Moving to the margins

In 1975, when Saigon fell into the hands of the Communists, Hoang, a fisherman from Vung Tau who also fought against the Viet Cong, was living with his wife, Trang. At that time, they already had their first son, Long. Hoang was twenty-four years old, and his wife was four years younger. Both Buddhists, Hoang and Trang envisioned and hoped for a better future for their family especially when their second son, Quang, was born in 1979. It was then that they decided, along with their brothers, sisters and other village members, to risk their lives and escape from the clutches of the Viet Cong. They managed to reach a boat off the shore while the Communists were hot on their trail. Unfortunately, Hoang’s sister and sister-in-law, and other villagers were captured and held in the Communist work camps. The boat they embarked on had three tiers. Tragedy struck when eight-month-old Quang fell from the second tier into the water and nearly died. Upon reaching Hong Kong, Quang was hospitalized.  Sometime later, the whole family was relocated to Savannah, Georgia in the USA. Twenty-four years later, I happened to read Quang’s story in one of the programs offered by PREP to incarcerated men and women (see Magnet June 2024). I was captivated by its depth, honesty and insight, so much so that I contacted Quang and asked him whether I could reproduce excerpts of his 38-page work. He promptly agreed.

I need not comment further. Listen to Quang as he relates his journey of hope.

(All names of people and places are changed. The text has been left as Quang wrote it. Only minimal editing has been done)

My family and I are refugees from Vietnam. We arrived in America (parents, uncles, and older brother) in 1980, residing in Savannah, where my two younger brothers [Dinh and Dung] were born. We lived there for about four years. One of the few memories I have was when I got physically disciplined for accidently spilling a pot of scalding hot noodles on my younger brother’s leg. I first got beaten by my older brother Long then after coming back from the hospital, my mom whipped me with the handle of a metal fly swatter and while the welts and bruises and cuts were still fresh, I had to kneel on the metal grate of the floor vent while holding up phone books for a couple of hours. I was four years old and clearly remember the day because I learned what it was to be a man. As I cried out in pain, and tried to block and move away from the fly swatter, I got whipped harder and told “to shut up, a man don’t cry” I must endure. I also learned my physical well-being didn’t matter. I am a horrible son and brother, and accidents are punishable to the highest degree. From that day on I began to suppress my emotions, built tolerance to pain and started having anger and resentment towards my family.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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There are life stories that intertwine, much like that of the two Arab physicians Saints Cosmas and Damien with their legendary acts of healing and charity; the twin half-brothers in the Greek mythology Castor and Pollux who were inseparable and often depicted together; Laurel and Hardy in comedy films who entertained us when we were children with their humour; the classic cartoon duo Tom and Jerry, Tom being the cat and Jerry the mouse, known for their endless pursuit and evasions, with their everlasting camaraderie or Bonnie and Clyde, the infamous criminals who gained notoriety during the Great Depression for their crimes across the central United States.

Such is the narrative of Fabio and Diego in Bogotá.

Diego

Diego had become a constant source of frustration for our community at the home for elderly men. Night after night, he would sneak in, sleeping in the washroom and leaving traces of marijuana behind. His shamelessness—or perhaps desperation—grew to the point where he started stealing clothes of our elderly men off the line, and this became a daily occurrence. The final straw was when our sewing machine went missing. I had had enough and reported him to the police, who quickly tracked him down, as everyone knew him as the local drug addict. After a severe beating, Diego revealed where he had hidden the sewing machine, which was found at the house of “Saint Mona,” the local bar manager. She claimed ignorance but never admitted that she had bought it from Diego for just three dollars. Eventually, Diego ended up behind bars, and I finally had some peace—at least until Fabio came into the picture.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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I proudly admit that the Third World Group left an indelible mark on me. Forgive me if this might be the third time that I’ve mentioned this group in one of my articles, but it was truly special. We were all young, in our late teens or early twenties, full of enthusiasm and ideals, yet very realistic and down-to-earth. We were both rebels and young prophets. We spoke up against injustice, took a stand and stayed close to the poor. We were the voice of the voiceless because we had heard the “cry of the poor”.

Most of us were university students, with only a few already working. Despite this, we financed all our activities for the poor with our own pocket money. When funds were low, we begged from our families, went to parishes for donations, raised funds, and sometimes sold items. One day we came up with the idea of selling music cassettes with songs that imparted a social message written and composed between 1969 and 1982. The following are some of the songs which were included in the cassette.

