In Buluwayo, second big city in Zimbabwe, all deacons pay visits to people in the street as well as at their homes. Each deacon is allocated a parish where he and his volunteers do these visits. That means: inform neighbours about people in their district who are dying. Neighours who, themselves, do not have anything at all. And yet, help should be given. And they do so, as much as they can. There is no food, no bread, no running water, there are electricity break-downs lasting several hours. All this in a city in Africa, in the heat and the dirt.
I paid a visit to Francesco. He is deacon at a psychiatry hospital with hundreds of people suffering from delusions, depressions, fears. Mentally handicaped people, with the Down syndrom, with brain damages, and God knows what more sadness. All these people are housed in the large pavilions that formerly belonged to the British. There is no classification by disease but only by men, women and children. The whole situation is unbelievable. There are hardly any doctors, therapists, nurses, drugs, they have just one meal per day, without meat, milk or proteins. But they do have Francesco. He sings with the children, the women, the men. We pay a visit to the prelate of the diocese who secretly consulted a witch-doctor. He literally grew mad.
Francesco gives out the communion. The sick receive in great devoutness the only medicine that is still available... the love of God.
I visited a deacon in a South African township... a slum area. Compared to this, the well-known Soweto seems a paradise. The priest and the deacons told me about Corpus Christi. "Formerly, this was a big feast. The whole neighbourhood, whether they were catholic, protestant, muslim, or professing any African belief, they all participated in the procession dancing and singing each other's songs. They were walking in the red muddy streets while carrying the Eucharist throughout the area. Now, the priests are begged to enter the houses, to bless the sick, one by one. Actually, now we only sing the Kyrie... Lord help us, have mercy on us."
Father Martin Schupp, the acting bishop of Bulawayo, and bishop Philipp Pölitzer of Keetmanshoop in Namibia express their worries about the deacons. "Can they manage? Is their education adequate? How can we give them extra trainings? How prepare them, mentally as well as religiously? What means all the effort they give, to their family?"
How could one carry out all this in a country like Namibia where deacons live and work at a distance of six hundred to thousand kilometers or more, from an education centre? Moreover, prospective deacons are not seminarists who you can send to a seminary. They are ordinary men, with a family and a profession. Yet they need a full-time education in theology, which lasts almost five years.
How can you teach and train if you have no books, no computers, no teachers, no money? The deacons of Durban ask for extra training in counselling, in how to talk with the sick and the dying and their families. Father Schupp knows that there are all kinds of trainings for social workers in Bulawayo, but the diocese cannot afford it, while the deacons will spend even more time away from their family and their daily profession. They all have to work in the factory, in their enterprise or, as is the case in Zimbabwe, they have the daily care to find food and income. "Maybe we should, every other year, give a number of deacons the chance to do this." The centre I preside, is prepared to help.
The last day of our study meeting a group of young boys and girls from Durban comes to sing. A sixteen year old girl steps forward. The father sitting next to me whispers that, after having lost her mother, she recently lost her father. In a loud voice she sings: "Don't give up, don't give up!" This is Africa's faith.
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