Krio, not Creole

Sometimes called ‘broken’ English, the common language of the region here in Sierra Leone is called Krio. It started as a trading language for thousands of freed slaves, evolving from contact with English-speaking traders and sailors. While English remains the ‘official’ language of the country (and for all the major Mass parts), Krio has acquired a permanent place in the culture of the people here, a true mixture of African and British idioms and phrases. Locals often switch back and forth indiscriminately, so I’ve learned to not be surprised if I suddenly have no idea what is going on.

To an untrained American-ear, such as my own, it comes across like gibberish. You hear random English words, but the context is off, you enter a rollercoaster of syllables, and then there is a deep, African grin expecting some kind of response. It sounds a bit like Creole, an island-ish soup of words. Likewise, I have found that I have to slow down my own way of speaking, because my ‘accent’ is hard for the locals to process at times.

Trash is “rubbish.” A line is a “queue.” “Can I take a picture with you” is said here as, “can I snap you?” To ask if someone needs to pee, you say “you need to sweat?” To compliment another man’s strength, you say, “I like your fitness.” To say “go slower” or “a little,” you instead say “small small.” To say “call me,” you say “flash me.” After you shake someone’s hand, a common gesture is to then take your right hand and touch your heart, as a sign of meaningful respect. If someone offers you their wrist, you shake the wrist because it means their hand is dirty. The TV channels are all European-based; they use the metric system for temperature, distance and weight; and the date is written as day/month/year, which keeps screwing me up.

I’ve been a bit conservative with taking photos of the people here; snapping without permission will likely get me in trouble. I’ve been cautioned that it can come off as either (1) I plan to make money off them or (2) I just want to sit around and pity their poverty later with my rich friends. I can see their point. Since, however, I have been sent here as a missionary with hopes of perhaps making a difference, if not now then later through rallying support back home, photographic evidence needs to supplied. More photos will be up on Facebook when I return, along with some kind of media CD for future presentations.

I am waiting to write about poverty. I feel like the topic could swallow up every future blog I post, as the daily reality is overwhelming. Sierra Leone sadly sits at the bottom of the UN’s human development index. Likewise, I feel that the Lord has more work to do in stripping me towards a better personal understanding of poverty and its calls/challenges for Christians of every global market.

Thank you again for all the thoughts and prayers; you all are lifting me through this African adventure.

-Bob
written 06/02/11....I mean, 02/06/11.

The Phenomenology of Mermaids

Today I sat in on one of Fr. Francis’ classes. He assists at the University of Makeni, teaching various classes on fields he studied through himself. Today he taught a Phenomenology of Religion course. I still have trouble pronouncing that word… “fa-nom-a-nology”…it’s basically the study of the phenomena we encounter and the experiences that we go through, open to the interpretations of many contributors, in hopes of circling ever-closer to what is true.

Father opened the class by asking, “Did man make history? Or did history make man?” The class erupted in discussion, as if the answer were obvious, but then not quite so. I shook my head in disbelief. I thought I left behind all of these questions about ‘being’ and philosophy back in the seminary, but they followed me to Africa. To any of my seminarian-brothers reading this, know that I had to bite my lip from laughing out loud when Father asked whether or not we can say that a mermaid “exists.” That answer is complicated.

I was shocked to see about 80 students in attendance for a class that the majority of American collegiates would veer away from. Only ten of the students were women. No one wore pajamas or gym clothing, as I grew accustomed to in Gainesville—different culture over here, although they still have major ‘futbol’ games. Sierra Leone’s current adult literacy rate is only at 31%, with only 18% of women over 18 able to read English. Only 15% of girls move on from primary to secondary school, the majority falling out to marriage (usually arranged or forced). While there still is a deeply ingrained social discrimination against women, the tide seems to be turning, at least slowly. I’ve heard more than a few impassioned speeches about the role of women in politics and seen numerous billboards chastising the physical abuse of women. Of course, the fact that these billboards have to even exist in the first place says something deeper.

