Missioner gains trust after two years - Father Bob McCahill's ministry to the poor of Bangladesh

National Catholic Reporter, Dec 19, 1997 by Bob McCahill

Every Christmas, Maryknoll Fr. Bob McCahill, who has lived poor among the poor of Bangladesh since 1975, sends a letter to his friends back home. This is his latest.

Two years have passed since I came to Sherpur, my present location. The initial suspicions of the people that my purpose among them might be harmful have given way, generally, to trust. Signs of their growing trust are these.

Every Wednesday, when I return from having assisted the sick and disabled at the Regional Hospital, I arrive home just before dusk. Children are playing in the lane that leads to my bamboo dwelling. A hundred "OKs" reverberate as they welcome me home. (That nickname, given to me by the children, seems to stick. Thus, there are adults in the town who believe my name is not Bob but OK.) Sometimes the kids seize my hands and pull me home as if I could not otherwise complete the journey without their hearty assistance. They would not be so friendly unless their parents also approve of me. Children add gestures and sound to their elders' quiet acceptance of a newcomer.

Rehana suffers from diabetes. She is 14 but looks to be 40. Treatment is available 25 miles away, the last 10 miles of which are difficult. Seeing no other solution, I invited the shriveled teenager to sit on the carrier behind me as I bicycled cautiously through bamboo groves on rugged paths. Her parents agreed to our excursion because they had been assured by other villagers that my concern is genuine and not a ruse for taking advantage of their poverty or their daughter's defenselessness.

At one point the exhausted girl fell off. As she groaned I also cried out, "Oh, no! Now you'll have a broken leg besides." But Allah preserved Rehana. Then, a few bumpy miles further along, she fell a second time. I was sure that the law of averages had caught up with us. A broken arm would be small enough punishment. But nary a bone was broken, for nothing is impossible with God.

Men expect me, a foreigner, to play the big shot. It would not surprise them to perceive arrogance in such as I. Recently, a disabled fellow, having completed his X-ray, was unable to leave the X-ray room because he could not reach his shoes. I asked if he would allow me to help. I assisted him in swinging his legs off the X-ray table and wiggled the shoes onto his feet. He left the room praising me for an ordinary kindness. Extraordinary, however, in the viewpoint of a Bengali Muslim, for I had willingly touched his feet and shoes, contact with which Bengalis strive always to avoid. Meanwhile, the X-ray technician was so amazed by my humility -- his view of it -- that he gave my head a little squeeze.

Tired from bicycling, I turned in at 8 p.m. Under the mosquito net with a hurricane lamp and reading materials, I reclined for night prayers. Afterward, while reading a humor magazine, I felt myself drifting away. Before I could extinguish the lamp, a familiar voice called to me. Banesa, a working widow, had come to visit. I protested that I was already in bed but she wanted to talk, so, out from under the net I came and slid open the flimsy door. We stood there to converse. She inquired about my health and I about hers. Banesa is a well-built, nice-looking 30-year-old mother of two. Whenever we meet, I commend her for the constancy of her efforts to earn money. She wanted to tell me the good news that she had gotten a raise. Now she earns 50 takas ($1.15) plus three meals for every strenuous 12-hour day at a restaurant in town. From that amount Banesa gives 40 takas daily to her mother to feed the children. She excused herself for getting me out of bed, complaining: "I never get off work until you are in bed!" Before she departed, smiling, I blessed her and she blessed me -- a pretty good way to end our days.

As I poured off the excess water from my noonday meal two women approached the open door. Captivated, they watched as steam from the pot flew into my face. I could tell from their dress and manner that they had not come to see me in order to speak about illness, as do many of the visitors to my hut. Setting aside the rice pot, I spread a cloth on the edge of the bedboard and bid them enter to be seated.

They are teachers at the local school where 400 pupils are handled in two shifts by five teachers. They had been visiting the neighborhood and took this occasion to see me at home. Their questions about good works and lifestyle followed; my answers satisfied them. I showed them a photo of my mother and father, vintage 1976. It helped the women to put me into a human perspective. The photograph implies that we are not so different. We all have parents.

As they departed, Samsunahar and Nazma Begom expressed how much they like to see me serving the poor and living among them. Each one spoke the same sentiments in different words, reinforcing approval. Although the days before their visit had brimmed with tension because the owner of the plot on which my house stands would like to have it back, it is also true that during two years in Sherpur I have not heard more explicit support than that offered by the two encouraging women.