DINAJPUR

A tempting proponent:

"Are you not yet convinced that now you are old? ... Before dying, please, write something about what happened fifty sixty years ago; history that you have seen and lived.

I : "Good!"

No ... sorry, I am not a historian, nor a writer of history, cold and unaffected by what has happened or what is happening. Naturally, spontaneously my pen would add down occasionally personal emotions, personal assent or disapproval about what happened or is happing, would add a slip-adjective that will weigh heavily on the real person or thing in question.

Proponent :

"Good!" When I read some chronicles or some story I am happy to make my comments with an intelligent partner saying to him : "Right!" or : "Fib!"

I : "O.K.",

Read then, be happy, free to make your comments, good or bad, as you like. But be sure : No trick!

Rajarampur, Dinajpur

22nd October, 2000

Mission Sunday

Bishop Anselmo for fun was declaring: "I am the Bishop of Pakistan and Hindustan, so I can tour freely to my parishes in both the countries." He was right regarding the powerful Curia Romana, but he had to be careful with the Police of India. In fact the diocese of Dinajpur since 1927 was covering the districts of Dinajpur (including West Dinajpur), Rajshahi, Bogura, Rangpur, Jalpaiguri and Maldha. So, after Christmas celebrated with the Mission-Orphans he called me : "Vuscia" he said, "Can pack up and go to Mal Bazar. Afterwards we shall see..."

O.K. At midnight 31st December, 1948 - 1^st January 1949, I was crossing the boundary of India and Pakistan towards the small railway station of Mal Bazar. From there where kindly driven by a Hindu gentleman, I was greeted by a bespectacled young man who presented himself as the Catechist of the mission. Waiting for the Parish Priest I looked around : the house, a beautiful bungalow Indian style with a picturesque comfortable veranda. At the north a big cottage with a large door surmounted by a cross, obviously indicating the Church. At the south the Catechist showed me a fairly new building telling me that it was the boarding school. Not far from the priests’ house a large excavation attracted my attention when the Catechist joyously let me know that the Parish Priest was an exceptionally architect and was building a big monumental Church. In the meantime the person in causa presented himself : "You, I think, Fr. Pesce, the new Assistant. I am Fr. Guiseppe Milozzi from Macerata." "Oh, I have some relations with Macerata", I said : "Your new bishop was my professor of philosophy". And he smilingly added : "I hope you must be a little more intelligent that your ex-professor", and laughed. "Outspoken", I said to myself : " I must be very careful with this man ..." And he went on : "Very happy to have you here. Now, quick, set yourself to learn Hindi. Here is a lot of work to do. "Ora et labora" is my slogan.

True, within a week I could see that those words were not a mere slogan but his program of life.

With him it was a pleasure to work, to talk, to learn. "An exceptional man", called him the Catechist : true!

The days were passing by learning the Hindi language of course, but also by learning to become a good missionary by the example of that priest and from the ordinary and extraordinary happenings at the mission.

Happenings, I said. For the chronicle I am tempted to summarize what happened in a tea garden, where some Christians, moved by the communist propaganda, were rebelling against the employers and not only refused to go to Mass on Sunday, but were exciting the people against the priests as allies of the bosses... ‘and then", he ended his report : "I set on fire their chapel. They are not worthy to be called Christian nor to enter any Church..." At these words Fr. Milozzi interrupted him and softly said only, "If I were there I would kneel down in front of the chapel and beg God forgiveness for my stubbornness."

A practical lesson for me.

And another more practical lesson from a little comical happening.

One Sunday after the Mass an English lady entered the parish office where already a man was waiting. From the reciprocal ceremonial presentations I could understand that the lady was looking for a cook and that man was a candidate for the job. The lady asked him, "And there, good man, how much you ask for your monthly pay?"

"Hear, my lady, if I myself, have to go to the bazar for the daily expenses, then it will do with forty Rupees, on the contrary if you shall go to the bazar yourself, then you will give forty five Rupees, O.K.?"

I was aghast to those words, to that kind of business. Fr. Milozzi lauphed at me, "you must go a long way to be qualified for Bengal. Always keep your eyes open among the Bengalees!"

Exactly at 7:30 a.m. a gong was calling the labourers to work at the building of the new church. Almost always I too was present among them with my trowel in hand. One morning, perhaps still half-sleepy, bringing in the right line a brick I hurt slightly my hand and a little blood spurted from the cut.

Wonderful! I remembered, when at Genoa I was saying the last "good bye" to my father, smiling I told him, "Don’t worry, the first church I shall build in Bengal will be dedicated to Our Lady of Novi Ligure." I now remember, a tear sparkled in his eyes, the first and last tear I could see during the course of my whole life. Happy that a few drops of my blood were left there mixed in the concrete of the church of Mal Bazar. Beautiful days! Unforgettable!

But there was always in my heart the fear to evade the law being a resident of India without the necessary visa. The happening on the occasion of my arrival in Bombay was still printed in my mind. The Mohashoba leaders were not lukewarm toward their religion, as were Nehru and Jinnah…

And suddenly it happened : in the office of the CID : "You have the visa given you by Pakistan. Go there, without delay." I said, "Tomorrow".

Pack up and go. Very bad indeed.

Uselessly? Not a all. Within three months I had a slight knowledge of Hindi language and the splendid coaching by an experienced missionary for my future life.

Yes. A little beautiful wonderful parenthesis in the years of my youth.

Bishop Anselmo, as an old Ligurian navy captain, does not easily lose heart in difficult circumstances; on the contrary he gets innervate for better ventures. Now, with two young missionaries, Luigi Oggioni (1916–1955) and I at his disposal, he seized the opportunity to realize an old dream concealed in his heart during the long years of war : 1^st, to open a new missionary centre at Borni (District Rajshahi) among the Bengal people; 2^nd, to establish another Mission among the Oraons at Boldipukur (District Rangpur).

He called both of us and said : "Don’t worry, here is plenty of work. You, Pesce, can go to Mariampur to learn Santali language and in the same time to help the new Parish Priest since Fr. Martinelli (1901-1968) will go to Boldipukur. And you, Oggini can go to Borni with Fr. Crivelli Pietro (1907-1962), the artist you know well, among the Bengali people who are in need of two churches, one made of love and another made by bricks. Good luck to both of you! "Pack up and go."

I try to be a follower of Teilhard de Chardin, whom Pope Paul VI defined "an indispensable man of our time". So, I try always to convince myself that any happening about me, regarding me, is for the best of me and others alike.

So heartily shouting "Long live to Chardin" I reached Mariampur.

"Let me see, please, this town of Mary..." Everywhere jungle... Along the road that links Ghoraghat to Ranigonj hat I find out some small huts inhabited by Bihari people who, as allies to the English Army during the Second World War, received their reward here by the Government of England.

