In the last episode, I spent an evening talking with Kuol, the tough SPLA commander who had slowly become my strange but trusted friend. He teased me about my celibacy, calling it a kind of poverty, while he, who could marry several wives, felt rich in ways I was not. As aid groups arrived in Yambio, their rules clashed with the local way of life, forcing families into camps as if they were animals in cages, which made Kuol furious. At night he came to me troubled, unsure whether to take food from the struggling villagers or from the relief stores to feed his hungry soldiers. Though I refused to advise him, I secretly hoped he would spare the people. As we talked more openly, we admitted the failures of both our religions and the movements we served, wondering whether true dialogue between Muslims and Christians was even possible. Yet in our quiet conversations, sitting side by side in the fading light, it felt as if our friendship might already be the start of that dialogue.
It is burning hot when the small plane touches down on the dusty airstrip in Torit. The security official checks our papers under the wing of the plane, the only shade there is. His T-shirt has an exhortation printed on the back: Brothers and sisters, help each other in these difficult times. I wonder if it is one of the SPLA slogans. They have this area under control at the moment, and are trying to put it on its feet again. They come up with all kind of slogans to motivate the people to build up their lives again. But below the text are the dates: 24th May 1964-24th May 1989, and although the struggle for freedom has lasted already more than twenty-five years, the SPLA’s fight for a new Sudan started only in 1983. Apparently the security officer’s T-shirt is not of the SPLA.
When the official sees in my papers that Bishop Paride Taban has invited me, he suddenly becomes much friendlier. He explains that Paride Taban is a good friend of his, in fact the bishop gave him this very T-shirt he is wearing. With some pride he shows the front of the T-shirt: the bishop’s coat of arms with the text: God is Love; below the text there is the picture of an African open fire, as if that love of God must be kept warm. I do not recognize the picture above the text. But Francis (now that we have a common friend the official’s name is suddenly made known to me) explains to me that it represents a child’s cap from the Madi tribe, to which the bishop belongs. Such a cap protects the babies from too much sun or from rain and wind. In this picture it looks as if the cap must protect God’s love, which might get scorched too in the burning sun, or blown about in rain and wind. Francis wishes me a good time in the liberated area of Sudan. He thinks he does not need to keep an eye on me any further: I will be quite safe in the bishop’s hands.
I had met Bishop Paride in Juba a few years ago. At that time he was making frantic efforts to organize a food-convoy to Torit, a town that was being besieged and starved by the SPLA. Many people considered it to be a hazardous enterprise. But this bishop, with his worried look and a beard like an untrimmed hedge, wanted to be with his people. He was the Bishop of Torit, and that is where he wanted to be, although he was well aware of the danger there. He was prepared to face that danger for the people of Torit, who were threatened with starvation.
They set off with over seventy lorries under the much-needed protection of the army. It is not a long distance: eighty-four miles from Juba to Torit. The road, however, was a minefield. They often had to find themselves a new track. The SPLA considered it to be a military convoy and attacked it constantly. It took thirty-one horrible days and nights to cover that distance. Many were killed, soldiers and civilians. Paride buried them with just a simple prayer. Lorries hit mines or were shot to smithereens by the SPLA, who were using the hunger of the people in Torit to conquer that town. For nearly all his life as a priest it has been war for Bishop Paride. But he will not accept hunger as a weapon.
As last he reached Torit, with many wounded, and twenty lorries fewer than they had started with. The town was starving. People were eating dogs and cats; a single rat cost $6. The food supplies brought hope, at least for a while. The bishop brought them new courage: he shared the people’s sorrow, he shared in their hunger. But the supplies ran out. When the people were too weak even to dig graves for those around them who had died of starvation, the bishop gave his last gallons of diesel fuel for the road-builders’ bulldozer. It was used to dig a mass grave, where day by day new bodies were buried.
Torit was cut off from the outside world, only the bishop had his radio transmitter. One of his messages before Torit was conquered said: ‘We are asking the people to make their preparations for a good death. All that we can offer them in Torit is our sweat, blood and our tears.’ Perhaps Churchill who said something like that inspired this statement, but this bishop saw a lot more sweat, blood and tears than Churchill.
Even the government army had no more food, and it was fortunate that the SPLA managed to conquer Torit when it did. The famished army could no longer stop them. The SPLA took Bishop Paride Taban prisoner; after all, he had fed the army too, and he had been critical of the war methods of the SPLA. True, he would not let aman die of starvation just because that man was a soldier. You will not hear him say he was ill-treated by the SPLA. During imprisonment he made many friends, not only among his fellow-prisoners, but also among his SPLA jailers. With all of them he celebrated, very soberly, the silver anniversary of his ordination to the priesthood. He was released after one hundred days, his weight down to under a hundred pounds, but he was unbroken. After his release he celebrated his silver jubilee once more, a free man, together with his people. On that occasion he received those T-shirts with his coat of arms as a present, and he gave them to his friends instead of a commemoration card.