Give Peace a Chance

In July 1969, John Lennon wrote the anti-war song Give Peace a Chance. This period followed the worldwide protests of 1968, which were characterized by anti-war sentiment, civil rights movements, youth counterculture, and rebellions against state militaries and bureaucracies. In the United States, the Tet Offensive sparked protests in opposition to the Vietnam War. In Europe, particularly in France, far-left students led civil unrest against capitalism, consumerism, American imperialism and traditional institutions. April 4 saw the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. Give Peace a Chance quickly became an anthem of the American anti-war movement during the 1970s.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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In the last few days, a question kept hammering in my mind. “Quo Vadis?”—which in Latin means “whither thou goest?” It obviously reminded me of the homonymous historical novel written by Henryk Sienkiewicz Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero and later on in 1951 made into a movie. The phrase actually appears in Chapter 69 of the novel retelling the apocryphal story Acts of Peter in which Peter flees Rome because of all the persecutions against the Christians, but on the Appian Way, meets Jesus and asks him “Quo vadis, Domine?” “Where are you going, Lord?’ to which Jesus replies, that He is going to Rome to be crucified a second time, if he (Peter) escapes, which shames Peter into going back to Rome to accept his martyrdom.

Yes, “Quo Vadis?”—where are you going? Or where are we all going? Where are we all heading? There isn’t a single day, when you open the newspaper and don’t get overwhelmed with a load of depressing news about war-ravaged countries:

• In numbers, the Middle East and North Africa is the most affected region with more than 45 armed conflicts currently taking place. In Sudan, a civil war between two rival factions of the military government of Sudan, the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF), and the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces (RSF) began during Ramadan on 15 April 2023. Fighting has been concentrated around the capital city of Khartoum and the Darfur region. As of 21 January 2024, at least 13,000 –15,000 people had been killed and 33,000 others were injured while over 6.5million were internally displaced and more than two million others had fled the country as refugees. Since 2014, Yemen has been undergoing a civil war with various groups claiming to constitute the official government.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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A year ago, when I arrived in Los Angeles, I naively believed that it was going to be a smooth transition from the City of Joy to the City of Angeles. However, I quickly discovered that my assumptions were mistaken. Not only did I still miss deeply Kolkata, but I also found myself unable to return back to the jail, where I once served. A new catholic chaplain, less sympathetic and supportive than his predecessor, was not very welcoming to take me back on his new team of chaplains. Feeling powerless, helpless and despondent, I struggled to find a clear direction forward. I tried other possibilities but none of them seemed to have worked out.

One of these options was to help distribute holy communion in a hospital. After a series of interviews, medical tests, police background checks and training, I faced an unexpected obstacle: I had never been vaccinated against measles as a child, and so I was asked to pay 200 US dollars for the vaccine (Rs/- 14,000).  This situation left me questioning my commitment as I realized that I would have willingly and gladly paid the same amount to return to prison rather than serve in a hospital.

Amidst this discouragement, however, I held to the belief that there must be a greater purpose, trusting in God’s plan for my journey.

Br Carmel Duca MC

During a journey aboard the Coromandel Express from Chennai to Kolkata (when it wasn’t as overcrowded as it is nowadays), I realized that the middle-aged man sitting in front of me was reading from a Bengali New Testament. It was one of those blue-covered books with the distinctive mark of a two handled pitcher and torch so typical of the Gideons International. I mastered some courage and with my rudimentary broken Hindi, I inquired if he was a Christian, to which he answered that he was a Hindu. When he perceived my surprised reaction, he continued that from all the human gods, he loved Jesus. I was struck with awe at his honesty and faith; and I was immediately reminded of a passage from Raimon Panikkar’s book The Unknown Christ of Hinduism suggesting Jesus Christ was the meeting point of Hindus and Christians (and other religions) because He came for everyone.

And that is exactly what we Christians believe: that Jesus Christ transcends boundaries, embracing all especially the poor— be they hungry, afflicted by sickness, leprosy, AIDS, possessed by demons, locked up in prison, entangled in prostitution, caught in adultery and all those who need and yearn to hear his message. Recently, the Archdiocese of Los Angeles held a memorial service honouring the homeless who died unnoticed on the streets of the city. Indeed, a beautiful gesture from the Church authorities! Yet, what lies behind this poignant gesture is another reality: no homeless man or woman is ever permitted to enter the Cathedral, promptly they are turned away at the entrance by security guards. Even access to the bathroom facilities in the parking lot is restricted lest the homeless patronize them and dirty them. (A Brother in my community was once turned away because he was mistaken for a homeless man).