Near the small house of the priests I see the Church. A European jewel in South East Asia! Surprised to find such a beautiful thing I remain there speechless. "Yes", explains Fr. Martinelli "Doric style". This is the only church in Pakistan built in this Greek style. And see the bell-tower, the only bell-tower existing in East Pakistan. Wonderful!

On those few days before leaving for Boldipukur, he invited me to see his medical dispensary, giving me some precious advices, "Remember, Jesus was busy to heal the sick and they of course were following Him with love and gratitude." So, I understood why he at his signature instead of PIME, as many members of that Institution are doing, was always writing M.O, (Medical Officer). When some years ago smallpox was raging at the nearby village of Shitolgram among the Malos Fr. Martinelli intelligently converted the school in a lazaret where he was taking care of the sick. In some dangerous situations he was compelled by his zeal and charity to carry on his shoulders the dying persons into the lazaret in order to save the others members of the family. Following the example of the saints he was ready to offer his life helping his neighbours.

After the calamity a local Muslim doctor made a simple statement, "To be still alive, to be exempt from that horrible illness is an apodictic proof of the presence of God in you."

One evening after supper I asked him why this Mission has been open in this place, Daulighat. "By chance", he said, "True, the deeds of God are unforeseeable. Hear how it happened : before and during the First World War (1915–1918) from the diocese of Krishnanagar the PIME’s missionaries were touring the area from Jessore to Dinajpur looking especially for the Aboriginal. Dhanjuri, e.g. was one of the old centres, an oasis, a reference-point for those missionaries. Now it happened that a young priest, Fr. Edoardo Ferrario (1883–1917) turned up at Bulakipur (Khidirpur), a Santali village along the road Chorkai (Biramapur) – Ghoraghat and had a crush on that people.

I don’t know why, he really took a fancy for that place. He promised himself to succeed with any sacrifice, any effort to open a Mission Centre there. He purchased even a plot of land hoping to build not only a chapel, but also a church and a school for those illiterate Santals. "Poor Ferrario" exclaimed, "He fell sick and died, only 34 years old." Ten-fifteen years after his death the Parish Priest of Dhanjuri, the future Bishop of Dinajpur, was touring the same area; tramping with his steps of a mountaineer turned out to Daulighat when surprisingly was greeted by a throng of basket-makers, Mahali. Cordial, enthusiastic greetings and welcome and come-again and promises to become good, faithful Christian…

"Vox populi vox Dei", they say. And Mariampur Mission came to be.

Next day he took me as a travelling companion to meet the Education Divisional Inspector of Rajshahi. He was immediately welcomed by the Inspector himself as one of his close relations, pleased to have a talk with this missionary who was exciting his interest not only for his Abirerpara School but also for the disputable national education programme. At the end inspector shaking hands, "I don’t like to call you ‘Father’," told him : "Let me call you ‘brother’. God bless you."

A man, this priest, who was able to attract love as easily by a beggar as by a king. A man, as I was seeing him, who was neglecting everything, even his life, for the uplift of his people, beginning from the spiritual field to the troublesome economic and legal fields.

Within two-three months he stole my admiration and my affection. He left for Boldipukur and I remained at Mariampur waiting for the new Parish Priest Emilio Sozzi (1901–1977).

And a little unforeseeable adventure was waiting for me.

Fr. Emilio Ferdinando Sozzi, a veteran of a war-concentration camp, a jolly fellow welcome in every gathering or gala-dinner, was attracted by a spiritual desire to live as a hermit. Although often he was touring the villages (Christian or non-Christian) to preach the Word of God, sometime entertaining people with his songs and guitar, his mind was always towards that small hut he built for himself, without any minimum comfort, at Maldo village, among a little group of Santali houses. There he was finding peace with his prayers and long hours of meditation. Besides he was enjoying himself composing simple popular songs in Santali language.

When he heard of his appointment as parish priest of Mariampur, he fell in a quandary : to whom to say ‘yes’…? To the Bishop, the representative of God or his conscience, the voice of God?

And days and weeks were passing … Letters, flash-visits to his hermitage… Nothing to do.

One day I found his shoes in a carton box. I gave them an overtime shine and sent them to Maldo. Unbelievable! He was deeply moved… Next day was at Mariampur. "O.K." he said, "Surrender, but with some conditions. If you want me, 1^st : I shall not put my signature on any important document of the parish. 2^nd : I shall not take any responsibility on the economic administration; you shall do it."

Bishop Anselmo when heard about this farce, heartily laughing asked me whether I was knowing to write and read… "If you fail to live with him", he said, "Don’t worry. Be sure, you always will find a job as a shoeshine at the railway station of Dinajpur."

So, I became the parish priest, the assistant, and the secretary to Fr. Sozzi with the ring of Charles the Great in my left finger.

And the farce got the first prize out of a thousand unknown similar farces done by the PIME Missionaries (bishops, priests and brothers, perhaps sisters too.)

At Mariampur with that holy man who every night exactly at 3:00 was entering the church for preparing himself to say Mass in the early morning, I was forced to follow in someway his example, to learn, regarding the economic administration, that the money of the church is the money of the poor; otherwise it will become the devil’s shit.

Besides with him, a poet by birth, who was speaking Santali language better than the Santals, I learned quickly, unfortunately very very badly for my negligence, that language.

With him, a cheerful man who was able to turn in a comedy an occasional moral tragedy, I learned how to behave with people so different from me by character, mentality and culture.

During my brief permanence there, as a news chronicle (this time rosy chronicle), I would like to add two more lines.

I remember the comedy of the first Santal priest of the world, Fr. Lambert Kisku. He was ordained priest during the Second World War. A big exceptional festival to mark the historical happening; the first Santal tribal consecrated priest! Even the Ambassador of Italy to India paid honour with his presence to the new priest.

After the festival Fr. Kisku worked for a short time in the parish of Mariampur. Afterwards was appointed as an assistant parish priest in the far-away district of Malda.

There he fell in love with a Mahali girl.

Consequently, according to the Canon Law of the Catholic Church, being excommunicated, he lost any priestly prerogative. Besides his worst trouble came from the leaders of his tribe, as he was not married according to the tribal custom. In fact his woman was belonging to another tribe. Eventual punishment in the tribal could be very harsh.

So that Bishop Obert (Bishop Baba) asked me by letter to do, regardless of expenses and time, the absurd, quickly, in order to save that poor priest. According to that letter I sent immediately the Fr. Lambert’s brother and a considerable amount of money with a few letters of recommendation to the tribal leaders.

Fr. Sozzi told me: "O.K. Do what you think the best, but don’t worry. I know well that poor man and God knows him better than I." He took his cycle and: "Jisu maran!", he said, running directly to his hermitage.

After four days the bearer of my letters and money reached the Mission when Fr. Sozzi was just entering his room.

