Note: I have signed a contract with Catholic Social Services saying that I will respect the privacy of the people who I will be working with for the next 6 months to 1 year. I told them that I have a blog and asked permission if I could speak about them. They said “yes, as long” as I keep it relatively general: no names, no locations (home,etc), vague.
On Sunday I drove over early to pick them up for Mass. I decided to go 1 hour early because I figured Congolese may be like Hispanics in that time is quite relative. Sure enough, I was right. My friend gave them a television and with a few other items in my car for them I had the boys help me unload. Then I was invited upstairs to their 90+ degree apartment. My glasses fogged up immediately since they were used to the 64 degree temps outside. I had to laugh. They are probably going to freeze this winter.
The mother greeted me and told me that she needed a crucifix and a picture of Mary and Jesus. The funny thing is I had JUST been thinking that she may want something like that for her home. I assured her that I would see what I could do for her. Then, via her boys who speak a little English, we began to speak.
My first question for them is what part of Congo they were from. Sure enough, they are from Eastern Congo. I asked if they were close to Rwanda and, sure enough, their town was directly across the border of Rwanda. This is important because after the 1994 Rwanda genocide, the perpetrators of the genocide called the Interhamwe, fled into Eastern Congo and continued their brutal torture and rape of women and little girls (they attack women so that they will never have more children), and brutalizing the men, usually killing the head of household in front of their families. (Another outstanding article to read with great photos of the place NEAR where my family is from). In 1995, one year after the end of Rwanda’s miseries and the beginning of Eastern Congo’s intense misery, my family fled their home for a refugee camp in Uganda. The boys are teenagers, though they don’t look their age, and have spent most of their lives in a refugee camp. The little one was born in the camp. (Article on how women in Eastern Congo are being targeted for genocidal rape campaigns.)
When I asked about whether the Interhamwe were responsible for them fleeing Congo, the family drew back in horror and the mother asked me: “How is it that you who live so far from there know who the Interhamwe are?” I told her, “I read.” She looked at me with an intense look in her eyes and said to me: “Interhamwe” and motioned with her hand across her neck. I decided to drop the topic since it upset them and also because I didn’t know what had happened to her and I sure didn’t want her sons to translate that type of information.
Before we left for Mass, I had to show them how to use the can opener that I was leaving with them. I showed them how to use it, and then had them all practice.
They finished readying for Mass and climbed into my van. I had to teach them all how to use seat belts and then later how to unlatch the belts. The mother was dressed absolutely beautiful in her traditional dress. When we arrived at Mass, I introduced them to the priests and our new pastor, Fr. Francis had us sit at the very front pew so he could introduce them to the parish. At the beginning of Mass he said, “We have a very special woman here today from a far away place. She is not Mary, but she is an exile and her name is *** and she and her children arrived Friday from a refugee camp in Uganda.” Everyone clapped for them and many people came over to shake their hands and greet them. During the Consecration, when American Catholics bow their heads and are in silence, the mom shrilled and clapped in what must be how they do it back home. I was grateful that no one seemed to mind and later people commented positively on it. Later, I thought how awesome it is that in Africa when the priest presents Christ to us, they cheer Him. Awesome. We do bells. They cheer and clap. Same concept different means.
After Mass, the Knights had breakfast downstairs so I figured they could use a meal. But before we made it to the back, people were stopping us every few seconds to greet them and welcome them. God bless the family,they were so overwhelmed by the language barriers and culture and the whole experience. One man slipped them some cash, and it was QUITE a bit. Others hugged them. I was SO proud of my parish. I knew my family would be ok after seeing the reception for them. Downstairs, the Knights came up to me and told me that breakfast was free for us. That was so nice. I was planning on paying, but they wouldn’t allow it.
The breakfast was interesting because they didn’t know what to do with the syrup. They began to drink it so I had to show them where to put it. And then the butter presented another issue. Slowly, they tried American fare and I don’t think it was popular with them. They said, “too sweet.” No worries.
After I dropped them off at their apartment and I returned home to my house, I felt just like I did when I first returned home from Ecuador. I was so overwhelmed that my WHOLE house was mine and that only my daughter, husband and I live in it. When I opened up my pantry, I was struck by how full it is. Usually on Sunday, I love to look at the real estate section, but this day, I couldn’t. I have way too much as it is and suddenly looking for something bigger sounds obscene. Hanging out with poor people will do that to you. They give you new eyes to see your home and your Faith.
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