... "What more can there be? Do I really want to hear it? My tears lie warm on my cheeks."

I received the following email this morning. Yes, it is hard to read.  It is even harder to get the pictures out of my head, of places and people I know.  It was a hard morning after talking with one of my girls on skype from Akobo and hearing their struggles, but that life is good now. It made me want to hop the next plane and return as fast as I can.

I came in from yard work to read the following email. My heart is breaking today.  I share the email and my response.  If you are reading this be warned. It is not a pretty story. It is a hard read…

The email begins…

I know that you have been following some of the tragedy from S Sudan - and this is an area where the Presbyterian church has been strong.

Dorothy it is a dreadful article that certainly made me cry. Only read when you can face it.

I just can’t believe it has happened / is happening.

Chris

S Sudan: Slaughter on sacred ground

A priest tells of the bloodshed in Malakal, South Sudan, and of a daring escape from its cathedral.

16 MAY 2014 00:00 ANDREW BROWN
Mail & Guardian

“The first attack was not so bad.”

Father Peter sits with his back straight, his hands held in his lap. He is far thinner than before, but the same quiet dignity shines through. For months I feared that he had been murdered; now I sit riveted once more by his stories and his smile.

Last year I had travelled to the northern town of Malakal in South Sudan to visit the huge refugee camps established there. I was helped by Father Peter, a tall, respectful Catholic priest stationed in the dusty, bustling town. He took me under his wing in what was a ­difficult and probably foolish expedition. He organised a place for me to stay, a Land Cruiser, a driver and a vital point of human reference.

Father Peter lived in a small room in the cathedral grounds, with three other priests. Together they owned only the bare essentials. I enjoyed simple but generous meals with him and his colleagues.

As a paltry thank you, I brought him a bottle of whisky and a copy of my book, Inyenzi. He sent me a message a few weeks later to tell me how much he was enjoying reading it.

On December 24 2013 the orchestrated Dinka-Nuer fighting that had started in Juba spread to Malakal and the town was overrun by Nuer rebel soldiers loyal to ousted vice-president Riek Machar.

This was the first attack of which Father Peter spoke. 

 The government soldiers retreated and Malakal became a Nuer rebel town. The government, embarrassed by its retreat, came back – with a vengeance. They brought fresh troops from Juba and fought street by street with AK-47s, larger machine guns mounted on vehicles and rocket-propelled grenades. The rebels were forced out of the town into the bush.

“Still, this was not so bad,” says Father Peter. It was soldiers
fighting other soldiers. Civilians hid – some in the church grounds – and emerged once the worst was over. The market started up again, people returned to their homes.

Civilians targeted But this time the government troops changed the rules, unforgivably: they targeted Nuer ­civilians. Those on the wrong side of the divide had their homes looted, many were simply executed. A Presbyterian pastor – a Nuer – was executed in the town square in front of a crowd.

All hell broke loose. The rebels returned, far more determined this time.

“But the second attack was not so bad,” says Father Peter stoically. Still, many innocent people were killed. More civilians sought refuge in the church grounds. Nuns from the nearby hostel moved into the cathedral for protection.

He kept the big gates to the compound closed but was not afraid. This was the church. In 50 years of civil war no one had been killed on the church grounds.

The government troops were reinforced and they returned with armoured vehicles. The town was retaken. More civilian casualties resulted, more Nuer were hunted down. Now, scared Nuer inhabitants also sought refuge in the church compound. Father Peter did not refuse them.

Government soldiers threatened to breach the compound and seek them out. There were tense standoffs. But the church prevailed. Many urged Father Peter to flee, but it was his duty to protect everyone who sought shelter under his faith.

Then the rebels attacked a third time. “This was not good,” he says. “This was a bad time.”

Third attack

He pauses in his story and looks at the ground, perhaps remembering, perhaps trying to forget. The Nuer soldiers killed everyone in their path. Anyone who did not join their militia was shot or hacked to death. Houses were burned. They lined women up on the bank of the Nile river and executed them, their bodies falling plop-plop-plop into the
river. They cut the pipes supplying water to the UN refugee compound and waited outside to shoot anyone who tried to come out to collect water from the river.

And then the rebels came for the church.

They broke the gates open and marched around the compound with their weapons, seeking out Dinka. Those they found, they shot in front of Father Peter – they murdered innocent people inside the church grounds. Father Peter looks at me in horror. It was unimaginable for this reserved priest. They wanted to burn down the cathedral – a Belgian nun went on her knees and begged them to leave it.

Eventually, perhaps bored, the soldiers withdrew. They told Father Peter they would return the next day to “finish their business”.