"Everything fine," said Nikolas, the young brother of Fr. Lambert : "Lambert will go to Bagalpur;" and Fr. Sozzi made echo: "I am overcome with sleep. I am going to bed." I understood well: my money and letters did something, but his three white nights of prayers were the fulcrum for success."

To end the rosy chronicle, afterwards, I heard that the Francescan Bishop Urban invited him into his house as a professor of language and after some years Mr. Lambert Kisku returned to be the Rev. Fr. Lambert Kisku.

A trap to save him.

Fr. Sozzi in every difficult situation always composed, self-collected, was finding a way-out, even if a holy subterfuge, in order to help those who were desperately in need of a … human miracle!

And I was lucky to live with such a man.

One day I received a letter from a classmate of mine, Aldo Del Monte, Bishop of Novara. He wrote: "Lucky fellow, your whole life will be always on the way and I, poor lame, will be condemned in a golden cage…"

I lucky? May be!

He prophet of evil? Maybe too….

In the evening a peon from the Bishop’s House of Dinajpur brought a short letter : "Come in, please, urgently."

Who knows? An other "pack up and go?"

At Dinajpur there was a boarding cum orphanage attached to a Junior H. School.

Its Director, Fr. Luigi Bigoni PIME (1904–1986) has been transferred to Borni (District Rajhahi) entrusted to open there a new Mission center for some villages recently inhabited by Dhaka’s Bengali Christians.

Consequently Bishop Obert asked me to substitute that Father who was leaving Dinajpur for his new assignment.

Obediently I went there: Dinajpur-Koshba, St. Philip’s Hostel – St. Philip’s Junior H. School.

New job, new system of life, new co-operators, new brothers and priests fairly conservatives, all monsignori who were forbidden to mistake even once in their lives.

Not easy at all to change from one situation to a new situation, from e.g. to live with Fr. Sozzi and to live with Mons. Monfrini ….

Anyway the boys of the hostel were good, not giving any trouble, generally better, I would say, than the Italian boys of my parish oratory.

For the chronicle of the time I like to remember some of those boys who left St. Philip’s Hostel to become the lay-leaders in our catholic society of to-day.

Three of them attracted my attention for their exceptional punctuality at the boring routine of the hostel and the good behaviour not only in the Church but with their classmates. Months before Christmas holidays two of them came to my office to ask for baptism. After a long intense training, after talking with their parents and relatives I baptized them. (Of course Aroon Xalxo was not baptized because he was an Oranon Christian from Boldipukur parish.) He was not happy to stay at the hostel as a student; he wanted to go back home to work in the fields and help his family, but at last has been convinced by his parish priest, Fr.Martinelli, to continue his studies with the purpose to help not only his family but also the whole Church. He is now a zealous good catechist always ready to tour not only the villages of his parish, but to go everywhere, eager to spread the Good News particularly among his co-tribal Oraons.

He knows perfectly the Kuruk language, the old original language of the Dravidian Oraons, so that he was able to prepare some necessary liturgical and prayer books written in that language, Besides he is the editor and director of a magazine useful to all, Christian or non-Christian Kuruk speaking.

The newly baptized Somra Kerketta, still chrisma-sweet-smelling, as an experienced apostle drove all the inhabitants of his village, (Thakurbari) into the shelter of Christ. After some years he helped me in the new Mission of Thakurgaon. Unfortunately during the war of liberation was killed at Madharganj village.

The third ex-boy of St. Philip’s Hostel Ram Besra, known as Ram Babu, is the "big" catechist of Mariampur Mission, a respected leader among the Christians of the whole diocese of Dinajpur and also a known honest and learned person whose advices and judgments are accepted and asked for by Muslims and Hindus of the locality.

Among the teachers of St. Philip’s Junior High School an old Hindu, a humble, kind person was acting as Head Master. At his side a group of teachers, somebody sick, and somebody untrained, but all bright, enthusiastic and proud to work in a Mission school.

In the Education District Office the new inspectors and directors were discussing about the new syllabus to be adopted pointing out that Pakistan, a new Islamic country, is different from both the Old-Dominion and India. But nobody was showing resentment or grudge against the Mission Schools. On the contrary some of them were favourable, e.g. the special Officer for Aboriginals.

In the year 1952 the new appointed Apostolic Nuncio of Vatican to Pakistan, the Archbishop of Karachi, came to East Pakistan to visit also our diocese of Dinajpur. He was very happy to see the zeal of the old missionaries as the enthusiasm of the postwar young ones.

He was too surprised to find out a diocese without a single High School. After the usual entertainment presented to him by the boys of the boarding, he told me, "Start class IX without delay and everything will come as a consequence … Education Board recognition, Government approval, Government aid and so on … Now it is our favourable time in Pakistan. Don’t wait for Authorities’ permission."

He went back to Karachi and I seized the opportunity to do what all the Aboriginals and non-aboriginals were asking for. Within a few days our Mission Press printed a leaflet, "Ciatro Chai! We want students" to be distributed in the nearby villages. Bishop Obert, uninformed, surprised by my boldness, of course was ready to give me a deserved reprimand would not intervene. Fr. Francesco Ghezzi (1906–1975), his most authoritative adviser and in that situation my Guardian Angel. Everything was peacefully settled.

Also the difficult selection among the candidate students, bad and good, has been settled with the help of a young teacher appointed by me as an acting Head Master.

And Dinajpur Diocese had its own High E. School.

And I happy as a young mother when for the first time hears her baby clearly calling, "Ma".

Besides more and more happy I, when Bishop Obert, after a few months, told me, "Pack up and go to Ruhea".

At the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th Century in the two police stations of Lahiri and Atwari belonging to the Subdivision of Thakurgaon some Hindu low-caste families were converted to Christianity thank the zeal of the Baptist missionaries who were spreading the Gospel into the villages situated along the new Railway-line Dinajpur – Ruhea and farther. They were successful among the Hari Hazra.

The Hari women were working as midwives so that their families were scattered in the many villages, ready to do their work when called for a delivery case. Men were helping to make both ends meet as amateur fishermen. The Baptist missionary Miss Pitman changed their name "Hazra" in Das ("servant of God").

In the meantime the Italian PIME missionaries were coming up from the far-away diocese of Krisnagor in to the districts of Rajhahi, Dinajpur, Bogra to work especially among the tribal Aboriginals.

In the year 1927 the Bishop of Krishnagor Santino Taveggia (1855-1928) by Propaganda Fide had been transferred appointed Bishop of the new established diocese of Dinajpur. Among the missionaries who left Khrishnagar for Dinajpur Fr. Giuseppe Macchi (1868-1947) went to Fakirganj, a big bazar near the H.Q. of the P.S. of Atwari, a big village inhabited by a community of Hari. Among them some families were already baptized by the Baptist missionary Miss Pitman .

