No Need To Pay
Eighty-three-year-old Father Robert Terrence McCahill, M.M. (Bob Bhai - “brother Bob” - as he is known among Muslims in communities in which he has lived) began his life of service in Bangladesh in 1975.
He wakes at three in the morning, prays, celebrates Mass, and then travels through his and other villages in search of sick men, women and children in need of medical treatment.
Ordained a priest in 1964, he was originally assigned to Maryknoll missions in the Philippines. “After hearing that Bangladesh was really in need and that it was ravaged by famine and natural disasters, I decided to work for the people of this country,” he told Asia News in January 2019. "Immediately after my arrival, I realized that I did not want to be a parish priest. I could bear witness to Christ more intensely among Muslims."
Because he decided to live among the poor like the poor, his mission has not been easy. In all, he has lived in twelve districts across the country. “When I realize that people start to love me, I change places to go where I am needed the most.”
Until a terror attack on a Dhaka bar in July 2016, he rented bamboo houses in the poorest regions of one of the world’s poorest countries. “Since then, the police no longer allow me to live in hunts for my own safety.”
Bob McCahill’s chosen mission has not been simple. “At first I met suspicious people. They were not used to missionaries and foreigners among Muslims and did not trust me.” He illustrated this challenge by telling Asia News of Malak Islam, father of Al Amin, a six-year-old disabled child. "The man did not want me to take his son to the hospital for treatment. He made up his mind only after two and a half years." Malak Islam now says “I am grateful to Brother Bob. Thanks to him, my son is improving a lot.”
"We are all one human family: Christians, Hindus, Muslims,” Father McCahill told Asia News. “I have never tried to convert anyone, I only show love, compassion and the good that Jesus did in his life."
Moving every few years to a new village or town in Bangladesh, Father McCahill simply tries to live as a friend and brother to his Muslim neighbors, offering a positive witness to the Gospel ideals of service and love. In a series of small communities, he has lived a life of utter simplicity, serving the sick, showing respect for Muslim piety, and explaining to all those who inquire the reasons for his way of life and good works, often characterized by bicycling the sick and needy to local – or distant – hospitals and medical centers and occasionally finagling others to provide medical attention to the poorest of the poor.
Each year, National Catholic Reporter and other media outlets publish Father Bob’s Christmas letter to friends, around the world.
We trust he (and NCR) will not object to our sharing this year’s reflections with you.
Dear Friends,
Erosion is a fearful problem in every riverside village of riverine Bangladesh. Recently, when for the first time I visited Lalpur, I asked where their village post office is. "Our post office fell into the river" came the answer. Often times, villagers can sense when the river is about to devour a chunk of the land, so they move. Other folks lose houses, stores, property or more.
At a village tea stall, I asked the men gathered there if they knew of any disabled children living nearby. (It's a question women could answer better, but they are not found at tea stalls.) Anis spoke up saying his daughter, Ayesha, is in such condition. Straight to Anis' shack we walked, where I saw the lass and put her name on my list of children who would benefit from two weeks of attention at the physiotherapy center, but only after the pandemic lockdowns end.
To see two children of one family, I bicycled to Baghra. I needed a guide through "the jungle" to the kids' home and Wazi volunteered to lead me there. When we reached the children's home, Wazi was amazed to view Rony and Fatima, ages 6 and 8, whom he had never seen. Both children had been born with parts of their limbs missing. Wazi was astonished most of all because he had been unaware of such unfortunate kids living in his own village, just a few hundred meters from his own house.
On a rough road in Bhanga village, I met an elderly man walking slowly with a cane. He introduced himself as "Shajaman, freedom fighter" and invited me to take tea with him. As we sat together, he spoke proudly of his days during the 1971 war for independence from Pakistan.
He offered hospitality to me, a foreign stranger, whose government, not so long ago, supported Bangladesh's oppressors in the War of Liberation.
During the month of "lockdowns," the church in Bangladesh celebrated the installation of Archbishop Bejoy D'Cruze amid a COVID-limited attendance. On the morning of the ceremony, I had a slight case of diarrhea, but decided to attend the ceremony anyway because of the new archbishop's cheerful personal invitation: Come to the ceremony "to represent the Muslims of Bangladesh." Gladly done.
As I walked along the Dhaka rail station platform, a woman going in the opposite direction stopped and stared, at me. "Bob Brother" she said, as if questioning her memory. Shari-fa bubbled with joy when I confirmed her guess. Twenty years previously, when Sharifa was age 10, her long black hair got caught in a machine and she was scalped. We took her to a hospital and she recovered. Now she hides the thick black scab under her sharee. Such a chance meeting with a person I had been privileged to help 20 years earlier is extremely rare for me. But wonderful!
In Chattogram, the principal city of the diocese I now serve, I went in search of bookstores having English language books. Many are the bookstores, packed full of books in Bengali, but they all offered in English only books about "self-improvement" — not so useful for a person who enjoys biography and history (to occupy hours of travel on the Meghna River). One of the self-improvement books, however, tickled my curiosity: Never Eat Alone. For I live alone and seldom eat otherwise.
A roadside storekeeper, whom I often pass on bicycle journeys, observed my irritation when the string on my face mask tore loose. Quickly, he reached into his stock and handed me one of the pretty protectors. "No need to pay," he smiled. "I do it out of love for you." That is good news.
Fraternally,
Bob
