In the previous episode, the missionary found himself among the displaced people in a Sudanese camp, where prayers were said under the shade of a tree rather than in grand cathedrals, and faith was lived out in the dust and heat of daily struggle. The missionary reflected on Masudio’s quiet conviction that “God is with us,” pondering whether God’s presence was more real among the refugees than in the silent cathedral back in Juba. As aid ran dry and Médecins Sans Frontières were forced to leave, the local people of Tombura began to welcome the refugees as family, sharing what little they had. In the midst of hardship, the missionary witnessed how hope and humanity could flourish, not through grand gestures, but in simple acts of kindness and the belief that God’s home is truly where the people are.
When strangers meet, they often try to find out whether they are somehow or other relatives. Everybody in Tombura, the locals and the refugees, seems to be a relative of everybody else. Perhaps not brother or sister, father or mother, cousin, brother- or sister-in-law, but at least they are relatives of those who were brother or sister, father or mother, cousin, brother- or sister-in-law. It is said, ‘The friends of our friends are our friends.’ And that has made all the difference. Food has been brought for relatives who come in need. They need no longer be classified as ‘refugees’ now that there was no refugee aid. Being labelled a refugee is often just as disastrous as being labelled ‘on the dole’ or ‘welfare mother’ or ‘asylum seeker’. The label ‘displaced’ is meaningless now, and so these ‘refugees’ have become people again.
At the market there was a fresh supply of second-hand clothes, smuggled from Zaïre for Christmas. The people bought these clothes for their destitute second cousins or for the child of their maternal uncle’s sister-in-law. A girl who did not want to go without a Christmas present altogether, donned the new dress herself and gave her old dress to a girl who was family somehow or other in some vague way. It was clear to me that injecting money into this self-help economy would not be right.
Together with Sister Natalia and the French doctor, Véronique, I visited the new arrivals. We listened to how they had fled from the SPLA, and Véronique told how the MSF plane had been shot down and that she might have to leave the country. Silently, each with our own thoughts, we walked back to the mission where people were sweeping the church compound in preparation for Christmas. All three of us felt at a loss and could find no more words to encourage each other. I was grateful that we knew each other well enough to be able to remain silent.
And then it is Christmas night. Lights are hanging in the trees around the church, which is too small to accommodate the more than 2,000 people who have gathered here. The altar table has been put outside. People flock around, the refugees are the guests of honour. The collection during Mass will be for them, so it has been announced. Also the doctor and nurses of Médicins Sans Frontières have been specially invited by the people. Chairs are brought for them. On hearing that their colleagues were killed in the plane, the people had expressed their sympathy by bringing a bunch of bananas, or by just sitting on their doorstep and repeating the word ‘malesh’, which means much more than ‘we’re sorry’. It can also mean, ‘hard luck, this blow hits you’, but it always implies sympathy. It is a small word, instead of many words that would have no heart.
All around the congregation there are police and soldiers, carrying their guns as usual. They stay at the edges of the congregation; their guns are an embarrassment to them, but they have strict orders to remain armed. Tonight they are part of the congregation.
It is a service full of prayers for peace. In his homily, my missionary colleague encourages those who offer a home to the people who have none. Very clearly, this has been happening here these last few days. There is singing, imported Christmas melodies, which connects me with home in Holland. But the local songs are sung with a lot more soul. The collection baskets are passed through the crowd. For the most part the local people have brought food which they send forward to be put in the big hampers: maize, cassava, bananas, a few chickens, and one of the shopkeepers has brought a goat. I put the money, which I brought for the refugees, in one of the baskets; after all, the collection is for them. It is money from an aid organization and it must be accounted for. I wonder what they would say if I were to write in my report to the donor organization: ‘£500 put in the Christmas collection at Tombura’. Still, I think it is the right thing to do.
During Holy Communion a new rhythm starts on the drums and the African xylophone. Then comes the melody; it is obviously a song that is deeply rooted in this culture. The rhythm slowly takes hold of the congregation. People sing and clap their hands. Some begin to sway with the rhythm, and gradually the two thousand people begin to dance, very slowly at first, as if they are waking out of sleep. The drummers drum faster. The displaced people are especially invited to join in the dance. Doctor Véronique is taken by the hand, she carries a child on her arm. The child is often with her; she has more or less adopted the doctor as her mother, since her own is dead. Véronique dances along, hesitantly at first, but then wholeheartedly, tears rolling down her cheeks. It is as if she is brought back to humanity, returning from the solitude of her sorrow of the past few days. We were empty-handed and did not know what to do, but these people, also empty-handed, have still so much to offer to each other and to us. I am presiding at this liturgy with another missionary, although it is evidently led not by us but by the people themselves. As the dance continues, my colleague at the altar asks me whether we should call a halt for a final prayer and the blessing. Why should we? This dance is a blessing and a prayer. We give these people our blessing, we bless the dance and join in.
Next week, get ready for a night that starts with a fierce encounter on a dusty road and ends with unexpected hospitality from Commander Kuol himself. As the missionary finds his feet in a newly liberated Yambio, old fears give way to new friendships, and the lines between guest and host blur in surprising ways. With a wedding on the horizon and the town buzzing with excitement, you’ll want to stick around—because in this episode, even the toughest soldier might just have a soft spot, and every meeting could change the journey forever.