Fr. Macchi, elated with that people; was rejuvenating remembering his old flock left at Krishnagor. Within a few years a small group entered the Catholic Church. For them he brought from Calcutta the iron frames and the thin sheets for a chapel.

He the pioneer, the founder of the Mission of the Hari people of Ruhea.

One of those good-natured Milanese Monsignors who with those ancient illustrious coats of arms were keeping their hearts full of love and kindness for the poor illiterate little brothers.

Fakirganj is only five miles from the Railway Station of Ruhea, but for the priests and catechists reaching there from Dinajpur was not so easy, especially during the rainy season. Besides Fr. Macchi was going towards the seventy...

And, oh!... Deus ex machina! Meanwhile an other giant priest appears on the stage coming from Boborpara, Fr. Pietro Costa (1885-1977). He too, an Italian from Vigevano, the "City of the shoes", so called for its artistic comfortable shoes. As a young missionary he worked successfully among the "Muci" in the district of Jessore.

Deus ex machina! In the meantime at Dinajpur, in a meeting, has been taken the decision to open a Mission Centre at Ruhea. Fr. Costa was delighted to be the pioneer of that Mission, to work among the Hari, the Muci, the Chamars (leather workers). He looked at the horizon: an immense field to be tilled, to be sowed... He began to work, alone, in the only name of Jesus, among hundreds of difficulties brought along his road by the Hindu social philosophy.

Fortunately after some years a young missionary priest came from Italy to help as an Assistant parish priest.

So he found time to build, with a contribution of the old Fr. Macchi, a small decent house. He looked also for a catechist who finally was found and brought to Ruhea from the Mission of Islampur. Mukundo Das by name.

But a local catechist still was a must. Dialect’s slogans, culture, customs, traditions of a tribe or a caste are known and understood only by a co-tribal or a co-Hindu caste.

Miraculously a promising Hari boy came out from Fakirganj. His father was a member of the first Baptist Christian group.

In his family was inborn the spirit of rebellion and intolerance against the Hindu sociology transformed by the Pandit Bramins in a religion : Hinduism.

But among the members of the family a different system of war in order to achieve the same goal was used. The younger brother, Upendro Nath Das, up on a pedestal with two degrees in English Literature and History, espoused the Communism’s doctrine and was fighting with "The Capital" in his hand and the voice of Marx in his mouth. Soon unfortunately as a leader of the Communist Party, banned in Pakistan, has been sent in exile in India, where, married with a Brahmin’s daughter, tried to be elected as a Member of the Indian Parliament but, even if Communist Party claimed a big victory in West Bengal, he could not succeed.

On the contrary the oldest brother Mohonto Das by character was less warlike. Fr. Costa looked after him closely as his spiritual director since he began High School. Mohonto has been convinced that the Christ’s doctrine i.e. "the religion of love" was the best weapon against the reciprocal human hatred, that love would be the only possible means for a sure victory. So he was fighting with the Gospel in his hand and the voice of an apostle of Jesus in his mouth.

Fr. Costa’s foresight and hope came off when Mohonto raised as one of the best Catechists in the whole Church of East Pakistan (Bangladesh). He was honored in his life by a medal of merit by Pope Paul VI, awarded in the year 1976 of a journey to Rome Vatican as a representative of the Catechists of Bangladesh by the National Catechist Centre. He fought and sacrificed his life to dismantle the evil barriers of division among the Hindus in the name of Jesus. I think, Mohonto could have repeated the final words said by St. Paul for himself on his last day of his life.

Work going on, there was a changing of guard: the Assistant Fr. Bibini in order to follow his longing for a monastic life, left the mission and entered a Franciscan Convent in Italy, where, I heard, died after some years as a reputed saint.

As his successor came an other young Italian missionary, Luigi Bellini (1912-1996), who fell soon in love with the Bangla language: he began to learn the classic Sanskrit and of course his enthusiasm and love was flowing on the people who was speaking so melodious words.

The immense fields to be tilled and sowed, seen by Fr. Costa on his arrival, now were promising flowers and fruits, but dark clouds appeared to cover that joyful policramy.

The war, the Second World War.

Mr. Pietro Costa and Mr. Luigi Bollini, resident in British Dominion, Italian by nationality, are deported into a Concentration War Camp far away.

Ruhea Mission is closed. The few hundreds of newly converted Christians were left without a guide as the sheep’s of the Gospel without their shepherds.

Long years of inertia, sorrow, and desolation.

At last! Thank God, war subsided.

But Fr. Bellini was not permitted to reenter India, accused of possessing anti-British feelings. Fr. Costa returned, but, even if desirous to work, too old, sick, disheartened, after a few years decided to leave definitely East Pakistan And his Mission.

I was there when climbing a P.I.A. plane he told me: "Don’t be afraid, she is nigra sed phormosa". He smiled and disappeared.

At noon on the 1^st January 1952 happy, very very delighted, I reach the railway Station of Ruhea, where an Anglo Indian railway man points out to me my destination: a little White House in the fields as a big mushroom in a green meadow. "Walk-on" he tells me: "No need of rickso. God bless you!" Wonderful! The first blessing at Ruhea from a railway man...

A good omen! ...

Along the road Ruhea Panchaghor I find twelve beautiful mango trees that hide from the sight of the road passers-by a big parallelepiped, the house of the priest. Nothing else. Fr. Job Elampacherry accompanies me to see the house. A cheerful man, perpetually smiling, he tells me: "Well, four rooms, naked and raw; the bathroom is out. The room at the North is used as a Chapel. Uncomfortably could seat on the floor the four catholic families of the "para".

After dinner he hands over the parish registers and shows me the mission accounts up to the 31^st December 1951. "You See: no credit, no deficit.

Bishop gives me Rs 30/- monthly, but today, on occasion of your welcome as a parish priest I bought a chicken, So remain only Rs. 28,8 ana. Voici", giving me the money and shaking hands he said: "With my best wishes to you. Aurevoir at Dinajpur". He put a cap on his head and joyful went away. Really very very happy he left the house toward the Railway Station. He was a teacher of English so that was elate to leave Ruhea for St. Philip’s School as a member of the teachers` staff.

- Happy he to go.

- Happy I to came.

- How easy to kill the day without any complexity!

I went to meet my fellow citizen hoping to be welcomed and accepted as a new one of them. The cook, John Das, came with me to help in making their reciprocal presentations-trying to let me know their genealogy from the grand father and the father in law up the new born niece...

Lady Bisha, wife of the Catechist, kindly invited me for a cup of tea. Standing on ceremony I kindly accepted. Stupid mistake! The cook had to run to the mission-house to find out a spoon of sugar and a pinch of tea. In the meantime arrived the Catechist, a tall, handsome, learned optimist man During the civilities at once he made a brief report of what was going on at the mission, sorrowfully remembering the golden pre-war times.

