Behind the Eclipse

by Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

  ‘How was the shower?’ The Pastor Emanuel asked me.

  ‘Better than the rain in Monrovia,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘We have discussed with the Church in Ivory Coast that we will send additional human resources,’ the Pastor Emanuel said while he was enjoying his French soup.

  ‘We need English speaking pastors in the border who know the Liberian context,’ he added.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Pastor Jean-Paul.

  ‘George, you will have to go to Liberian border with a few other missionaries next week,’ the Pastor Jean-Paul sounded as if he had taken the decision even before we came to Conakry. I was happy to serve people. I felt I’d better serve God and his followers while staying in the bush because I had witnessed so far the missions in the cities rather full of luxuries and superficialities than the pure will to serve the followers of Christianity. I instantly gave my consent which made the Pastor Jean-Paul euphoric. He reached me and hugged me tight.

  ‘You have been a faithful servant of God throughout. God bless you in this mission!’ His appreciation motivated me. I felt a point of pride within me.

  22

  The following week, I travelled with two Beninese clergymen to Tabu beach in Ivory Coast where there were Liberian refugee camps. We had a truck full of dry food to be distributed, and we were supposed to meet the aid teams from the main church in Abidjan. When we reached the refugee camps in Tabu, thousands of Liberians who had fled the second Liberian war were packed in temporary shelters that had already been soaked with the rain waters. Many of them had not eaten any cooked food for the past two days. Some children had been weakened because there was no milk in the breasts of their mothers as they had been walking dozens of miles in the bush without proper food. Many of them were suffering from Malaria, Typhoid, and severe weaknesses.

  Most of the women had already become widows during the journey while fleeing the war with their men. They had left their loving kids in the bush because they were not strong enough to retain until the end of the journey. In most of the cases, children had died of Malaria; some men with fresh wounds due to gun shots, mutilations that needed immediate medical attention. Some kids were looking like Kwashiorkor patients, but it was certain that their conditions would aggravate pretty soon and most probably, they would be leaving their parents and this world before long.

  Our truck was full of dry food, but it was nearly impossible to prepare food in the temporary tents where the refugees were staying. Nonetheless, everyone gathered around us immediately after they saw the pastors because the presence of clergy was simply the presence of aid—specially food but not the presence of God. Amidst the calamity and confusion, the need of God seemed hibernated, but underneath the relief blankets there were thousands of problems remaining unmet, and thousands of stories lying unsaid that God would be called back soon after the immediate needs were met. Therefore, I knew that the violent rush for immediate needs might be followed by a time when the humid air in Tabu would be overwhelmed by the heavy sighs of the victims of torture, rape, loot and various types of violence and losses that could be usual in any conflict situation.

  Unlike my first experience in which I was also displaced by war, even though I had better conditions in the Church I looked at myself as a resourceful person to serve these people who were hard hit by the second Liberian war. As it always happened, long lasting frustrations in my life that remained latent within me were covered by the tough cell of purposefulness before the immense population that had been pushed to live in a hell on earth.

  ‘Desperateness is contagious, so is the hopefulness,’ Oldman used to say whenever his wives worried about something as he always believed the bad times were creations of the Creator to check the stamina and the strength of our communities. When the Bush-curse broke out in our village, I heard someone repeating what I heard from Oldman many times.

  After distributing the dry food items, we left for the nearest church of our denomination to spend the night which was around 50 kilometres away from Tabu beach. The church was simply a hall, and there were no proper rooms, the pastors used to sleep on the benches. We had a wash from a nearby water stream which reminded me of the church that the Reverend Maurice put up in Kpelle village in Liberia. I loved that place since it was the first step which lifted my life to the place where I was when I came to Ivory Coast. The stream, big trees, and the brick building gave me a homely feeling. It was most probably because of its resemblance to the church in Kpelle village and its environment. It was the place where Tamba was reborn as George, and God took my life into his hands from the Creator and our ancestors we relied upon as Kissi people. It was the place where I did not have much frustration, sadness or hardships and the place where my complete transformation commenced that I always recalled with much delight.

  ‘This is the ideal place for our mission,’ my thoughts were translated into words without my knowledge.

  ‘I was thinking the same,’ one among the Beninese said.

  ‘It’s a bit far from Tabu,’ the other said.

  ‘We have the old truck,’ I said as I did not want to move from the place where I was able to re -establish my ecological and spiritual sense of place.

  ‘I am ready to travel every day to Tabu from here,’ I verbalised my genuine thoughts.

  ‘Help me God in my endeavours,’ I said with veritable faith that seldom came from within.

  ‘Probably a few boys can help you in setting up a temporary place for the people to gather for the service,’ one pastor said.

  ‘That was what I was about to request,’ I politely endorsed his idea.

