Joy
A few days ago, Rebeca, a former JRS Maban staff, was wearing
a JRS T-shirt in Juba and was stopped by a deaf person. She was asked
whether JRS was in South Sudan. This person so greatly benefited from JRS that he wanted
to reconnect with the organization. He was supported through our scholarship
program while in Kakuma refugee camp (Kenya) to complete his primary and
secondary education attending special needs schools where he learned to master
the sign language. Later, he pursued his education in Kakuma refugee camp through
the
JC:HEM program.
attaining an on-line diploma accredited by the Regis University (Denver, CO,
USA), focusing on Education.
His name is Abraham and he is back in his home country
despite the current conflict. He is trying to help children who face similar
challenges as the ones he faced when he was a kid, supporting primary students
with hearing impairments by teaching them sign language and other skills.
Abraham is deeply grateful to JRS for the opportunity
offered to him while in exile and he is now sharing what he learned with his
own people.
Sorrow
Yesterday around 10 am I receive a phone call. Philip, one
of our psychosocial workers in Doro refugee camp has passed away. In fact, he was the first one to recieve JRS in Doro camp. He used to
visit elderly people in the camp encouraging them, listening to their problems,
stories, complaints, etc. He battled for
few months with a serious sickness. Last time I accompanied him to the hospital
the diagnosis was bad: a big growth in his liver. “Father, not much can be done”
the doctor told me. We are in a remote corner of South Sudan, a country at war,
so even a biopsy or appropriate treatment in his case was just not possible.
Upon receiving the news we rush to his home. As we approach
his shelter we hear the wailing sounds. At least two hundred people have congregated.
Many women are crying loudly, some uncontrollably. We enter the small house
made of grass and roofed with a plastic sheet. In it around fifteen women are on
the floor surrounding the body wrapped with a shroud. They are singing a
religious song, a Christian song with a sad and repetitive tune. Many of them
are shedding tears. I recognize Philip´s wife, her face is shaken. It is such
an intense moment and the little house is so hot that some of the women faint and
are taken out.
We move then to the cemetery, an anonymous place under a few
trees just five minutes away from the home. A large group of men are digging
the grave taking turns. It is an arduous task that takes around two hours. There
is not much talking. People are mostly in silence considering this tragic
event. A man of 52 years has died, leaving behind his wife and 8
children, plus a good number of grandchildren.
Death is always a mystery, but to die in exile is a tragic
mystery, one would dare to call it an unjust mystery. The wailing sounds of the
women were in fact like a cry out to God, asking
“why, why, why do we
have to continue burying our beloved ones in this strange land?
Until when will this
terrible pain afflict us?”
