SIERRA LEONE
Woman, Do not Weep
(a Paternity from Which We All Learn)
Today, Abu Bakar came to greet me triumphantly. Abu Bakar is a man of few words, and even those few are hard to understand for those who have not gotten used to his syncopes, aspirates, and abbreviations. Today, he had no need of words. He showed everybody his red driver’s license: “Something…” Between me and Abu Bakar, that word was enough. We had been carrying on a dialogue for some time, and all our conversations hinged on that word. “I have to do something useful… I have to come up with something…” Abu Bakar was well aware of the fact that he had spent his life doing nothing. He–eighteen years old, with nine years in the forest, seven of fighting and who knows how much cruelty on his conscience–he had finally come up with something good. When he arrived among us, he would not look me in the face; he never smiled. Dark, gloomy, he was hiding something that I could not manage to make out. One fine day he couldn’t stand it any more. The light hearts of his companions had made him suffer too much. He, shut up in himself, almost a bearer of death, came out with all his pain. He had been a bringer of death and he carried with him a macabre souvenir, a skull, the souvenir of a blood initiation and of the tie with someone from whom, even though he was far away, it seemed he could not break free. It would take too long to tell the story of his suffering and purification. He came every evening before going to bed... “Let’s pray that he won’t come bother me in my sleep,” and, in the morning, “Let’s pray that I can get through the day without him hurting me.” A little at a time, Abu became more serene. He was helped also by the presence of the girl with whom he had fallen in love in the forest. She had always accompanied him in his misadventures and his flight. She had also imitated him, carrying his rifle, protecting him when he took drugs, going with him in his wanderings from forest to forest. She knew how to use a kalashnikov and her manner of acting and speaking was typical of a “comando.” She was a “comando,” and everyone knew it and feared her. How she had been worn down by seven years of horrors! The rapid and profound change in her surprised me even more than that of Abu, her man. I realized it one day when I heard her rebuking some kids who were making too much noise: “Di pa dae pan sleep… du ya!” (“The grandfather is sleeping… please!”) Oh yes! Ever since Father Chema, who is much younger than I, had come to work with me, for everyone I had become “the grandfather,” to be revered and protected. When the rock throwing was going on furiously, in those three days of battle using knives, cudgels studded with nail points, molotov cocktails prepared by the younger and thrown by the older children… “Grandfather, don’t stay here… we’ll take care of it… go inside or you’ll get hit by a rock!… Grandfather, think it over, because you’re old… if you die… what will we do?…” And I would make signs to ward off the evil eye: “I will bless you all and I will bury you under the entrance gate so that you can hear me pass.” Knowing their capacity for irony, knowing that they were always ready to find some way to get into trouble, having them always around me, noisy and often arguing, I understood how great was their suffering–I would like to say their terror, in those days in mid-May. They were quiet, anything but quarrelsome. They felt the presence of the rebels at the edge of Freetown, and they were afraid. Afraid of the rebels who would treat them like deserters, afraid of the civilians who still saw them as rebels. Since they knew where their bosses were, those who presumably would protect them, maybe by taking them into the ranks of the rebels (if they made it into Freetown), but at least they would be saved from lynching, I said to them, “I understand your worry. If you wish, if it would make you feel safer, go back to your bosses. Then we’ll see what to do.” No one left. They had truly had it with arms and fighting. Rather, two of them whom we had reunited with their parents were taken as prisoners by the rebels, who rearmed them and dressed them in military uniforms. At their first chance, they threw away their weapons and uniforms, and, avoiding the roadblocks set up by the rebels, returned to us at San Michele. These were days of terror for three girls, the youngest of whom was only 13. They bore the letters RUF (Revolutionary United Front) cut into their breasts with a razor blade. “Why did they brand you?” “They did it to whoever tried to run away.” They were trying to find some way to eradicate this mark that condemned them and put them in danger. They were ready to bear any kind of suffering in order to succeed at their task. They used an acid produced from a local seed and, painfully applying it repeatedly, they had produced a wound similar to a deep burn. “You can still see it,” said the youngest, checking her friend’s wound. “Tomorrow we’ll burn it some more.” How much suffering! We had our emergency plan. Our house overlooks the beach. Close by, we anchored the boat we had made for fishing. If the rebels came down on us, we would put into the boat fifty or so of the youngest ones and those who had trouble walking because they were wounded. A good number would have been able to flee with the few, rickety means of transportation that we had available. The oldest could go on foot. Everyone knew how to put his things together for traveling. Anxious and hopeful, we waited for the situation to work out for the better. “Escape! They’re coming down the hill!” This was the warning that came over the radio that was our only form of communication. They had incorrectly interpreted some “friendly” fire. We couldn’t listen to every rumor we heard. The children’s nerves would not have held. It was not an easy task to move more than 150 kids. And then what? Where would we have found the two sacks of rice that we needed every day to feed them? Thus we remained with bated breath all day and our ears pricked up at night. Thanks to God and to 800 English parachute troops, the danger ceased and we were able to start school again and all the other everyday activities. I too heaved a great sigh of relief because I would now be able to carry out a project that meant I had to leave the country. During the crisis, all the foreigners had obeyed the evacuation orders that came from their embassies. At San Michele, we were well aware that we would not be able to leave. The choice to remain was not such a hard one for us. Abandoning 153 children threatened both by the rebels and by the local population would have been an act involving a moral responsibility that would not have let you sleep at night if anything bad happened to them. The choice had already been made at an earlier stage. Everyone knew it and nobody came to ask us to leave. But even if the choice had been easy to make because it was the only one, that didn’t mean that I didn’t still feel everything moving around inside me. “Were you afraid?,” a little boy asked me during these days, sitting at his school desk. “Very!” “And what did you do?” “I won’t tell you, but you can imagine it for yourself… constant visits.” “To the church?” “Yes, but not only there… often to a much more humble place.”
Father Bepi Berton

