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Christmas Serving in a new, intriguing place
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. The following is
his letter for 2001.
Dear Friends,
Three months ago I informed Bishop Francis Gomes that I would soon
leave Mymensingh diocese to witness elsewhere. The door is always open
for you, Bishop Francis graciously responded, assuring me that I could
return at any time to the area in which I had already completed 25 years while
living in six districts. A few days later -- thanks to Habib, a man inspired by
Allah to find shelter for me -- I inserted myself into another district town,
165 miles to the southeast. Feni town of Feni district is part of Chittagong
diocese, to which Bishop Patrick DRozario now welcomes me to serve the
sick and live among the poor.
Immediately I began to inquire about and make contact with cleft
lip children, notifying their families about the free treatment available. I
chose to start in the new district by aiding persons with this disfigurement
because the results are plain to see and quick. Thus will the people of Feni
swiftly understand my intention to be useful to the poor, freely and as a
brother.
During these first weeks I am living in a rented room provided by
a middle class family, for this is the normal way for me to begin in a totally
unfamiliar town. For the time being, therefore, I dwell in a room with a cement
floor and an indoor toilet, conveniences that I hope to be delivered from as
soon as a poor family will invite me to build a bamboo hut next to theirs.
With me in the room are a bedroll and a mosquito net, a bucket for
drinking water, a kerosene stove with a cooking pot, a tin box that shields
books and papers from rodents and cockroaches and one toad and a bicycle. By
bus I had hauled the bicycle to Feni. Nothing else that I might bring to this
place could be more advantageous for the poor. It is a most valuable tool for
an apostolate on the highways and byways in search of the infirm and disabled.
Whenever people in the countryside or the town ask for the address of my
office, I simply point to the two-wheeler and deadpan: This is my
office.
A missioner expects every new place of abode to be different from
its predecessors. Feni is as exceptional as any other town where I have lived.
Events and persons can still startle me. During more than a quarter-century, my
motives for extending a hand to the poor who are Muslims were initially
suspected by most of those whom I came to serve. I would, for example, be in a
village inquiring about Abdul Mannan, in order to assist his disabled child.
Upon reaching the village, I would inquire: Where does Mannan live?
Peoples customary responses were: Why do you want to know?
and What is your connection to him? Villagers protected one another
from mistrusted outsiders. They wanted to be satisfied I wasnt a
collector from the bank. Here in Feni, however, men generally dish out at once
the directions I need. They might inquire afterwards about my purpose with
Mannan, but they do not make my explanation a condition. In Feni there appears
to be a tendency to credit a foreigner with benign intentions. Its
refreshing.
When I returned to my room from the bazaar recently, I noticed a
smiling, comely 12-year-old lass directly behind me. She had, it seems,
followed me from the alley all the way to my door. I just want to meet
you, she explained. My name is Navila. Saying that, she held
out her hand for me to shake. My eyebrows arched. Female-initiated handshakes
probably mean that television programs are not only watched, they are studied
and imitated.
Shaon, a bright, healthy student of class four, offered me a
lighted mosquito coil during my first afternoon in the rented room. Thank
you, I said. You are welcome, he replied, thereby bowling me
over. I do not recall the last time I heard those three little words in
Bangladesh. In the places I have lived, thanks and
youre welcome are rarely heard. Rather, a recipients
debt of gratitude simply perdures and is unremarked. Hence, when I described
Shaons courtesy to a fellow missioner, he dubbed Feni
cosmopolitan.
In the vegetable bazaar I selected some potatoes for the attendant
to weigh. Indignantly he tossed the spuds back into his basket and gestured for
me to take a hike. Mystified by his huffiness, I calmly insisted to know what I
did wrong. He instructed me irately: In this town the storekeeper chooses
the vegetables; the customer takes what he gets. That staggered me. I
related to him the custom of the Mymensingh area where for 25 years I observed
customers picking out their own potatoes. Unexpectedly, he mellowed and,
picking up the two large spuds I had originally chosen, he weighed them and
dropped them into my shopping bag. He seemed pleased that I had taken the time
to inform him, and to be informed by him. Patience paid off. Occasionally, I
restrain my annoyance and thereby surprise myself.
Shajahan, a 20-year-old student of Arabic and Islamics, is an
intelligent fellow preparing for a lifetime of religious leadership in the
Islamic community. The other day he came looking for me in my room while I was
away. He left a note, which I received hours later but which I was unable to
decipher. A neighbor made out the atrociously misspelled words for me.
How is it possible, I marveled out loud, that a person so
highly educated is so feeble in the Begali language? My neighbor gave a
sidelong glance and explained with scorn: Our religious professionals
customarily do not study our language and literature. How then, I asked
myself, can they lead Bengalis, a people enormously proud of their mother
tongue?
During my first week in Feni, I was enlightened by several keen
observers of the local scene. Kashem related that Here, there are no
religious fanatics. He went on, however, to negate that advantage with a
statistic. In the past five years politically motivated violence has
claimed the lives of 54 members of one party and 34 members of their rival
party. In other words, here fanaticism is political. Moreover, since
having that conversation, the number of slain have grown by 15. Feni, I
observe, is referred to in the national press as the countrys most
troubled district.
Azad coolly summarized his feelings about the place. Feni is
an agitated place. So, Brother Bob, I suggest you move to my district (250
miles northwest of here) where you will have unlimited scope for serving the
poor. It is thoughtful of the man to invite me. He appreciates my
purpose. But first let me try to contribute something to this intriguing
place.
Fraternally,
Bob McCahill Feni, Bangladesh
National Catholic Reporter, December 21,
2001
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