  ‘Maybe, we can go back tomorrow morning and try to find out whether the old community centre can be used unless refugees had already broken into it,’ Soro, the caretaker of the church, said reminding me of my grandfather—Oldman. He was as old as my grandfather when he passed away. The spontaneous problem-solving skills of long-lived people were way higher than our structured and framed minds force-fed by the knowledge in the books. What Oldman taught me to respect grey hair and many old people, whom I came across in the journey of my life so far made me believe in the wisdom of age.

  ‘That is a brilliant idea,’ the Pastor Aminu, a Nigerian clergyman, who had just joined supported Soro.

  ‘Early morning tomorrow we will leave here with a few chairs, a table, and other necessities,’ Soro was quick in response despite his age which was apparently seventy plus.

  ‘Soro, Are you sure no one is living inside there?’ I asked him as it was usual that people occupied public places during displacement situations.

  ‘I did not see people in it,’ Soro replied leaving us a question mark. A question mark left an uncertainty before the instantaneous excitement which had just conceived within me.

  ‘Trust in God! We will get it,’ Soro said trying to keep everyone hopeful. Several times life had taught well enough the gap between the realities and the dreams; therefore I decided to plan the rest once we reached Tabu on the following morning.

  ‘Let’s call it a day! We will reach tomorrow for breakfast,’ I left the table desirous to have a restful night to re-energize myself for the unforeseen adventures in the store of the following day.

  23

  Even before the very first sun ray infiltrated the barricade of dark rain clouds that had already gathered secretly during the night, Soro had prepared breakfast for everyone in the church,’Maafe and Tapalapa bread ready.’

  Maafe was my favourite which was a typical Malian stew common in Guinea made with chicken, tomato, onion, garlic, cabbage and sweet potato or cassava leaves.

  After breakfast, we got into the truck and went to Tabu. When we reached the community centre, everyone started to gather around us assuming that we had come to distribute relief items. The perceptual set of refugees had already well set to conclude that the presence of any stranger was all about giving something which
prevented them from trying to do anything to find a living in the new environment. Often visitors without gifts were not welcomed.

  ‘We hungry ever since,’ was the common slogan we heard from the crowd. Everyone wanted to get something. I knew that it would be impossible to fight the dependency syndrome of these refugees who had experienced multiple displacements in their lives and lived on external aid for years. The more I witnessed the bitterness of the situation, the higher an urge to do something arose within me that might change their lives.

  ‘George, it’s open,’ it was Soro`s voice that raised among hundreds of other voices around me.

  ‘We will see what we can do,’ I told the crowd and followed Soro.

  ‘We can get some people among the refugees to clean the building?’ Though it sounded like a question, Soro knew that it would be possible and he already had a good strategy.

  ‘We will call for volunteers but after completion of the task, we may pay them a little,’ Soro was quite an intelligent person who had an incredible capacity for problem solving which impressed me a lot.

  ‘You are a genius,’ I said in appreciation. He smiled and went back to the crowd to find some men and women to help us clean the building.

  After a few hours of cleaning, we were able to set up the hall with the table and chairs for the pastors. The toilet which was annexed to the hall was in good condition even though the plumbing system was out of order. Soro brought a bucket full of water and ensured that the minimum required sanitation standards were met.

  ‘Boys, you worked hard,’ Soro said.

  ‘You deserve something,’ I added.

  ‘We give you something little but use it carefully,’ I gave three hundred CFAs—Central African Frances each and everyone looked surprised and happy.

  ‘We are ready to go,’ Soro sounded ardent and motivated.

  ‘If you move here, I will stay with you,’ he said showing me his yellowish teeth with his usual genuine smile that extended till his ears.

  ‘Soro, we have to see how this goes, people are in need of basic and immediate support. We may have to look at those as well; otherwise, no one would attend to our services,’ I gave him a clue about what was going on in my mind.

  I wanted to engage these people in something that would empower them instead of seeing them as victims of protracted displacement. I wanted to see them discover their potentials and make use of them to live a life with dignity. I wanted to find a way to address hundreds of problems remaining hidden under the relief blankets. I imagined thousands of sad stories living within them unsaid to be told, relieving the weight that they had been carrying since their first displacement or even before that. But I was an individual with limited resources and primarily the financial and material support that was needed for the mission I had in my mind was enormous. ‘With every light, there is darkness that follows.’ The conversations with Rev Philip came to my mind repetitively.

  With a perplexed mind, I walked a few steps away from the fence of the community centre compound and looked at it.

  ‘Community Welfare Centre,’ the words written on the dirty wall with a piece of red brick hit my mind.

  ‘Community Welfare Centre,’

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘Community Welfare Centre,’

  ‘Thanks God!’

  I could not but continue monologuing. I was embraced by a feeling of being helped which arrived all of a sudden from nowhere. I did not know who had written it on the wall, but that was exactly what I wanted.

  ‘Soro,’ I called Soro to show him what was on the wall and its association with my idea.

  ‘I`m here,’ the old man rushed towards me showing his broad smile and yellowish teeth, and he had a piece of red brick in his hand.