Aware that sunset was telling us to give an end to our talking, the Catechist’s wife lighted a clay-stove in a corner of the small garden in order to prepare the supper for her family. A smoke column silently invited us to kindly leave the place.

After supper the cook went home and I remained alone in that little house... "Little house in Canada"... no, in East Pakistan. Wonderful! Wonderful!

In the morning I entered the fourth room where I found on a table everything ready for the celebration of Mass. everything clean, everything small as prepared by and for an absurd child priest.

"Thank, Father Job", I said.

After a brief prayer I was called out by the cook who invited me to see from the roof of the kitchen the Kanchonjionga, the second highest mount in the world. Breathless I saw its rosy snow, instead of being white as the snow of my Alps.

Again, a rosy omen!

The first Sunday in the chapel-room there were seventeen persons at the Mass. On the next week with Mohonto Master, the Catechist, I looked at the registers of the parish and we concluded that the catholic population could amount to five hundred persons still alive and openly declaring themselves practicing Christian, included the villages of Fakirganj, the former Hari Christian centre, and Gobindopur (Thakurgaon), the Oraon catholic centre. We began to visit some villages trying in the meantime to meet some "lapsi" groups scattered around in the P.S. of Baliadangi and Atwari. Fortunately on the border frontier we met the Pakistani soldiers (a small number of them Hari West Pakistani Christian) very friendly with us. Our tours were without any physical, moral or political trouble at all.

Soon we realized that at Ruhea it was impossible to have the Sunday-service in that small room. The number of the faithful little by little was increasing: the Baptist Christians of a nearby village were joining our small community. In another village nearby Ramnahat, the big market of the Union Council, Hari People was asking for Baptism. They were ready to help as far as possible to build, for the time being, a big cottage-chapel waiting for an eventual church built by brickwork.

During our visit to the villages many Christians and non-Christians, particularly the mothers, were asking for a local hostel for the school-boys since our impossibility to admit all of them into the diocesan St. Philip hostel. This guardians’ petition was not foolish, nor useless considering the social situation of the sub-caste people. Today we could say "against the H.R. Constitution: "they were not permitted to draw water from the public wells; they were not accepted or accepted with many difficulties, in the public government schools.

So, what to do? Without food even a saint is condemned to death. In our case families without education are condemned to a social death worse than the physical death. We were compelled to build another cottage to lodge some thirty-forty boys. We were busy at work for this last cottage, Oh! Oh! ... A pleasant, very pleasant surprise. Perhaps a late Christmas gifts from Milan, a priest missionary. Fr. Luigi Verpelli (1916–1976).

Unbelievable! He came to learn Bengali language at Ruhea! The Ruhea Bangla is the Sicilian-Italian understandable only by the Sicilian people…

Anyway Mohonto Master intelligently was taking him in the villages where he, trying to talk with ordinary people, quickly was able to distinguish the Ruhea dialect from classical Bengali.

Besides learning Bengali in the meantime he learned to love that poor people and work for their progress in the name of God. His permanence at Ruhea was a biblical manna for me, free to tour some Hari and Risi villages never visited before and look after a group of Santals catechumen. Foreseeable after learning Bengali he was sent to Bonpara Mission to build a church not only with cement and bricks, but the church of God in spirit and faith. Successfully.

One day Mohonto Master and I went to see Barni Mela, just on the border of India. There was a big gathering of Thakurs, Brahmins, and Wizards. People by hundreds were coming from the four cardinal points, mostly Hindu. Many of them half-naked were taking bath in the river, others were throwing handfuls of rice into the river. It was, I thought, the 1000th rough copy of a day in Benares.

In the evening a dozen of Thakurs belonging to the Scheduled Castes came to the house of a Christian Hari where I was lodged for the night. Very happy to have a chance to talk with a Christian Thakur, they presented themselves as a "pagol dol" (i.e. a group of crazies for God). They, were saying, gave up the pleasures, any amusement of this world in the name of God. In His name they were going here and there without any prefix destination. Always and everywhere were finding somebody in need of a good advice in a difficult situation. They occasionally, so they were saying, enter a house where someone was stricken by sorrow then they share it with him. When they encounter happiness in a village they will be happy with the villagers to add with their presence more joy. At last they said, "We are looking for happiness, but our life is not always easy as it is today. Sometime some people does not accept us, sometime we are even driven away. No complain, otherwise we would stop to be the ‘pagol dol’."

Right Human Philosophy.

Right Theodicea.

If not Franciscan Theology.

Of course I did not give my name to be registered in their list, but in my heart. I joined their group as a last minor Thakur, better, as an outsider.

In the month of August, under those burning rays, at midday on cycle, both sweaty, Mohonto would instigated me, "come in, Pagol Thakur!"

And then another big big stroke of luck for the Mission.

Bro. Massimo Teruzzi (1902–1963) who following the heroic example of Fr. Damian of Molokai, curing the lepers in the Leper Asylum of Dhanjuri got leprosy, recovered within two years in a hospital of Calcutta, came back to East Pakistan, just into the Mission of Ruhea.

Just a gift given by God.

Quickly I bought a piece of land from a pious Muslim of the locality and built a small house as a medical dispensary (a brick work this time).

He was a simple nurse, not doctor with University’ high degree, but his long experience in treating common diseases and particular illnesses of this land made him a successful autodidactic doctor. Within a month he got a good name and the sick began to come from far away villages. He was repeating when some rich person was coming to him that he was working here only for the poor since the rich ones could go to the big cities where could find big doctors. Charity and love for the sick were shining in his eyes when on every Sunday, free from the usual daily crowd, was treating his dearest leper sick.

In the year 1955 when the cottage-church was crumbling I decided to wall up a proper, decorous new church even if cement was not easily available. I dedicated it to the Virgin Mary.

The conversions to Christianity were numerous, the number of villages with a small hut-chapel were increasing up to forty-fifty. Still we were hoping, trying and working for more results, considering that the area of the parish was the same extensive area of the Sub-division of Thankurgaon.

Go and come, come and go… from Ruhea to Tetulia, down to Baliadangi to Bhamradoha, from Tulsipukur to Balia Aloka, up to Panchagor to Moidandighi, down to Boda to Capati – Ruhea.

Ahire! Sometime we were dropping with fatigue, almost exhausted, but it was always a relief, a joy to realize that in a small-unknown corner of this world a new man was waking up in the name of Christ.

