MMM Blog Editor Ireland 19.08.2022
Editor’s Note: MMM Sisters regularly face situations of war and civil conflict as they go about their medical missionary work. This is the story of one Sister. The original document contains names, dates and places. All have been generalized to protect the identity and safety of the Sisters still working in this country.
On June 19th, I arrived in this country and was privileged to work in ministry with another group of Missionary Sisters I will call “Angels”. We ministered to the poorest of the poor in this war-torn country, providing primary healthcare and health education. We also empowered women’s groups to set-up small businesses to sustain their families. We did all this while working closely with and in support of the local Church. One month into my stay, on July 20th, I was returning from the city to our Mission station with another Angels Sister. We had permission from the local police and military to do so. When we arrived, a group of rebels (the local guerrilla force) was looting our mission for food and medicine. We were greatly alarmed! I shouted to get quickly out of the car because there was a hand grenade under the car. We jumped out of the car and flung ourselves to the ground as there was a hail of bullets around us. We crawled behind a tree and stayed frozen. We were terrified and thought we would be killed.
Finally, we made a dash for the house. Both of us lay flat on the chapel floor as the shooting continued endlessly: it seemed like an eternity. We lay and prayed what seemed to be our last prayer.
Eventually, the shooting stopped, and all was still. We heard voices approaching the house. We decided to shout that we were Sisters and unarmed. They shouted back, “welcome, welcome”. We replied the same as we emerged from the chapel and were met with pointed guns. They beckoned us out and simultaneously removed our glasses, crosses, watches, and sandals, as they proceeded to drag us across the compound with much protest from me. At one stage, I sat down and refused to go any further until they returned my sandals. Before giving me back my sandals they insisted we get up, waving their guns at us and shouting at us in an agitated manner. I kept demanding to be sent back to the city and they insisted we had to see the leader of the group.
They identified themselves as the guerrilla force we had suspected, and pressured us to get up and continue to walk. They assured us there was “no problem” a phrase we were to hear repeated endlessly throughout the ordeal. We were forced to march for what seemed to us many hours.
I developed some rapport with our captors on the journey and for me it relieved the tension. Our poor efforts at keeping up with them was a source of amusement to them. They laughed and joked repeatedly at our expense. We reprimanded them and pointed out that it was not funny but to no avail.
During the March they made sport with hand grenades, pulling the pin, tossing them into the air and trying to shoot them. They also shot at vultures. We passed through several deserted villages, heavy with the smell of decomposing flesh. They were boasting of their killings and lootings,
We arrived at the camp in the middle of the afternoon to an uproarious welcome from about 200 or so soldiers, who were laughing and howling. We made an effort to shake hands like any normal Sunday afternoon and it was received that way.
There we joined another small group of hostages and spent a few days at this camp which was out in the open. The Commander of the local guerrilla force greeted us and told us not to worry, or to be afraid. He said we would be safe. We appealed to him to broadcast our capture to allay the fears of our community. He did so two days later. He advised us to leave the country by way of the city. He also warned us that planes leaving from this area would be shot down. Would we ever get to the city?
I tried to make friends with the guards who watched us for 24 hours and did not leave us alone for one minute. They held AK 47’s on us the whole time. We were a source of curiosity in the camp and the soldiers would just come in and stare. Our feet were very sore from all the walking we did. One soldier removed thorns from our feet to the amusement of all the others. Many spoke English and wanted to talk to us. They assured us that they were Christians. They talked about their cause and their commitment to it. We were given a mat, a blanket, and a mosquito net to share between the two of us. We were fed well with fresh meat, boiled milk, lemons, and peanuts.
By then it was Wednesday July 23rd. Their first plan to return us to the city was interrupted by a battle between this group and the army. It was a fierce battle. We were very frightened, watching all the explosions from the top of the hill. As the battle progressed, we were moved down the hill to a safer place. We were told that the way of return to the city was blocked, and twenty-five of the men were to march us to the River where a boatman would take us to the city. Unfortunately, the boatman was never found. We spent the night at the banks of the River. The rebels had built a huge fire to keep the mosquitos away.
In the morning, Thursday July 24th, one of the hostages with us, an old man, said he could lead us to the city. By then the local group had abandoned us. We trembled with fear as to what lay ahead of us.