It is my hope that Sierra Leone is able to move towards a more pro-woman culture without falling into the assumption that, to attain equality, gender must be made irrelevant (WARNING: Catholic social teaching is about to ensue). The well-meaning sexual revolutions of women in the past have unfortunately convinced many women that to be equal to men, they must become just like men. To succeed, women must often sterilize or destroy that which makes their femininity distinct and essential, catering to the business-model of a man’s world and outsourcing authentic respect for arguably the most charitable act known to humanity—motherhood. I’ve unfortunately seen advertising here in support for raining condoms from the sky and heard these dangerously twistable words in a speech: “pregnancy is the enemy of education.” Once we begin equating pregnancy to a disease or agree that the female body is better off sterile, where do we go? The cherishing of women in their personal wholeness would be an authentic sexual revolution, for Sierra Leone and for the whole world.

I see that this blog took a totally different turn from my ‘Mermaid’ title. You see what happens when you open the door just a bit for any kind of Theology of the Body discussion with me? Ye be warned.

-Bob
written 06/01/11

Fr. Francis

Let me paint you all a quick portrait of Fr. Francis Sedhu Sessay, my assigned priest and pastor of Holy Spirit parish in Makeni, Sierra Leone. He was born here in Makeni and passed through its junior seminary before continuing his studies and eventual doctorate in Rome. While an intellectual, he very much has his feet on the ground. He is quite active in the parish and its surrounding outposts. He’s almost forty (but “not yet”), and plays volleyball and soccer with the kids on Sunday evenings.

He drives a truck, he loves beer, and he

blasts reggae music as we drive around town. He’s like me, but in African-form. After listening to some contemporary Christian music on our multi-hour trek through the village outposts one Sunday afternoon, he abruptly ejected out the CD. He leaned over and told me, “Ok, it’s getting too religious,” and promptly put in “The Best of UB40.” It was awesome.

He likely will not be nominated for sainthood anytime soon, but it doesn’t matter. I have seen that Fr. Francis is a sincere man of prayer with a devout love for the Eucharist. He’s constantly poking fun at the other priests and getting the Bishop to laugh. The youth all look up to him, and I don’t think I could have been assigned a better (and more laid-back) priest for this African adventure.

-Bob
written 06/01/11

Tragedy

Yesterday I wrote about how water can heal and rejuvenate the weary soul. However, today I have witnessed the potential for water’s ability to destroy, or even kill. A fourteen-year old boy was found this morning at the bottom of a well, supposedly having fallen in sometime yesterday. He was attending one of the local Catholic schools. Fr. Francis and I were with Bishop Biguzzi around 9am this morning when he received the call (I was teaching him how to use his scanner). We immediately went to the site, and within an hour and a half people from all over the community had arrived to assist either physically or in prayer. He was carried out by the local fire department in front of a crowd of at least 250 townspeople, a great number bursting into wailing and tears at the sight of his body. I have never heard such a cry from so great a number. Perhaps the eeriest detail of the story was that when his body first appeared, his left hand was frozen clutching a rosary.

The medical coroner had assessed his head and neck, determining that trauma from the fall likely killed him on the spot. A grave site was prepared promptly. Around 2pm, there was a quick blessing of the body in front of the school. I counted at least seven priests from around the diocese who responded. Then the boy’s body, loaded into the back of a pickup-truck bed with his friends encircling, slowly drove down the road to the grave site, followed by a two-column line of every student in the school walking behind. The students numbered greater than 300, easily.

The Bishop had pulled me aside this morning, almost foreshadowing what I would see throughout this day. He told me that these people may be poor, but their solidarity is their strength. Men and women, boys and girls, they were all present to mourn or take action. Young school boys were openly crying on each others’ shoulders; I didn’t see any stoic suppression of emotions, as I guess I have grown accustomed to. I saw emotion raw and from the heart, as if understanding that the loss of one good life is truly a blow to the entire community.