Br Carmel Duca MC

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I wish I could, like many other congregations, extol the virtues of our founder as wonderful, pious, holy, and perfect. Unfortunately, I cannot, because he was far from flawless. At times he got very angry, battled with compulsive gambling, and revealed his fragility, weakness, and woundedness. However, he was not pretentious, self-righteous or full of false humility, His humility was genuine, arising from an honest acknowledgment of his sinfulness and faults. In other words, he was fully human! And that’s precisely what I like about him.

Ian Travers-Ball was born in Australia in 1928 to a well-to-do family. He received his education at the prestigious Jesuit-run Xavier College in Melbourne. Despite not being at the top of his class, at graduation near the end of World War II, he secured a good job at an insurance company.  He already had an inkling of a vocation to the priesthood but his drive to gamble on horses was stronger. Then the day of reckoning, as he used to describe it, arrived one Saturday afternoon in June 1951 when he lost everything on a bet. That day marked a trans-formative experience: he began praying and attending Mass more regularly. Eventually, he confided in a Jesuit priest about his desire to join the order.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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I’ve had the privilege of knowing these remarkable women for the past forty years and I can only describe them as beautiful, intelligent, independent, dynamic, innovative, and resilient. Our journey began in our teens, when Katrine, Danielle, and I, as young volunteers, dedicated our time to visiting families in need in Malta. My relationship with Nora was different. In the 80s, when I first met her, Nora was already a qualified social worker. She became a guiding force, directing and supporting me through the difficulties of the families we visited. We were young, enthusiastic, full of energy. Today, all three have evolved into “successful,” women.

Katrine Camilleri

As a law student, Katrine undertook research on access to rights and protection for refugees. After her graduation from the University of Malta in 1994, she began working in a small law firm, where she came in contact with refugees. It was during this time that a lot of boat people were arriving in Malta from Libya and other African countries. In 1996 she started working with the Malta office of Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS) first as a volunteer, then part time and eventually full time. JRS became the first organization to offer professional legal services on a regular basis to refugees detained in Malta.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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He assured me he would only take a few minutes; just enough time to trim his toenails. That’s why I agreed.  We, the jail chaplains, had access to nail clippers, a luxury which the inmates did not possess. It was another service we provided! I had just finished a three-hour art session. The clock had struck 4:00 p.m. on that last Friday of October, and I needed to get out of jail as quickly as possible. I still needed to rush to the market for that evening’s dinner. I anticipated the crowds due to Halloween.

While David meticulously cut his toenails in my office, my mind went through the shopping list: onions, potatoes, tomatoes, fish—yes, it was Friday, no meat tonight. Amid my mental checklist, I heard David’s voice breaking the silence.

“Chaplain, I heard you are from Malta,” he said.

I confirmed his question with a nod.

“I have been in Malta,” he continued.

Encountering someone in an American jail who had visited my native Island was incredibly rare. By now, I had forgotten whether I intended to buy tilapia or bass. Now I was curious, so I shifted my chair closer to David.

Feeling blocked and unable to write, I often find myself sitting at my desk, jotting down some ideas and never getting beyond two paragraphs let alone two pages. I type it, save it, and look for a different topic. But nothing comes. Is this what some people call ‘writers’ block? I fool myself into believing that I am one of those big professional writers who experience such a phase.

Upon returning to Los Angeles after seven years, I thought that life was going to resume where I had left off. I expected to return to jail and continue my apostolate there. However, that was not the reality. I patiently awaited Providence to guide me while exploring newer areas of work. Unfortunately, even those efforts, for reasons beyond me, have not worked out yet. (Gone are the days when volunteering meant a simple process, without the numerous interviews, days of training, police background check, medical examinations, and a series of vaccines which one should have received as a newborn!) In moments of prayer, I seek to understand what God is trying to tell me.  And one day the realization came to me: I am no professional full-time writer; I am a Missionaries of Charity Brother. The obstacle I face is not writers’ block but a lack of direct contact with the poor—my source of inspiration.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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