The Impact of an Encounter
We knew that my son, Kevin, was “different” very early in his life. His anxieties, his rigid need for routine, his auditory hypersensitivity, his inability to understand conversation or social interaction were all indicative of something. After intervention by speech therapists and other specialists, Kevin was “unofficially” diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, a high-functioning autistic disorder. Because Kevin is unable to intuit other’s thoughts and feelings, and, moreover, is unaware that others have thoughts or feelings separate from his own, he has spent much of his life “pretending to be normal.” Although I had long accepted the fact that Kevin was different, I felt completely helpless to face my son’s condition, finding it easier to confront problems “symptomatically”… until my heart was changed radically by my encounter with friends in CL. So struck was I by what I had met, my entire understanding of what is meant for my life (and my children’s lives) changed dramatically. Now I had a new fear for my son: How could my son ever know Jesus? Though I was consumed with trepidation before the CL vacation last year, what transpired was extraordinary. In the company of complete strangers, Kevin was comfortable. During the assemblies, he sang in full voice! Completely contrary to his nature, he stayed up hours past bedtime, playing soccer in the dark with men and boys he didn’t know. The truth was that Kevin was struck by a Presence exactly the same way as I. Jesus is present in our lives through the human encounter within this companionship. After that experience, he began to impatiently await our family Fraternity gatherings. He was so drawn to this group, not only enjoying the relationship with the “older guy,” 14-year-old Joshua, but also enjoying his own role as the “older guy” to 5-year-old Stefano. He began to confidently accept challenges that I never dreamed possible: amusement park rides, ice skating, a sleepover in a mountain cabin full of people, prayer and hymns, and most amazingly… being friends. Within the openness and acceptance of our Fraternity he has gained confidence with social and emotional skills, which has positively affected his education, and given him the impetus to build his first friendship at school. Most of the recommendations offered by the diagnostician are things Kevin is already experiencing in the CL community. My dear friend Angelo told me that we have created a “world within the world,” where strength and aptitude are irrelevant. Rather, the meek, the compassionate and faithful are given to Kevin, and to me. This “world within the world” is by no means a Utopia, but the only place to raise my children.
Barbara, Sacramento