We marched for one hour. I carried a flag of truce, which had been given to me by the guerrillas. Eventually we walked into the Army who treated us kindly and gave us some food. We remained in their trench until 10 pm and then 100 paratroopers came from the capital by helicopter to rescue us and escort us by foot and lorry to the city. They were very respectful to us as women because in their culture they are not allowed to touch women. They asked how they could carry us across the river. They suggested piggyback which we availed of. We arrived in the city by foot and army truck at about 3 am. We were given a cell in the Army Barracks where we slept for a short while and then were interrogated. Later that morning, July 25th, my community arrived. We were allowed to go back to the Mission after this joyful reunion, filthy, but elated and very thankful to God.
I learned so much while I was a hostage about living in insecurity and uncertainty as the local people who suffered this daily. It was a real lesson in solidarity with those who suffer the atrocities of war. I also identified more with the brave faithful people of this country, including many women, who have lived amid war for over four decades. After this ordeal, along with the other Angels sister, I was expelled as a persona non grata and told to leave the country. The Bishop advised us to go the neighbouring country and to wait until he invited us back. I returned, by road, about a month later. The celebration of the Mass welcoming me back was filled with thunderous applause and festive singing. It was like a healing balm to all the previous wounds of trauma which now the people of God were pouring forth on me in great abundance and great love making me feel like one of their own!
We continued working in public health care and health education, ministering in the camps and daily out-stations in the surrounding area.
During all this time of abduction, I was conscious of the presence of the missionary priests who joined the team effort to rescue us. Their prayer, support and, as always, their good humour during this terrifying ordeal certainly made a difference to me in living this adventure in faith.
by Sr. Helen Aherne MMM Ireland 17.08.2022
Long bright days with sunshine and no showers. Longer evenings when we were allowed to go out to play even after teatime. New dresses and sandals. Taken on holiday by our father to our Aunt and Uncle’s house in Kinsale. They were people who laughed and smiled a lot. Their house was always full of laughter and smiles. Life was full of fun.
And the sun always shone in Kinsale. To top it all off they had a baby daughter called Helen who made everyone smile. We especially felt she added to the holidays. We were allowed to hold her if we were sitting. We pretended she was our baby and would have liked to take her home.
We had no baby to make us smile in our house. Our Granny was our Mammy and though she did not smile much she was the Sun in our house. She loved us and that made the sunshine in our house in our lives. So many years ago.
Now we remember other people who have enriched our lives and whom we can add to those first memories. All I have learned from people who enriched my life. The times with my MMM Sisters in different places that made me the person I now am, as I face the big 60th Diamond Jubilee. What a celebration it will be! A time to remember and to plan for – the next how many years?
Whatever comes will also be from His Hands as we continue to thank and thank and thank the Lord, but also those who gave us life to do with as we wanted. But we have moved on and are in very different times and places. We now look back and enjoy it all over again through the memories. Oh, the places we have been!
For ten glorious and very enjoyable years, I was the Publisher of Loyola Press of Chicago. (A side benefit of this position was that I amassed enough frequent flier miles to visit my MMM sister both in Sao Paulo and Salvador de Bahia, Brazil). At some point during my time in Chicago, I foolishly volunteered to write a blog five days a week called “People for Others.” I got to the point where I would bang my head on my desk because I simply couldn’t think of another Ignatian thought that I hadn’t already expressed.by unknown MMM writer undated Ireland 13.08.2022
Words like coins are good currency. But like currency they can suffer devaluation. Some words even wear thin with usage. Jargon I’d say is counterfeit currency. It goes from being shorthand to short change. The English word ‘listen’ is short changed. In fact in the Anglo-Saxon understanding of the word it means ‘to wait in suspense’, to be on the alert to ourselves and for others.
The prophet Isaiah realised this, he said, “Each morning, He wakes me to hear, to listen like a disciple”. To wait in suspense with another, flows and follows from listening. It is with a receptive morning heart that we’re prompted to hear the movement of God and the needs of others.
