on the northern side of their tiny
property. When Subhan and I had finished constructing a bamboo hut, his wife
invited Jolil Munshi to read the Quran inside my new abode and to invoke an
Islamic blessing upon it. People living nearby all allowed that I, the first
Christian they had ever met, would also read from the Bible and offer a
Christian blessing. Thus, the hut is doubly blessed by the Best Protector. In
addition, I feel fortunate to have neighbors who, though illiterate and
impoverished, are generally open-minded, restrain their anti-Christian
prejudices and accept me as a man.
On the railroad station platform I met a turbaned man, baggily
clothed in wrinkled white cottons and wearing rings on every finger. His cloth
shoulder bag had patched-on patches. Mannan conversed enthusiastically about
the myriad tombs of Muslim saints to which he goes on pilgrimage. This
pilgrims heart is with Allah and the saints. While the people of this
town can hardly satisfy their curiosity about my purpose among them, I consider
Mannans lifestyle equally as fascinating. One day I learned why Mannan
had never invited me to his home. I saw my friend curled up and asleep on the
grass. Mannan has no home and no special place to lay his head.
A blind 25-year-old man, his wife, their infant daughter and I
made the chilly 6:30 a.m. rail journey into the city. Kashem, the unseeing one,
received no encouragement from the doctors for the recovery of his sight. As we
left the hospital together, Kashem made a single request of me: Please
give me a sweater to relieve my shivering. Gladly I gave it. Not many
persons in this world would settle for a garment to assuage their loss of
vision.
When the train reached the station, my friends were nowhere in
sight. Standing nearby, a complete stranger grasped that I was holding tickets
for the soon-to-be-departed train and that I could still recover my expenses by
selling them quickly to people crowded around the ticket window. He did not
want to see me lose 60 takas ($1.20) in unused tickets. I am grateful
for people who give unsolicited good advice.
The deep tube well from which my neighbors and I must draw water
is quite inconvenient. This source of water can only be reached by moving
cautiously along 60 yards of narrow, uneven, slippery ridge that would try a
goats skill. Farida, mother of Shanu, has been bringing a potful of the
precious fluid each day to my door. Allah bless her. When she arrived one day,
lugging the water pot on her hip, she was wet and muddy. I slipped!
she admitted with laughter. I deduce that Farida is my better. In similar
circumstances I would not even grin.
Without notifying my friends, I appeared in Tangail for a
twice-yearly visit. After borrowing Mukuts bicycle I rode to Halim and
Nilimas house to see about a place to stay overnight. But they were away,
so I proceeded to the quarters of Mofiz. How impressive was his familys
reception.
After treating me exuberantly to the evening meal they had
prepared for themselves, Mofizs four daughters fed their brother, and
only after that did they eat, sharing what the men had left. These folks are
happier to offer hospitality than to fill their own stomachs. They amaze and
humble me.
When I went to view the corpse of Farook, I said a few words to
his grieving father. But when I came to Shereen, his 23-year-old widow, I was
at a loss for words. Finally, I mumbled a dumb question: How are
you?
She replied, using the acceptable formula, By the grace of
Allah I am well. I wish I had not stumbled into asking that inept
question, for the bereaved woman surely did not feel well. But she did know how
to return a genteel answer even when the inquirer put a witless question.
Sharifa, a 12-year-old girl who was scalped when her long, braided
hair got caught in a rice milling motor, came looking for me while I was away.
She told the neighbors she had no place to stay on the night before
accompanying me to the hospital. Thus, they invited her to stay with them.
Lovely initiative. I much admire that sort of sharing: a safe shelter with a
mat and a pillow offered by the poor to the poor.
Renu, a slight, dark, pretty 16-year-old girl had cirrhosis of the
liver. She was pleased whenever I would visit and gently slap my baseball cap
on her head. One day I found her in pain, lying outdoors with an old umbrella
shading her rapidly aging face.
Ive never had a sharee of my own, the
dying lass declared.
Would you rather have more medicine or a
sharee? I asked.
A sharee! she shot back. A pink
sharee, she added with a smile. After I had been to 10
sharee shops, I found an entirely pink one. Renu got up from her mat and
let women drape her with her first sharee. I took some photos; she posed
good-naturedly. Renu accepted that she would die within a fortnight. Frailty is
no bar to bravery.
On several occasions I had instructed Ali to pick up medicines
that I had purchased for his daughter, Renu. Ali failed every time. Thus, when
we chanced to meet on the street I scolded him straightaway.
Finally, when he could get a word in edgewise, Ali told me with
tears: Renu died three days ago. As I was kicking myself for rashly
complaining, Ali graciously insisted that I go to their hut on the morrow to
eat a meal. Ali forgave and forgot my rashness.
The rickshaw puller I hired to convey me to the rail station was
in distress. His swollen, ulcerated right foot had been run over, he told me.
The man needed hospitalization and, I suspected, a skin graft. Meanwhile, he
pumped that cycle with all his strength and hoped that the foot would get
better spontaneously. Surely the poor depend on God more than I do.
Anoara, mother of three, told me something nice. I dreamed
last night about Bidya and Amiyo. Those two major seminarians had each
spent several weeks living with me and befriending Muslims earlier this year. I
must remember to tell the young Christian men that they are so highly esteemed.
Muslims are also our family, and future priests should feel that kinship.
Every day I experience encounters with goodness such as the above.
The Author of all Goodness works through Muslims and awakens in me awareness of
their virtues. The church instructs me not only to acknowledge the spiritual
and moral goodness of Muslims, but also to preserve and promote it.
Sincere affirmation of the beauty in Muslims lives gives
witness to the Truth, that is, to Jesus, the One who came among us not to
condemn but to save.
Fr. Bob McCahills address is P.O. Box 2399, Dhaka-1000,
Bangladesh.
National Catholic Reporter, December 24,
1999
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