A Christmas Letter

National Catholic Reporter, Dec 22, 2000 by Bob McCahill

Every Christmas, we at NCR, as well as others, receive a letter from Maryknoll Fr. Bob McCahill, who, many years ago, decided his life's 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 2000.

Dear Friends,

Twenty-seven months ago when I moved to Gaffargaon town I prayed that God would quickly insert me here among the poor. In the beginning I lived two middle-class families. At Maeen Uddin's I had a room for one month, and for the next months I stayed at Farhat's. Then after four months of searching for a poor family that would welcome me, finally receive an invitation to build a small house in the compound of Subhaan and his wife, Korful, and their extended family.

Before I could accept Subhaan's offer I had to caution him. I am here to serve the seriously sick and disabled poor, I explained. Allah's blessing is the only reward I receive for this service. Allah's blessing -- but no other material benefits -- I will share with you in return for your hospitality. Subhaan agreed with my proposal even though, at that early date in our acquaintance, he may have imagined that I would bring him more than mere spiritual gain. His family knows, of course , that one day I shall leave Gaffargaon and that time the house I paid for will become theirs. By that time, however, the bamboo hut for which I paid $58 will probably require $50 worth of repairs. Bamboo rots. The poor have no lasting homes.

Promptly I learned to respect Subhaan's skill as a professional builder of houses. The way he wove strands of bamboo, using toes and fingers to hold the weave, fascinated me. His self-assured use of the short-handled scythe-like dao to smooth, chop and notch the posts and braces was more than deft. It startled me to observed the dangerous tool in his fast, competent hands. He does all things well.

Subhaan (his name, in Arabic, means "glorifying") stutters when excited. Thus, I was amazed one day when a young man urgently sought him because of a snakebite he had suffered. Subhaan swung into action using herbs and twine, but most of all, incantations. During 20 minutes Subhaan, the snakebite healer prayed a blue streak over the frightened fellow, and not one did his voice falter. It was as if he had put on another personality; he spoke with authority.

Early in our relationship, we had a clash about the outhouse. The extended family, that is, people from five houses, all share the same privy. When I arrived I contributed money to hire a man who would empty the pit, and for the repair of its dilapidated walls. Nevertheless, soon afterwards, Subhaan was after me to contribute again for the same purpose. We were at an impasse. Meanwhile, the hopper was overflowing. I insisted that I had done my share, and finally he relented. There had been shouting between us, but we had taken each other's measure. Because he is a Bengale, he had to test limits of my openhandedness.

Subhaan works whenever he can get it, even at nighttime. Weaving bamboo by the light of a wick dipped into a wee can of kerosone has weakened his 46-years-old eyes. He asked me to help him. At the eye hospital in Mymensingh, 25 miles away, an eye exam costs 20 takas (40 cents U.S.) and the spectacles we bought cost 140 takas ($2.80). It made me happy to assist Subhaan in a way that will lengthen his work life. Two months later, he asked me to buy him another pair. The original pair had been stolen. I was less happy this time, but eventually relented.

In a village five miles away, a 20-year-old man had a fallen out of a tree and "broke his back," according to the local parlance. I took the youth and his father to the finest center for spinal injuries in all of Bangladesh. Three of four months of rehabilitation would be needed. Five days later the father came to complain to me. The treatment was taking too long; he wanted to bring his son home now. I tried to dissuade him. He retaliated by reporting me to the police. Not finding me at home, the ploce hauled in Subhaan to interrogate him about his foreign guest. Perhaps, they suggested, this stranger who poses as a missionary is a kidnapper. Subhaan did not feed their suspicions.

Subhaan and I worked together again after the termites destroyed the original walls of my hut. I had not counted on the presence of these critters because I had not encountered them previously, while building bamboo huts in four other towns. However, I had never lived in a place as muddy as Gaffargaon. So, we marched side to the bamboo market and bought several hard, heavy, 20-foot lenghts of the world's most useful grass. Subhaan, who is 5 foot 3 and weighs 100 pounds, led as we walked back home, half a kilometer away. The fat end of the bamboo rested squarely on his head. I followed, 12 feet behind, shouldering a light load. Even as he bore the awkward burden, his bearing, as usual, was dignified.