Moving to the margins

From the first time I heard him sing, I was hooked. Every Saturday and Sunday I would be the first one in front of the television set together with our HIV inmates waiting for Indian Idol to start. We never watched the whole programme. We were content with just listening and seeing our Sunny Hindustani. Then off to bed we would go fully content! It was only in the Grand Finale that we stayed up till midnight and waited for our idol to be proclaimed the best Indian singer of Season 11. We even celebrated with bottles of Thums Up and Sprite, and a few Bengali sweets. Saturdays or Sundays we would be ready with our mobiles so that we would vote for Sunny. I’m sure that our HIV inmates by now were convinced that I was more than crazy because I would get upset if one of them even uttered a word while Sunny was singing. Such was our (well mine) obsession. I was just mesmerized with his ability to sing such difficult songs. I must admit that the beauty of his songs and the way he sang them used to bring me to tears. According to news sources, the twenty-one-year-old Sunny came from a poor Punjabi family. Six years before he presented himself on Indian Idol his father died and so he had to stop his schooling and go to the railway stations polishing shoes, while his mother begged and sold balloons. In his first audition he presented himself in a simple T-shirt and jeans, and he cried when he sang Aafreen, aafreen.  The lyrics for the song Aafreen, Aafreen (from the Urdu for praise, beautiful, amazing) were written by Javad Akhtar and the music by the great ghazal and qawwali composer and singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan in 1996.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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At five in the morning, a group of us began our journey from Isiolo to Marsabit, a 260-kilometer stretch. The road is part of a major highway that runs from Egypt in the north all the way to South Africa. We chose to start early to avoid the intense heat that would soon rise over the Kenyan desert. Isiolo is less than 100 kilometers from Nanyuki, right on the equator line.

As we drove, the landscape was adorned with acacia trees, a typical feature of Kenya. The Senegalia mellifera, with its pods, leaves, flowers, and twigs, is highly favored by wildlife and livestock alike. We were lucky to spot a few giraffes feeding around the trees. As the name mellifera suggests, these acacias produce nectar-rich flowers, meaning “honey-bearing.” Along the way, we also encountered some ostriches and gazelles, which quickly darted back into the bush at the sound of our vehicle. The baboons, however, were far bolder, sitting by the roadside, hoping for food scraps from passing cars.

On one side of the road, the moon still shone in all its glory, while on the other, the horizon began to hint at dawn. The night’s darkness was slowly giving way to vibrant hues of yellow, orange, and red. Half an hour into the trip, we passed groups of children walking along the roadside on their way to school.

“Isn’t it too early?” I asked.

Alex, the Brother driving our car, didn’t think so. He explained that some schools, including ours, start as early as 6:30 AM, and many children live far away. At one point, we passed a little boy, maybe seven years old, walking alone. I found myself wondering: What goes through the mind of a seven- or eight-year-old walking by himself at this hour? Is he sad? happy? Is he going over his multiplication tables or some other lesson he had to memorize? Does he even notice he’s alone?

Br Carmel Duca MC

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After escaping the ravages of violence in Vietnam in 1980, the Nguyen family was relocated to the USA. They worked hard as fishermen. Unfortunately, Quang, (their second-born son who was about eight months old when the family reached the USA, led a life of rebellion, drugs, gangs and violence and) eventually ended in prison for life after the attempted murder of eight rival gang members. It took him some long years to realize the extent of havoc and damage he was still inflicting on others and himself. This is the last part of a series of three articles which were published in October and November.

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

My transformation began in 2005 when I decided not to do crystal meth anymore, but a more conscious effort was in 2015, when I received a notice, I qualified for SB261. [Since Quang was younger than 23 years old when he committed the crime, he could be eligible for parole hearing as a youth offender, a law SB261 had been amended that same year]. That’s when I felt hope and decided to sign up for every program but at the time there weren’t many programs. However, someone pointed me to the House of Healing correspondence course. They focus on healing childhood traumas. Examining my past helped me understand and process many troubling events in my life, aiding me to the process of forgiving my family and myself. Then in 2017 when I got into Alternative to Violence project workshop, I was shown compassion and acceptance from strangers, I saw resilience and true strength from their work and efforts, from that I felt sorrow for their pain and trauma of being a victim of violence. I felt anger towards their attackers, I felt disgusted with myself because I saw myself in those attackers. That was when I committed to changing my character and saw the characteristics of the person I wanted to be. So, this is when I believe when my transformation began, it wasn’t about going home anymore but being a better person.

Pursuing more, I enrolled into college where I learnt how to express myself by writing and improving my vocabulary. Although I did a lot of internal work, I still couldn’t explain my remorse, change, or my insight. The next step was surrounding myself with people who are dedicated to personal growth. I found that community in self-help groups, like PREP, Lifer Group, Board Prep, and Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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A few months later I moved back to San Diego. Within a month I was back doing crystal meth and gang banging. On February 17, 2001 I was at a barbecue, I started drinking alcohol, smoking weed, and meth since 8.30 am. Later that evening around 9 or 10 pm I was picked up and was told that my little brothers had some problems at the pool hall. I ran back into the barbecue and armed myself with a 9mm handgun. On my way there, I took some drugs out of my glass pipe loaded with meth, to what I considered was sobering up. Upon arrival seeing my brother Dinh parked at a nearby laundromat, I asked what happened, He told me that Phuc Nguyen made some remarks, “F*&k Vietnamese that want to be Lao, f*&k Vietnamese from Laos gang.” This enraged me and I sought vengeance. I sent my other little brother and his friend home with my friend, and told my other brother to point out this Phuc guy. Circling the café’s parking lot twice, he wasn’t there. I told my brother to pull up on his friends. I asked, “who’s the one talking s*&t?” They denied knowing. This went back and forth for less than a minute, when I challenged them to a fight down the street. Some walked up to the car and I pointed the gun out of the window and pulled the trigger. The gun was on safety. I pulled it back and took it off safety. By that time Dat Nguyen, Nhan Tran, Hoang Le, Binh Vu, Anh Nguyen, Nam Bui and Khac Tuan were running for cover or ducking behind vehicles. I shot 9 times trying to end their lives. Me and my brother drove off and I told him to drive to Jimmy’s house. I asked him to hold the gun, but he refused. We left and I told my brothers to go into an alley near a dumpster. I wiped down the gun and threw it away.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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