Mother Mary Martin knew years of waiting, knew about ‘waiting in suspense’. The year 1937 marked the foundation of the Medical Missionaries of Mary, and also marked a transition for the Foundress. For the next 30 years, the Dublin born disciple had listening ears for the consolidation of her vision, the organisation and the administration of the fledgling congregation. A Sister who often accompanied Mother Mary relates her sensitivity to people. “We arranged to meet in the evening in the Marist Church in Leeson Street. I didn’t know the precise nature of Mother’s business but knew it was of a sensitive nature and that she was anxious about the outcome. As I was entering the Marist church there was a travelling woman with a few children on the steps, I gave her all money I had with me which was only a few shillings and asked her to pray for Mother Mary Martin. She gave me a quick look. ‘Do you know Mother Mary too?’ She knew Mother Mary very well and told me of the friendship and kindness Mother had shared with her.”
Pondering the story I ask myself what had Mother Mary and this travelling woman in common. They had the same lifeline – dependence on God through people. Neither could go on further on their own strength. They truly ‘waited in suspense’ for what God would send. With them the word ‘listen’ suffered no devaluation, their listening was attentive, precious in God’s sight.
By Monica Shaw U.S.A. 11.08.2022
Lily Murphy was my great aunt. In 1950, Lily went with the Medical Missionaries of Mary to Ogoja, Nigeria to teach the leper children. At the time, she was 57 years young, and stayed in Ogoja for over 20 years establishing schools in each village.
My book, The Rainwater Secret is historical fiction based on her true story. I was reading another book based in England, and it reminded me of Lily. I think there was a lot of divine intervention, because I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I decided I would do a little research about the MMM’s and their work in Africa. After researching online, and I’m sure bothering Sister Catherine who at the time was in charge of the MMM archives in Drogheda, Ireland, I planned a trip to Ireland to do some more research.
I had a lovely visit with all of the Sisters in Drogheda! Originally, I had planned to spend an afternoon there, but ended up staying until late in the evening and then went back the next day as well. Lily lived to the ripe old age of 107 so there were only a few Sisters in Drogheda who worked with Lily that were still alive, but we managed to visit with a few of them and enjoyed hearing stories of their time in Ogoja.
I can’t express how much fun I had visiting with the Sisters and hearing stories not just about Africa, but all of their mission trips. I am in awe of them just jetting, or in this case boating off to an unknown land with the hope of helping others. I still shake my head thinking of how courageous they must have been to make the long trip.
I read everything I could get my hands on. Bishop McGettrick wrote a book as did Mother Mary Martin. Lily wrote articles about the leprosy patients for the MMM newsletters. Even the gentlemen who went to Africa to film The Visitation wrote a book. There was another book “Diary of an MMM” that was very helpful as well. I remember thinking on the flight home, “I’ve got to figure out how to write a book!”
Lily had been a head mistress at a school in Bootle. I’m not sure how she heard of the MMM’s going to Africa, but I have the first letter she wrote to Mother Mary Martin requesting to be the teacher that they took with them to Ojoja.
If I had to describe Lily, I would say she was full of life. Always up for a prank, a cuppa or a nip of cognac. She was funny and lit up the room with her stories.
I grew up Catholic and never heard of the MMM’s until I started researching this book. I was young when Lily was still alive, and even though I went to visit her in England after she left Ogoja, I never thought to ask her about her time in Africa. Thank goodness there were so many books available to read! Although the story is about Lily’s time in Ogoja, she would never have wanted to be the “star of the show.” All glory goes to God, and the wonderful Sisters of the MMM.
I’m so blessed that Lily tapped me on the shoulder from heaven and helped me write The Rainwater Secret. It has been such an honor to share her story. A portion of the proceeds from the book go to the Medical Missionaries of Mary, and I pray that Lily would be very pleased to continue her mission with the MMM’s from above.
by Sr. Cecily Bourdillion MMM Ireland 09.08.2022
My last mission was in rural Malawi, ministering at Kasina Health Centre. Though the people of Kasina are subsistence farmers and live from hand to mouth it was wonderful and amazing to witness patients using a cell phone to contact family to report their admission or to give other information. In the villages solar panels charging the phones was a common sight. Near the Health Centre was a pylon to ensure availability of telecommunication.