Still, he debated what he should do. His main concern was for the safety of Bishop Emeritus Vincent Mojwok Nyiker and the remaining refugees. And their lives were clearly in danger. Early the next morning, as the sun rose, the decision was taken – they would make a run for it.

They crept out of the compound and headed for the river. They were quickly spotted by soldiers who opened fire on them. Many were struck and fell. Father Peter rushed with Bishop Nyiker into the swampland alongside the river and then swam a short distance to an island. There he lay with the bishop while the soldiers stood on the bank and fired at them. A young boy, too terrified to lie still, stood up to run and was struck, falling down next to them.

When there was a short break in the firing, Father Peter grabbed the bishop and plunged into the river, making for the far shore. The soldiers reacted immediately, firing into the water as they swam.

“This was when I decided: if today is my day, then let it be so. I was so calm. Swimming in the river with the bishop, the bullets striking the water around me.”

Unbelievably, Father Peter, Bishop Nyiker and all of the priests from the cathedral made it out of Malakal alive. They went on foot for many kilometres before being picked up by a UN patrol. He finally reached Juba, with just the clothes on his back. The town of Malakal now lies in ruins.

‘The body is still in my room’

Father Peter heard that after they had fled the church compound some Nuer Presbyterian pastors arrived looking for him. Only a few months before these pastors had sat in workshops with him discussing diversity and tolerance. Now, when they found the door to his room locked, they ordered soldiers to open fire. When the door was in pieces, they entered to see whether they had killed him. But he was gone.

“They did leave a body in my room,” he tells me. “I don’t know if they shot him there or if the victim ran in there wounded and died. I don’t know who he is. But I hear the body is still in my room. Rotting on my bed.”

It is clear that this distresses him. Not that it is his room, his
bed, but that it is church property. He cannot conceive of it.

Father Peter falls silent in his story. I feel wretched but I have
nothing to say. Then he looks up at me and I can see that he is more troubled at this point than he has been throughout the tale. He shakes his head with sorrow.

I feel my heart contract: What more can there be? Do I really want to hear it? My tears lie warm on my cheeks.

“I am so sorry, Andrew. I had to leave your book behind.”

http://mg.co.za/article/2014-05-16-slaughter-on-sacred-ground/

END

This breaks my heart.  The time I was in Malakal a Blegium nun, Sister Sara found a place for me to stay in their hostel. That was my room after I left Debbie's.  She and the young man who ran the hostel went out of their way to make me welcome, even providing me with sheets and towels,  dishes, pans to cook with, a kettle for tea, and a stove to cook on. The young man fetched "sweet" water for me and charcoal. 

Ash Wednesday  I couldn't find a Presbyterian Church having services.  Sister Sara invited me to the Catholic church. When I arrived at the church, she was inside dusting off two chairs.  When she saw me, her face lit up like Christmas and she came running to the door, saying, "I knew you would come" and escorted me to my now clean chair.

Before the service began, she explained it all to me and when I asked about taking communion, she very indignantly replied, "You will take communion with us.  This is not our table, it is God's table and all are welcome."  When it came time for communion, we were the first two in line and she pushed me to the front so I would be first.  I still shake my head at that.

Father Peter preached his sermon. Then stopped and paused and said, "We have a visitor tonight, so I will summarize the sermon in English so she will understand" and did.  He did that just for me.  I was the only white face in the room that night.

It makes me cry to hear their story when they made me so welcome.  It breaks my heart even further to hear the story of the Presbyterian pastors that I came to know and love.

I can so relate to the last lines... "I feel my heart contract: What more can there be? Do I really want to
hear it? My tears lie warm on my cheeks."

Thank you for sharing Dorothy.  I spent this morning working in my yard and garden. Spraying everything with Permethrin and the bugs and flies and mosquitoes are gone, and I didn't have any reactions to it around me or on me.  I was just thinking, perhaps this is the miracle that will let me return.  Perhaps the time is still not yet.

We cannot place blame on the pastors or any of the Nuer involved in the horrors of this war.  It is hard not to. But we can't.

I knew them as peaceful, loving people. I knew them in times of peace. Not one of us can say what we would do in similar circumstances. Not one of us can say how we would react when we have watched our mothers, our fathers, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, children, other family members and friends brutally attacked, run down, raped, murdered and gunned down in front of us.

This is not a time for blame.  One tribe, one miltary or government faction over another.  It is a time for prayers for peace and forgiveness.  There were two posts on my facebook page this morning about forgiveness. I guess God knew what was coming for me today.

The journey is not over. It continues in my heart and in my prayers. I don’t know that it will ever be over. It has been said that “you can take the person out of Africa, but you can’t take Africa out of the person”. Now I understand. This has been especially true for me and South Sudan.