In every Christian village a leader had the responsibility of the decorum of the chapel and to lead the Sunday service. I was cyclostyling several copies of a brief simple homily to be read by him. Or course not all the prayer-leaders where able to understand what was written, least of all to make the faithful understood, but I was repeating, "At least one ana (one percent) will remain". For me and Mohonto Master to teach the children and the illiterate adults (the majority of women), to make them memorize the prayers and the first principles of catechism was a big handicap. So, to prepare for Baptism the catechumen we were sending in their villages some smart already Christian (say "second division catechists") who were trying to be successful. The Santi Rani Sisters periodically, as sweet white Angels of heaven, were coming to give their most pleasing and necessary help. They were staying three-four days in a village where their ways of teaching and behavior were as the salt in a cooked plate. The spiritual fruits were always plentiful.

It happens that a Kotryio Hindu of Bhamradoha village had been convinced by some members of a communist cell from India to abandon certain Hindu traditions observances, certain foolish superstitions and fears especially about castes. Convinced to have at last found the truth that a man is always a man, works he as a priest, works he as a sweeper, to show his rebellion against the Hindu caste-philosophy, to demonstrate practically his conviction one day in a crowded bazar, in front of a big group of witnesses he accepted from the hands of a sweeper a "pan" and put it into his mouth. Immediately he was brutally ostracized by many present there belonging to high castes and many too belonging to the scheduled castes, but many others silently began to think, to hesitate at his daring deed.

The happening did not end at Bhamradah, the rumors that a Thakur began a social revolution among the Hindu scheduled castes spread in the villages. To the objections arisen particularly by the women that religious practices would be neglected or even abolished if they would eventually join the Communist Party and Communist philosophy, the intelligentsia of the Party had a prompt reply, "The official greatest number of the Party’s members is in Italy, the best Christian country in the world." Easily they came to the conclusion that eventually would join both the Communist Party and the Church of Christ…

Of course, everything was going on secretly, as always political social movements are reported in the history books. I was absolutely not knowing what was going on.

After a few weeks they organized a big gathering near Bhamradah. Mohonto Master and I were invited to speak clearly about Christian religion or Christian Church versus society.

Mohonto was brilliant. Besides the topic was his usual point, his strong point of his method of evangelization; Jesus’ predilection for the poor, the outcasted from the society of the rich, of the VIP…

During the gathering, a little far from me, I noted a man; alone near a cycle leaned against the wall of a house. The man was paying special attention to what was going on specially, when some persons in the crowd were giving manifest signs of approval to what Mohonto was saying.

After several weeks we were invited to have Christian services in three different cottages built by the Kotryios as village chapels. In a village near the railway station of Akhanoghor where joyfully we celebrated Christmas festival, they were astonished to take part in such a solemn festival, to say with us so beautiful prayers, to fraternize with the small group of girls we took with us to sing the Christmas melodious hymns.

In the meantime the Thakur began to take part in the monthly meeting of the prayer leaders and the 2nd division catechists. He finally showed his strong will to join our Christian community and eventually be a catechist among the scheduled caste Hindus.

Fortunately, in that period of time, Fr. Sozzi, the holy hermit of Maldo, was at Dinajpur acting as the Director of St. Philip’s hostel. Encouraged by his exceptional spirit of sacrifice, I asked him to kindly train that special person as an able future catechist. He accepted keeping him with himself for a fortnight. It was more that I bargained for!

It was too beautiful, too splendid!

But I was afraid to feel so much euphoric… Inside my brain a hidden goblin insistently was peeping out… "in cauda venenum"… await, await.

Bad feelings not easily fail!

In the early morning after Mass Mohonto entered my office and without wasting words : "Very bad news, Father, about our Kotryios" he said, "I am afraid, only your old carpenter and his wife will remain with us. Last week, you know, the Thakur’s child died and the gossip spread out indicates the gods’ revenge against that poor ‘atheist and traitor’ Thakur. They give him those insults. There is more to say, yesterday evening a group of those who built the chapels came to tell me that they couldn’t join our Christian community because their landlord does not give permission. They said that if they dare to go against him, he will claim even the ‘basti’ land where they built their huts."

I remain silent, pensive.

Suddenly remembering that gentleman with his head furnished with a ritual pigtail, leaned on the wall of that hut at Bhamradah… suddenly I got able to interpret the meaning of his apparently insignificant smile to interpret too that magic arabesque going up as a small cloud from his head, "I, only I, have the upper hand on you, stupid, stupid, little brothers"

"Father", Mohonto Master went on, "We can fight him in court. In Pakistan there is now a law that does not permit to possess personally more that one hundred bhigas of land…"

"Nonsense", I said, "They will wait". And to end the diatribe, "And we too will wait with them."

To myself I added, "In cauda venenum!"

Upset for the tragicomedy?

Not at all. Farmer is never upset when is sowing. Remembering my teacher Teilhard de Chardin, everything happens for a better tomorrow, why to be afraid?

To give merit to this theory I was observing Fr. Alvigini Mario (1930–1991) who threw himself to work. With a newly converted zealous catechist, Dhorjio Das, was touring by cycle all the villages to look for the relatives of the Christians still pagan, who eventually would follow their example joining the Church of Christ.

He was attracted since his boyhood to look after the sick, so that in his frequent visits to the villages was always ready to help those who were in need of medical and spiritual care.

I was pleased, happy to see that the work started by the pioneers Macchi, Costa, Bibini, Bollini… was going on more than satisfactory.

But sometime I was physically and psychologically tired after thirteen unbroken years of living among that not so easy people of several castes and tribes, Hari, Santals, Risi, Methors… with their different amusing, sometime boring traditions and customs, people living scattered in hundreds small villages.

I was craving to take an airing from the Apennines’ valleys, from the Ligurian Sea. One day I had a look at the heavy register of the baptisms: more that 3,000 (three thousands) from the 1st January 1952. "Enough for the time being" I said to myself. "Pack up and go!"

I left for Novi Ligure putting in my pocket a return ticket and in my heart a splendid dream.

Chronicle : Who loves his brother abides in the light.

The Oraons’ drum was rumbling in my ears when on the airplane I was returning in East Pakistan from a happy deserved holiday in Italy. It was a rumbling joined to an old of many years dream since the first time I visited Gobindopur village from Ruhea. I was remembering Fr. Lee, a Chinese priest born and brought up at Calcutta, working as a diocesan priest in the diocese of Dinajpur. He, already old and completely deaf, was reading his Breviary seated on a neat grassy square of land in front of the chapel. Seeing me he rose, shook his hand with me and said: "Welcome. My blessing, my hearty blessing to you". I was sure: an omen, a beautiful omen! I was remembering Ganga Bura with his long infallible bamboo used as a stick, walking near his house.

He came here from Choto Nagpur (Behar State- India) on the end of the 19^th century with a small group of Oraons as an emigrant in a foreign land, looking for some land. They were lucky: they found a productive land, even if full of tree stumps and bushes along the Kandon river. They got the document–papers from the jumidar- office attached to the Hindu temple of Thakurgaon. Everything has been done according to the rules. Ganga Bura was happy and cheerful. The trouble as usual arose after some years when some people were claiming to be the owners of the same land.