It was there that someone predicted that one day we would be able to see the person speaking to us over the seas. I expressed my certitude that this was an absolute impossibility!
My first experience of a telephone was living on a farm in Rhodesia – now Zimbabwe. There was great excitement when the telephone was installed. It was a “party line” which meant that our neighbours used the same line. We each had a special ring – ours was three short rings. We knew when our neighbours were receiving calls. We could have listened in but would not dream of doing so! The phone was activated by turning a handle. We had to go through the “exchange”- a person at the end of the line- to get through to a number.
I again met the “party line” many years later when in rural Nigeria. On one occasion I was speaking with a friend telling of a journey I would be making when we were interrupted by the lady on the exchange reminding me that she had an appointment with me on that day!!!
Many years later I was visiting in England. By this time, I had become used to using the “land line” with easy dialling and communication. The phone rang and I answered. The caller asked for my brother, and I asked the caller to please hold the line. I put the telephone down and ran upstairs to tell my brother. He asked me for the phone so that he could answer the call. I was now in the world of “mobile phones ” and did not realise it!
What a wonderful means of communication is the telephone – to be able to speak to and see our loved ones far across continents – and to write our letters and read the news, listen to concerts and engage in Zoom meetings and attend Mass and prayer services.
Mother Mary Martin was aware of the power of communication and the technology that promoted it. Thus, came about The Visitation – the film about the early days of MMM.
Communication is an essential aspect of human life and activity – communication with God, with our fellow human beings, with the animal world and creation. Communication is necessary for the building of relationships and good relations are the essence of harmonious living.
My prayer is that the wonderful advances made in communication technology may always be used by us human beings to surmount barriers- especially those of gender, colour, culture, class, creed – and to enable us be ever more caring, loving and compassionate as we endeavour to re-build a world of peace and justice.
by Mary Coffey AMMM Ireland 07.08.2022
My Da used to call me Moll and, years later, my brother Paddy used it also as a term of endearment, connecting us both back to the well-spring of Da’s gentle love. My Auntie Mary sometimes called me Mollie. My brother–in–law, Damien, when he got to know me first, started to call me Maisie. Their children took it up and now that they are young adults they still use it occasionally. There is something very intimate in a pet name that is used just within the family.
When the Alsultan family from Syria were welcomed into our community in Kells the children were small. Maysa was six, Kays was three and Tasnim almost two. Tasnim couldn’t say ‘Mary’. She could only say Millie. I loved the sound of Millie in her little gentle voice, and I wished that she would never be able to say Mary. On her third birthday, to be precise, I heard ‘Mary’ pronounced loud and clear and she has never looked back. She no longer calls me Millie but because I want to keep Millie alive I sometimes playfully call her Millie!
This lovely photo was taken recently on Kays’ 6th birthday. Little boys are often less than thrilled to be hugged. Even if he was happy, a token protest was called for. Maysa, with the sense of responsibility associated with the eldest girl, is watching on in her gentle, reserved manner. Tasnim usually steals the limelight with the flashing brown eyes, the big smile and the utter confidence in her capacity to make connection and to hold it! That’s my Millie. A pet name used within the family. Kinship. There’s a new baby on the way. Who knows what name will be chosen?
I am now asking myself “By what name does God wish to call me when he invites me to spend time with Him in prayer and to be of service to his little ones?” I think that God might wish to call me Millie so that I can be lost in all the tenderness that that name evokes, a tenderness that sometimes overwhelms me. God’s
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 05.08.2022
Yesterday I was talking with one of our Sisters about racism. She was an Irish Sister, talking about the anti-English behaviour of her father during her formative years, but we all know the prejudices and stereotypes that can exist amongst us. When I hear my Dutch sister-in-law talk about Germans, it reminded me of the prejudices that Brazilian have against Argentinians, the English have against the French.
by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM Ireland 05.08.2022
Yesterday I was talking with one of our Sisters about racism. She was an Irish Sister, talking about the anti-English behaviour of her father during her formative years, but we all know the prejudices and stereotypes that can exist amongst us. When I hear my Dutch sister-in-law talk about Germans, it reminded me of the prejudices that Brazilian have against Argentinians, the English have against the French.