Bishop Biguzzi has an obvious love for his people. From the first phone call this morning through four in the afternoon, he stayed steadfastly by the family members and his fellow priests, ensuring that everything that could be done was being down quickly and efficiently. He seemed to bring to life one of my favorite passages from an encyclical we studied this past semester, Ad Gentes: “the missionary…let him spend all and be spent himself for souls” (AG, #25).

Eternal rest, grant onto this boy, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.

-Bob
written 05/31/01

Bring the Rain

Thanks be to God, the constant heat and sweltering humidity have lessened in the past few days because of the onset of the rainy season, which lasts here from late May through August. I know that humidity increases with such a perpetually moist environment, but the constant overcast has decreased the temperature significantly and it has made my un-air conditioned room, I daresay, ‘pleasant.’ I know that this will likely be the onset of the great mosquito invasion, but I will take my chances with them over dealing with the unforgiving heat/humidity combo.

There is no plain named ‘Kapiti’ anywhere around here, but this sudden onset of wetness has reminded me of one of my favorite books from childhood, introduced to me via Lavar Burton of Reading Rainbow fame. The book, entitled “Bringing the Rain to Kapiti Plain,” told the story of an African ecosystem ravaged by drought. The climax of the story occurs when the rain finally arrives, bringing with it respite from the heat and new life through its waters. My parents would always read it out loud in their best James Earl Jones voice—that slow, deep

, inherently African way of dramatic storytelling.

Reflecting on that admittingly awesome children’s story led me to think about my parents, in particular my mother, and the courage it takes to let your children go off into the great unknown. Leaving me at the University of Florida was traumatizing enough for her, and I sincerely doubt that she will get a quality night’s sleep until both of her boys have returned from Africa. I know that, as a son, I don’t always take into consideration what these adventures do to my parents…but I’m learning how deep that reservoir we call ‘love’ can reach as I seem to stretch them more and more in their own trust in God’s steadfastness. Love demands that I desire the best for the other person in my life (according to Aquinas, to “wish the other well”), even if the ‘best’ in the particular situation requires that we let them go. Holding on to what is familiar and safe can stifle the growth we can only accomplish through struggle…I hope that I can keep this truth close to heart when the temperature reaches 95+ again with 97.7 % humidity!

The rain is pouring down now as I write this; it seems to be suggesting a new beginning for myself here. I have officially been in Africa now for one whole week…and I’m still here. I went through an unforeseen but serious homesickness hump, perhaps caused by the total removal of all the comforts, trappings, and ready communication that I had grown used to in the States. I knew what I was walking into, but I think somewhere in the back of my head I thought I would at least have a quiet, freezing room with Wi-Fi to retreat to. Africa seems like quite the romanticized mission trip, but it is tough. I can say, “Jesus, I trust in You” over and over again, but here I really had to show Him I meant it. I’m sure Bishop Lynch sensed the growth potential before tossing me in here.

Through the relationships I am building with the people here, and especially with Fr. Francis taking me under his wing, I am witnessing the ever-present love of God and His desire, not necessarily for our comfort, but for our greatness.

-Bob
written 05/30/11

"Ah-Porto"

As Father Francis and I have been driving around the town, I have noticed a lot of the children waving and saying “ah-porto!” I figured they were all calling to him, or that the word meant ‘priest’ or ‘father.’ Well…no. Today Fr. Francis clarified this as we drove out of town to the village outposts to celebrate Mass. Before the British, the Portuguese were the first to “claim” Sierra Leone. Colloquially, now it means “white man.” At least they’re waving and smiling when they say it. So when the kids are shouting “ah-portoooo” as we drive by, I wave now, feeling a bit like the pope.

I certainly receive stares, usually from very small children and adults who look at me like I have five eyes. It’s not everyday that a white man strolls into this section of Africa, I suppose. Older kids and teens seem more open to getting to know me, and they enjoy saying my name: either “BAH-B” or “WOB-ert Ain-GEL”. I was invited to play football (soccer) with a group of kids from the parish later this evening.