Tonight I am the guest of Bishop Paride Taban. With some of his African priests we sit on small folding chairs under the guava trees in front of his house. He sits here nearly every evening with his visitors. It is cooler out than inside, but he also sits here because the people will more readily come along to say hello when they hear him laugh. Everyone is welcome. If there is tea, you can have a cup of tea; otherwise you get just a glass of water. He tells us about his recent journey to Europe, where he went to plead for more solidarity with southern Sudan. He returned a few days ago. His beard is neatly trimmed and with a big smile he pats his belly when he discloses that his weight has returned to his normal 130 pounds. You can tell from his face that he is happy to be back home again. He drove himself through the three days it takes from Nairobi to Torit. A young priest who came with him says the bishop nearly fell asleep, but Paride waves that away with a smile.
For him, driving a car is relaxation. He would rather drive an old Land Rover than govern a diocese. He has the oldest car in the diocese, which only he manages to keep on the road. He was a mechanic and driver before he started his studies for the priesthood. As a driver he learned how to improvise. When the road is bad or a bridge has disappeared, you need great prudence and patience in finding a new way through the bush or the river. He has got something of the rascal about him when talking about his driving adventures. He never had any ambition to become a bishop. When he was asked to become a bishop, he replied: ‘What will become of the church if they appoint a truck-driver rather thà n a theologian as bishop?’ But his diocese too has had a very difficult way to go, and it has not been badly off with Paride at the wheel, steering his diocese through harsh and difficult times.
Yesterday we talked together about the reconstruction of southern Sudan after this long war. Much has been destroyed, but that is not the first worry. Paride wants to co-operate with other churches in providing for the people. People must be given a new incentive; they themselves are in need of reconstruction. That is why he started, together with Bishop Nathaniel Garang of the Anglican Church, a council of churches for the liberated area. We had been looking over some destroyed buildings yesterday, when we came to the market-place where people were dancing. They danced around us and the bishop danced a few steps with them. As we continued our way he said: ‘Oh well, buildings are needed, but they can’t dance. People can dance.’
Tonight he tells about his visit to Norway. Many Norwegians worked here before the war. They had their own village where the families engaged in development work lived. Their housing was comfortable, they had electricity and running water, even their own swimming pool. This village was destroyed in the battle around Torit. The Norwegians who lived there know Paride and gave him a great welcome when he arrived in Norway. ‘What is left of what we built up in the Sudan?’ they asked. The bishop smiles a bit when he tells his answer: ‘Of what you built up? Yes, some have died of starvation or were killed in the war, but most of them are still alive, and send you their kindest regards.’ The Norwegians did not dare to ask further about their buildings. The following day they wanted to talk business; they wanted to discuss projects, money, and contracts. Bishop Paride, however, is not only a businessman. Money and material help alone do not mean solidarity to him. Instead of a straight answer with figures and statistics, the bishop gave them the story which he begins telling us now, about an almost desperate mother during the war around Torit. And there is no longer that rakish, cavalier air about him. His eyes betray his concern.
The mother has no food left for her children. The pots in her hut are empty, but only she knows it. The children just trust Mama. They are poor but don’t know it. She tells the children she has to cook, but that it will be troublesome if they are around when she unpacks the dried meat from the pot at the back, so the kids are sent outside. The meat pot is empty. She fills the cooking pot with stones and water and puts it on the fire. Then she calls the children back in and asks them to keep the fire going. Dried meat takes a long time to cook, and the children, thinking they are cooking meat, forget all about being hungry. The mother goes into the woods to find food, but, as many others have discovered, there is little remaining there. The basket on her head remains empty, and she is desperate. Suddenly, from nearby she hears a lion roar. She is scared to death of lions, yet she draws closer to the sound and from behind a tree she watches a lion devouring a buffalo. Oh, she is afraid, but she also knows that the meat will keep her children alive. She takes the circlet of grass, with which she balances her basket, from her head and flings it at the lion to divert its attention. It works. When the lion pounces on the grass ring, the mother throws sand on the buffalo meat, knowing that lions do not eat soiled flesh. When the lion returns, it recoils from its meal. The mother fills her basket with the soiled flesh, goes to wash it in the river and runs home. The children are still minding the fire. She sends them out again and quickly cooks the fresh meat, which does not take long. Her children and those of the neighbours have something to eat that day. Only the mother knows how close they had been to starvation.
When Bishop Paride told this to the Norwegians they had hung on every word, as we did now. But the bishop had not stopped there, and had elucidated: ‘This is not just the story about a mother in Torit. It is also the story of our present-day world. The West is that lion. You have control of the buffaloes that can save the lives of many.’ I do not know if many bishops feel themselves to be mothers. It is certain that not many African men compare themselves with women, but the bishop had added: ‘Yes, and I, as I am here now, feel somewhat like that mother’.
In the next episode, the journey of our missionary takes an unexpected turn, as the calm after Yambio’s welcome begins to fade and new troubles rise on the horizon. Whispers of danger drift through the town like smoke, and a single message forces him to choose between safety and the call of duty. Old fears stir again, friendships are tested, and a path he thought he had left behind opens once more before him. With only his faith, his courage, and the memory of those who walked beside him, he must decide whether to step forward into the unknown. Something awaits him—something he could never have prepared for.