  24

  ‘Community Welfare Centre’ of Tabu became the hub of all sorts of activities done, not only for the Liberian refugees in transit areas of Tabu, but also for the host communities who at first looked at us out of suspicion.

  Every Sunday morning, there was a service for Christians followed by an open discussion about the problems that the people faced in refugees camps. Later on, we invited the humanitarian organisations and local authorities, police and security personals to participate in post service community discussions. We formed committees representing refugees as well as host villagers in managing the external support. Soro, irrespective of his age, worked day and night shoulder to shoulder with the young people who had already gathered around the movement and me. Welfare centre was used by all the groups irrespective of their religion, creed, and nature of work. At the end of the third month, we managed to renovate the building with the financial support of a non-governmental organisation and the labour support from the villagers and the refugees. By the end of the first year, we were able to start alternative livelihood training for the men and women in the refugee population, and we used resource persons from the host communities and paid them which ensured that our initiatives also benefited those host communities. In less than three months, after the first team was trained in sewing and embroidery, a few trainees expressed their willingness to work as tailors for the refugees as well as the host communities. Before the first batch was graduated, we had already got three sewing machines and a small glass wall-robe and later the tailor shop was fully functional in the community welfare centre. By the end of the fourth year, a fully functional preschool, community hall where the Community-Jury was held, welfare society for the Liberian refugees in Tabu transit camp, mobile clinic, vocational training centre and the church for all denominations were functional in the community welfare centre. With the extent of work we performed in the centre, the time I had dedicated to religious activities significantly went down and rather than visiting Tabu every day; I decided to stay in the community welfare centre with Soro. Without my knowledge, a half-decade had passed but the time I spent in Tabu made me realise that to make a difference in human life we ought to accept the difference between us. Whatever our belief system, traditions, and languages could be, we all are human beings. All throughout my journey from Kissi village, across Loma village and Kpelle village, from Liberia to Ivory Coast via Guinea: with the black man and the white man, every change I had gone through taught me that no difference could be greater than the commonness of being human. But human beings found it difficult to forget those little differences and accept the humanity which would always be common to human beings.

  By May 2004, people started moving back to Liberia and our existence in Tabu became rapidly trivial. A couple of pastors who worked with us had already left. Only Soro and I were left alone in Tabu. With the departure of most of the refugees, the daily activities that Soro used to do abruptly stopped, and his old age had already created a noticeable barrier between his young mind and old body. He was like an old broken chariot with young horses. He did not want to accept the age and his drastically deteriorating physical condition.

  It was nine in the evening on 23 July 2004; a pouring rain was beating the earth without stopping. Nothing except the unyielding rain could be heard. I was reflecting on how the time had taken me on a journey without a touch of a woman for decades. Had I not chosen to be a churchman, I would have lived somewhere as a refugee or could have been dead by now having got caught in crossfires. Today my life is spared, and I had been lucky enough to see any side of human life, read some books and associate different people and learn many things in life that an ordinary Kissi man would never do in the bush. All the same, behind everything which I saw as successes and achievements, I had fading sorrows and growing pains.

  ‘Kumba, Where are you?’ I let my voice come out as the rain prevented my voice from being heard by Soro.

  ‘Kumba…. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Are you alive?’ I allowed my feelings to be translated into words and to mix with the noisy rain.

  ‘Kumba,’

  ‘Kumba where are y
ou?’ I called her name looking through the small window and watching how the rain fell on the ground and continued to pour along the grassland which reminded me of how tears ran down my cheeks at times when I cried.

  A thunder broke out spreading its blue light all over the place adding a mysteriousness to the pouring waters. Another thunder broke out louder and brighter than the previous one lighting up the whole area which revealed a strange scene on the grass. The white cloth which had not been a new thing for me hinted me that it was Soro. Before the thought came to my mind that it should be Soro, the sight made me stand up aghast.

  ‘Soro,’ I yelled seeking a response, but I did not hear his usual reply. When I went to the hall, the door had been left open. I ran outside calling his name louder, expecting him to say something.

  I touched his hand and forehead. He was colder than the pouring rain. His eyes were wide open as he was looking at me even though he had long gone because he was the only one who knew how deep my loneliness was.

  25

  After the death of Soro, I left Tabu and Ivory Coast. I joined the Pastor Jean-Paul in Conakry where I had chances to learn and grow. I resumed my studies in the school annexed to the church, completed my secondary education and wanted to join the college which was for the nursing professionals.

  ‘Why do you want to be a nurse giving up your chances to be a Pastor?’ The Pastor Jean-Paul asked me in surprise when I told him that I wanted to go to the school of nursing in Conakry.

  ‘Being a clergyman, I would have chances to serve only the followers of God, but atheists also need healing.’ My response was not to offend the person who sheltered me and supported my growth, but I felt he would not take it wrong as he was a direct person who had an incredible level of empathy.