A like “Accoglienza” (Welcome)

What language do missionaries “speak”? Theirs is an alphabet of mercy, with letters that breathe life back into words

Warning: this alphabet follows Italian words, but we urge readers to consider the concept rather than the consonant or vowel with which they begin

The premise

In January 1984, I arrived at Baraka Mission on Lake Tanganyika, Congo.
Although I had already done so from October to December 1983, I begin to study the Swahili language concretely and slowly prepare homilies for Sunday Mass.

Someone suggests that I also add a little story to catch people’s attention. And so I started to write little stories commenting on the Gospel.
Today’s one is about Matthew 15:21-28 (the foreign woman).

The story

Many years ago, a great feast was held in a village.
Dancing, singing, accompanied by the drum, brought joy everywhere.
Children occasionally made a commotion. The elders commented, “How things change. It used to be that old people were respected. Today no one considers us anymore. What a time!”

The women had now returned from working in the fields to prepare food and banana beer.
Toward evening, the young people stopped dancing, because by now hunger was setting in.

Suddenly, they all saw three people approaching the center of the village.
No one knew them. They were foreigners.

The children began to say to each other, “But who are they? Where are they from? From what tribe?”

An old man from the village approached and asked them, “Where are you from? What do you seek?”

The foreigners replied, “We came from the mountains.
We have made a long journey.We are tired and starving. Please feed us.”

Everyone began to murmur, “This is not fair. They are foreigners and from another tribe.

They have no right to our food.”

But the old man said again, “Stop making a fuss.They are also people like us. Why should we refuse them food?Mothers, make haste.The feast must go on, and these foreigners will be the guests of honor. From now they will be our friends.”

Finally everyone listened to this good advice.The party became more beautiful because they had welcomed new friends.

Welcoming, today?

And remembering this story, it comes to me to put it next to what is happening these days, not only with migrants, but also with other people we meet on the street, who we may not like, who do not cheer for our team or our party or are of our religion.

Why do we often see them as enemies, as those who disturb our peace of mind, who can harm us?
One day an anthropology professor explained in a lecture that the word “barbarian” does not mean one who is not well dressed, crude, but one who stutters, who cannot speak the other’s language well.

So, I have to ask myself, and this question I address to each of you reading me:
“Is it really difficult to tell someone that they are welcome in my home, in my country, in my life?”.

Of course, to do this, you have to start by making welcome in your own home, family, school, entertainment; in short, in everyday life.

“In Africa, they welcomed me”

The first days I spent in Africa (another 13 1/2 years went by after that) were those of welcoming.They welcomed me, helped me feel good at home, and I began to feel at home. It didn’t take grand gestures.All it took was a handshake, a smile, sharing food together, sitting and chatting together, passing time unhurriedly.

In short, to feel like friends as they have always been, and most importantly, to start removing prejudices about them.
It was a good journey and I still feel so much nostalgia for it.

I was welcomed and learned more about how to welcome pole pole (no hurry).

Source and image

• Father Oliviero Ferro