I have been taken aback by several people asking what I thought about Africa before I came, or did I think all Africans were Zulu warriors living in huts, or if I had even heard of Sierra Leone before being assigned to it (I hadn’t). These questions came not from places of personal attack, but genuine curiosity of how the world views them. I am on the other side of the continent, far from any zebra, lion, and giraffe, and I am finding a culture as diversified as Bostonians can be from Texans. It’s

oversimplification to clump all African cultures under one heading. Each country has its own share of developmental problems and cultural treasure. Likewise, the people I have met are eager to put the fame of ‘Blood Diamond’ and other war-centered images behind them. They have fought hard for peace, and are not willing to let the violence of their past rise again anytime soon. Bishop Biguzzi assured me that this is one of the safest countries in the world, and from what I have seen in my limited time here, I can agree.

Still wrestling with some homesickness, but God seems to be giving me the grace to push through that hump. I guess I just wasn’t expecting to miss my family this much. But having Mass every morning here has been my strength, and I know that I am with them and you all through the Eucharist. Since I may only be able to access the internet twice a week, I’ll just be throwing on these reflections in clumps as a time, so pay no attention to the day/time that they’re posted; I will write the actual date I wrote it under my name.

“Every day you have to say ‘yes.’ Total surrender! To be where He wants you to be…If God wants you to be in a palace, alright…accept to be in the palace” –Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

—Bob
Written 05/29/11

*After football, a 10-year old named Issa tugged on my shirt and pointed to a nearby statue of Mary and asked, “Missionary, who is that?” We talked for ten minutes about Mary…best moment of the day!

Dying to Self

The deaconate ordination we had here in Makeni at Our Lady of Fatima Cathedral was pretty epic—2.5 hours running time, choir in full swing (switching between Mass parts sung in the local African dialect, heavy on the drums, and English songs such as ‘Here I am, Lord”), and Bishop Biguzzi giving an inspiring homily on the necessity of dying to ourselves to follow Christ. T

he Mass was exactly the same as it was in the States, and I was particularly blessed because they sat me in with the African seminarians. I didn’t have an alb to wear with them, but it’s not like it was going to help me blend in anyway.

Speaking of “dying to self,” I am finding two great obstacles here in this first week in Africa: (1) my inability to access the internet (and thus my family) anytime I desire, and (2) the reality that I will have to live caked in my own sweat for the duration of the time here. The priests’ house here has running water, but it doesn’t always work (such as both times I have attempted to shower). I also likely will only have access to the internet one or two times a week at very short intervals, and that’s if the connection works properly. My personal discomforts, combined with the Bishop’s homily, have prompted me to reflect about how much I took for granted while living on the Stateside.

Many of the people in this town don’t know the comforts that we possess, and somehow they are still happy…go figure. I have much to learn. Mary and Joseph didn’t live in an air-conditioned box with ready water flowing from the pipes, nor did St. Francis Xavier or St. John Vianney. Each of these individuals gave their lives to Christ just the same…even if they were surely physically ripe at times. Because I KNOW that I smell potent right now. I hope that’s not sacrilegious…all I’m saying is that St. Joseph was a man, and after a hard day’s work…well, yeah…he was a man. And we don’t always smell like Old Spice.

I don’t think I was prepared for the overall toll that living in Africa demanded. I guess the lack of amnesties present reveal perhaps the deeper expectations and habits (and internet addiction) I have come to develop. Christ came to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, and I certainly believe that He is afflicting me (with good reason; without testing, we will never grow). I saw a sign around here that said, “Smooth seas do not make a good sailor.”

I feel that your prayers are with me, and I feel connected with you all in the Eucharist we share as one body across the globe. I know that if I give my time here to Christ, without holding back, He will do great things with such a spoiled and smelly servant.

-Bob
written 05/28