Ganga Bura, illiterate and foreigner, fell in a ravine without any possibility of finding a way out. Finally an encounter with a unknown unexpected man at Goryiahat untied the skein. According to the advice of that man, he went directly to the Catholic Mission of Dinajpur to ask for help from some priests. Fortunately he met Fr. Stefano Monfrini, an intelligent kind man always ready to help the Aboriginal. In fact he, after weighing the pros and cons of the matter, he decided to meet the Head officer at Goryia in a previously arranged date. Unfortunately on that fixed date he fell sick with a bad attack of malaria. Anyway he started his journey and reached the office in a pitiful state.

The Head Officer was astonished to see such a kind man to make this great sacrifice to help an illiterate unknown adibashi.

A clerk humbly intervened: "Allah ke waste!"’ "Yes", said the Father: "Otherwise nobody would help these poor emigrants".

Quickly the Head officer settled everything with his signature and seal on a big clean document-paper. Smiling he rose from his chair helped the Father to be strong on his feet and asked for his blessing.

Ganga Bura came out from the corner of the office where, almost hidden, was waiting for the result, to say: "Sucryia!" and run away. On the road to Thakurgaon was thinking very deeply: "that Father brought the light in the darkness of the case. Now I know him as the light-bearer. Staying with him I will never be in the darkness."

At home he declared openly that would become a Christian. His co-villagers and relatives absolutely did not agree, besides ostracized him, i.e. did not allow him enter his own house, to eat and seat with them. His daughter has been permitted to bring him food on the veranda. Adamant to his decision he was able for two years to endure that kind of life, until some relatives, firstly his own daughter asked the parish priest of Ruhea for baptism.

Oh! How I remember Carolina, the first Christian of Thakurgaon, the best cook in the whole subdivision!

After my return to Ruhea I retake there my usual work with Fr, Alvigini. In my absence he did a wonderful work. Now I was thinking, let him go on with his own method and enthusiasm and I shall go farther South, up to Ranisonkail P.S. as Lot left Abraham for the Giordan Valley. Besides the town of Thakurgaon was developing itself at high speed and to the Church was a must to be present there, with no delay. So I was frequently going to Thakurgaon leaving Ruhea completely in his hands. One day at Gobindopur, along the Railway Station Road I found a plot of land nearby the Christian village. According to the law of East Pakistan it was not allowed to sell of purchase more then ten bigas. Occasionally I met a Maruwari shopkeeper who was in need of money for his pre-arranged marriage and he was looking for a buyer ready to buy some land owned by his father. Wonderful! Immediate decent contract with the old man and I started for Dinajpur to wring from the Bishop a permit to purchase that land. I explained point by point the pros against the cons to have a Mission Centre there, with no eventual harmful delay. Bishop Obert was still hesitating to approve my project. Fr. Ghezzi, the Vicar General and secretly my ally, winked at me, meaning "go and do". After purchasing and regularly registering those ten bighas of land, after defining a decent planimetry, I began immediately, with the advice of Fr. Ovidio Nebuloni (1919-1974) and help of a young engineer who was building there a new Government college, to build a house, the future priests’ residence.

I was lucky to find an expert mason, a good Bihari Muslim, able to smoothly direct the inexpert helpers who for the first time were engaged to build a house by bricks and cement.

The society "Amici di Don Cesare Pesce" of Voghera sent from Italy a sufficient quantity of cement, a blessed rain in the desert, considering the scarcity of cement in the market.

Every day in the early morning I was coming by train or motorcycle and in the evening I was going back to Ruhea, sometime on foot when the motorcycle was not able to take me on that terrible muddy road. Very bad indeed!

Anyway at last I could say: "Thank God! Thank you all! Now let me sleep peacefully in this hole in the veranda I reserved for myself and you keep the big hall, to be afterwards fractionzed in a office and a bedroom, as your church for the time being. Of course the precarious arrangement was only temporary.

No time to be wasted, with my men I began to lay the foundation of the church. We reached up to the ground when Pakistan and India began another of their usual wars. Thakurgaon being on the boundary, the Governor of East Pakistan ordered all the foreigners resident there, for their personal safety, to leave the town. I went to Motbari Mission to help an old sick American missionary happy to find an assistant parish priest.

Nice brief parenthesis in the monotonous passing of days and useful too to learn how to behave with the old Bengali Christians of Portuguese St. Anthony’s brand.

For Christmas I was back and the next Easter my beautiful St. Mary’s little Church has been inaugurated.

No time to be wasted; in fact soon we found ourselves engaged in building the school.

I was getting up early almost every day and by motorcycle run to the villages to hear confessions, say mass and quickly came back to direct the work.

And came a period of time when I was not quite pleased with myself. I was realizing that excessive brick-love, brickwork would become harmful to me.

So that I thought to organize something merely religious which easily can attract man towards God.

My daily newspaper was " The Morning News" of Dhaka, It was organizing a "Words Contest". It gave me inspiration: from the "Synonyms Dictionary" I came to our Catechism and Bible. I called it "Bible Contest" by Correspondence.

With the help of Sister Vincenza S.C. I prepared a draft of clear rules for the contestants about groups, regional and diocesan final examinations, awarding of prizes, etc. We printed hundreds of leaflets to be sent to all the parishes and educational catholic organizations in the diocese, And the game started.

Within a brief period of time we registered more than one thousand contestants from Pry school’ children to college’ students, to adults.

It was a blessing game for me to find something delightful and useful to occupy the long evenings, always alone, to examine, correct each paper and give the right marks. Happy that this game of mine, thank God and hearty thanks to all the helpers was going on successfully.

In the meantime the school – house (afterwards fitted as a convent of the Santi Rani Sisters) has been built and the boarding house was under construction.

I was happy to see those buildings wet by my sweat rising day by day where a few years back, still a jungle, I was coming to hunt the wild boars on occasion of Christmas.

Happy to see my Mission Centre rising side by side with the new beautiful Government college. Happy to see my small town of Thakurgaon transforming itself in a city with schools, rich with beautiful palaces, enjoying modern comforts.

But around the small peaceful city big dark clouds were coming as an omen of death: the war of liberation from Pakistan was at the door.

And then as a Greek tragedy was going to reach a fatal point the classical "Deus ex-machina appeared on the stage. My classmate and friend Bishop Pirovano, General Superior of PIME, asked me to work at Milan as general secretary of the organization "Mani Tese". I was aware of the difficulties I would meet with as a leader in a society of members divided among themselves by two different philosophies on the principles of "charity" on which is based the organization. I was trying, imploring to refuse, but how to say "no" to an old very dear friend?..

I went, I saw, I lost.

"Mani Tese" persisted as "Mani Tese" even not unscathed.