I began thinking about my own racism. Growing up white in a mostly white city, I came across few people who were different from me. I was an avid reader as a child, so Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and other literature from the American South would have been my first glimpse into a world that was different from my own. Even entering MMM did not change things much. In those days a few African Sisters came to Ireland, but they were mostly students and would soon be returning to their own countries. Even going to Brazil did not alter things for me. Yes, they were different, a whole mix of differences, descendants of European migrants, indigenous people, Afro-Brazilians and all the intermingling of those people together. But we got on well together, didn’t we? “I am not a racist”, I would comfortably say to myself.
I ‘woke up’ to my own racism when I was in my mid-thirties. I was in a workshop when the facilitator asked the group to split into two groups, black and white. “How silly”, I thought, “I am the only white person here.” To my surprise, one of the other participants stood up and joined me. My shock was that I had always, in my mind, called her ‘coloured’. And here she was calling herself white. I immediately understood the unworked racism within me. I knew I had work to do on myself and my attitudes. Unworked racism, I believe, is often what causes the problems in relationships. Am I better? Probably not, but I try. I try to grow in understanding, of putting myself in the other person’s shoes. I try to wait and think before blurting out something. I watch those hidden emotions rise up and ask myself “what is going on here?”
I am less arrogant now, more unsure, and I hope more open to the on-going work of dealing with my hidden prejudices.
by Vera Grant AMMM Ireland 03.08.2022
How many times have we heard or read these words? It is said that they appear 365 times in the bible – one for every day. I don’t know. I haven’t counted.
Our celebrated poet, Seamus Heaney, before he died he sent a text message, written in Latin telling his wife, not to be afraid.
What is it about dying that we fear and want to reassure our loved ones not to be afraid. Is it to mask our own fear?
My sister, Teresa, who was dying from cancer and had difficulty in speaking, struggled with the effort to whisper, ‘I don’t want to die’. She was afraid to go to sleep in case she didn’t wake up and pleaded with us to stay by her side. Her fear was very tangible and I tried to reassure her by quoting from Donagh O’Shea that death was just another journey. A journey into the unknown and like many journeys we make in our lifetime they too bring fear, anxiety and nervousness.
Teresa had given up her life in Belfast to go with her new husband to live in Canada. My mother was heartbroken to see her go so far away and wondered if she would ever see her again. She too was fearful in not knowing what life would be like for her daughter in a foreign country with no family close by.
I talked about how sad a parting it was for all of us, but Teresa, then was a new bride, had a husband who would look after her and he did. She called him her rock. And so too on her final journey I said that she won’t be alone. God will be her rock.
Why am I writing this now when my sister died 4 years ago?
There were two funerals this week in our parish and, whilst both were very different, they reflected the lives of the two men who had died. What connected them was the questioning…a desire for facts and information. In one instance it was the young boy, Rory who interrupted the story his grandmother was reading to him by continually asking, ‘but why, where and when?’ She gave up and gave him the book to read himself.
However, it was the words of the Priest who spoke at John’s funeral that made me think even more about death. John was a dear friend and we both belonged to the same Prayer Group. Frequently he would interrupt the reading of the passage of scripture to express his uncertainty. At times it seemed like one question after another. Often, they were the same questions I was pondering but wasn’t sure how to ask them.
Fr Albert, unlike the grandmother, seemed to welcome the interruptions, he would smile and hesitantly would offer his understanding in an attempt to explain. Often he would ask the group for their views and we would watch John nod in agreement but many times there was a shaking of the head, ‘I still don’t get this.’
At the funeral Mass for John the Parish Priest spoke about him and his life of faith. In his eulogy he shared with us all that in spite of his trust in God and in his beliefs ‘John had been afraid.’
It seemed such a contradiction to all the platitudes of ‘Be Not afraid’. I felt overwhelmed with sadness at the honesty and humility of John. He was still questioning even as he lay dying.
Jesus too had been afraid, “my soul is sorrowful and troubled, even to death,” he said and prayed that God might let the cup pass from him.
John had faith, great faith in God and in the teachings of the Church and yet he allowed himself to feel the fear, express it and accept it in preparing for his last journey home, back to God his Father.
What I was left with was – it’s ok to be afraid.