GOD.COM
Five thoughts on the American Book Fair held in Chicago at the beginning of June
1. God.com. The title beckons from the shelves in the stand of one of the many publishers participating in the annual American Book Fair in Chicago. A few stands farther on is E-mails from God, which must have been a great success if the publisher is already announcing a second installment, New E-mails from God.
God.com, or, how to contact God through his website, because there is no longer any form of knowledge that does not travel over the web, and God, too, has to adapt to this fact. David wanted to build him a dwelling place, and today people want to set up his website, a virtual dwelling place for a virtual God.
2. The religious sector is the area of American publishing that reported the greatest growth in publications and sales in 1999: +35%. Four years ago, religious publishers were relegated to a marginal sector, among “niche” publishers. Today, there is no publishing house–from the largest groups to the smallest independent publisher–that does not have a series of “religious” books in its catalogue. This definition embraces a much wider spectrum of more generically “spiritual” titles, inside which there is equal room for any type of offering. A world without tradition and without memory.
3. The exhibitors compete to draw visitors to their stands, usually by filling them with gadgets (stickers, buttons, games, tote bags, sacks…). What is in the books, in the final analysis, doesn’t matter that much: the reader is only a “consumer” of a product that is quite the opposite of “durable,” rather, it is destined to a very short life. These are no longer the times for reprints.
4. McGill-Queen’s University Press, the Canadian publisher that is putting out the English-language editions of the “PerCorso,” set up a stand dedicated almost entirely to Giussani, and this turns out to have been a good choice. The influx of visitors was great, and in particular the buyers for the big chains (Barnes & Noble, Follett’s, Ingram’s, Border’s) stopped by, curious about this Italian author whose books (The Religious Sense, At the Origin of the Christian Claim) sell so well. Attention focused on the most recent title, Communion and Liberation. A Movement in the Church, just published by McGill. All welcomed it as a useful tool for responding to the growing curiosity, often expressed by people who buy Giussani’s books, to know more about the Movement.
5. The booksellers’interest was matched by that of the publishers. An important Catholic publisher will bring out The Educational Risk next year, a meaningful chance to transmit a message by means of a theme that is among the most problematic in American society today: education.
Sandro, Milan

Friends Far and Near
Dear Father Giussani: Riro, Doni, and Stefano (our “correspondents” in New York and Nairobi) came back to Pesaro for a few hours, since, as you know, they were in Italy for an AVSI meeting. Everyone came to greet them. Later, like a prayer, we sang, and while we were singing, we understood that, even though we were so far apart, we had been very close to each other, and that the wait to see each other again had been rewarded. I understood what it means to wait and hope. Having found my friends to be in harmony, as though we had spent time together, made me understand that we are bound–bound by your friendship, by our Movement, by Jesus who caused it to be born, by God. This is a great confirmation that what we have found is God. How beautiful is our friendship, and how great is God! Thinking about our friends on their journey, I understood that when there is difficulty, when you don’t really understand, when you suffer, you have to hope in what we have seen, in the beauty that we have seen and lived.
Marco, Mariella, and children, Pesaro

For a Life Like This
While I was watching the TV news coverage of the Pope’s lunch with the street people of Rome for the Jubilee, a journalist reported the words of an elderly lady who had been moved by this unique experience: “For a life like this, it is worth not dying.” I was immediately reminded of some other words, said by the Pope himself a while back, “When you live to witness Christ, it is a shame to die.”
Giuliano, Rimini

A year ago, I decided to come to England for a master’s in Business Administration. I never thought I could have, once again, such a vivid encounter with the Movement. Through the new friendships born in these months, through the faces of Iris, Paolo, Ciro, Fede, Guido, Emanuele, Michele, and Mauro, I have rediscovered the presence of Christ in my life. Wherever I decide to go, in the end I always come back to asking for Christ, and I always come back to this same story.
Gian Luca, London