And I enjoyed my holidays from October to June in Rome at the Lateran University in getting a license in sociology.

Rahmat Ali starting the Pakistan National Movement explained the meaning of the word "Pakistan", i.e. the country of the clean, pure Muslims. Afterwards somebody ingeniously found out in the same word a monogram composed by the initial letters of the regions, which will cover the whole country. Bengal was not even mentioned. Besides the forerunners of the Muslim nationalism, Amer Ali, the poet Md. Iqbal had not the slightest idea of including Bengal. The ingenious project of adding Bengal among those western regions was doomed in the long run to be a failure. And the failure burst out : war, civil war plus a finger of India in the pie.

It would had been a sign of cowardice to remain in Italy when my adopted country was in difficulties. So, I came back in due time in order to say, "I too was there".

Bishop Michael Rozario sent me to Mariampur saying, "In emergencies you will prove your intelligence. God bless you!"

After twenty years I was there again… Soon I found improvement everywhere. Coming from Goraghat on foot I saw the old huts, of the Bihari soldiers enlarged with their small gardens surrounded by precious trees. At the Mission the school was not only repaired but enlarged; the pools near the Santal houses were pullulating of fishes; the church was that same Greek Italian treasure. But it was not, as the first time saw it, like an old Buddhist temple in a jungle of Viet Nam. Around the church now were dozens of combed rice-fields waiting to be harvested.

And the people… old acquaintances very glad to meet me again. There was Fr. Gregory Schiavi as an assistant parish priest, always busy with his motor pumps, unafraid of anything. His presence was inspiring confidence, security against any eventual danger.

Near the church I found a newly built nice convent of the Sisters. I remembered Sr. Erminia of twenty years ago, alone, with her dear big dog in a small broken hut, giving advices and saying always a word of encouragement to everybody, with her poor Bengali language mixed with her German – Italian – Trento dialect. And now the same slim woman, always smiling, deferential to all. With her there were also two-three others Sisters who were working in their medical dispensary from early morning to evening, patiently hearing tales of sorrow, trying to give a proper word of encouragement to hundreds of people afraid of some coming danger at any noisy shot.

I met also a young newly graduate veterinary doctor, Philip Hasdak, remaining during the difficult period of war my best friend and intelligent adviser.

We were lucky enough to know that the commander of Goraghat garrison was a Baluchistani who had been brought up by the Catholic Sisters at Quetta. In fact he was coming to the Mission asking only for a peaceful hour. Out of the Mission, in the villages and towns, specially the Hindus and the aboriginals, were leaving their homes, their dear domestic animals for the numerous refugee camps in India. In that chaotic situation amoral cunning rascals were always ready for their mischieves. A very sorrowful desolation!

One day gossip about the possibility (or certainty? tonight?) of an attack to the Mission frightened everybody. The Catechist with his family, after receiving the Holy Communion as a Viaticum and a special blessing, run away to India.

Two days before I had received a letter stealthily from a confrere from a refugee camp in India : "Be careful. If not for you, at least for the Sisters. All of you come as soon as possible". I got afraid. I called a secret meeting with the help of Dr. Philip. For safety sake we all seated inside the walled enclosures of the convent to discuss how to behave in such a very difficult situation. When we reached the crucial point whether to leave then, Sr. Erminia, the most simple woman I met in my life, came down the stairs. Smiling she said, "No, brothers. Don’t go, please. Nothing bad will happen. Jesus is here, with us. Why to be afraid?", her face wrinkled, but still handsome face, shining on the darkness of the night.

We remained. Nothing happened.

But remained also, even if hidden, the fear of some mischief eventually prepared by the rascals. Philip told me, "If you want peace, be ready to fight". Together we thought of a plan, of something perhaps childish, but reassuring and diverting the people’s anxiety. Firstly we made the young-men manufacture forty-fifty bows with selected bamboos and two-three hundreds tips of arrow with regularly cut pieces of the steel-wire found inside the hoses’ rubber for watering the fields.

Secondly we piled up along the enclosure walls of the convent garden heaps of straw in great quantity and some tanks of kerosene. We were thinking that in an eventual attack to the convent the attackers would try to scale the walls and jumping down will find fire and arrows thrown from the dark veranda and from the roof of the convent.

The game was prepared accurately, but the supposed professional players did not come. Thank God!

It happened that a harmless clandestine letter entered Pakistan from India. An uncle wrote to his niece Teri that all were well and to do not worry about the war. Unfortunately the letter was intercepted by the Pakistani soldiers who, knowing only the languages of the West, thought to have found the secret sign of an espionage. So the "Teri’s hunting". They, guided by the address written on the envelope went to her house : nothing, nobody … Asking in the neighborhood somebody let them know that Teri was a Christian. O.K… run to Pathorghata, the nearest Mission Centre… nobody there, all the Christians with their Parish Priest, Fr. Giovanni Vanzetti, were already in India, in a refugee camp.

The only possibility to find Teri was in Mariampur. One day a jeep equipped with four light guns entered the compound of the Mission and a Pakistani captain brusquely asked me to bring me a certain Teri for a necessary interview. Lies and lies from my part to all his questions.

"Koda hafez", he said at last ending the meeting with a mischievous smile.

Every fortnight the same pantomime. On the first week of December he got down from the jeep, entered the dining room, accepted a cup of tea and said, "Father, I am going now to Hili for the last battle… I don’t know whether I will be still alive tomorrow. I want to tell…" was saying unbuttoning his bullet-proof west at the neck, drawing out a five chain with a cross, "See", he continued, "Father, I know, Teri is here. If I were you I would had done what you had done. Bless me, Father." He embraced me and climbed his jeep.

In the evening of the 16th December on the road of Goraghat-Hili Sister Erminia, our courageous heroine, with a basket of flowers and Sisters Immaculate, the doctor, with a parcel of medicines greeted General Gomes of New Delhi, the victor hero of the difficult last battle of Hili.

Next day General Gomes from Goraghat came to say thank to Almighty God in the church of Mariampur. Afterwards he took the opportunity to kindly meet me : I offered him a cup of tea-bag; he was surprised to see this new variety of tea, "Good!" he exclaimed, "I would take one bag to show my officers how Pakistani are clever."

So I was a lucky parish priest in Bangladesh to have a General as a parishioner.

Thank God in the villages nearby the Mission nobody has been killed during the war. So joy and happiness, delight and joyful festivals.

Refugees were coming back where death was trying to replace life.

A Christian man for thanksgiving offered a big bullock for a "priti bhoj" (a lunch of love).

Churches on Sundays were always crowded. But soon the wounds of the war appeared tremendous : villages entirely destroyed, houses tumbled down, fields full of dry twigs, overgrown with weeds…

The joyful cheers changed in cries of help. Then fairy Caritas came to transform a land of arms in a fairy-land.

Inshallah!