A "news" worthy Friday Night

01 Décembre 2006

On this day in 1964, Sr. Anuratie Marie Clementine Nenjapeta, a catholic nun here in Isiro, was found dead outside the convent. She was 25 years old and had become one of many causalities of war here in Congo.

But there was something different about Anuratie; the kind and gentle girl, born and raised in Wamba of the Boudu tribe, became a nun, and was stationed here in Isiro where she worked with the youth of the community. Anuratie died a martyr and became an inspiration to many within the community. She is now up for canonization of sainthood and I have even been told that Pope John Paul II visited her grave here in Isiro 5-6 years ago. I doubt this 25-year old Congolese nun ever dreamt of becoming a saint, let alone being remembered by her community 42-years later. But in her chosen "simple life" she obviously went beyond her calling and has and continues to inspire the community and country she served--- that could been seen in Friday's celebration where over 155 priests, bishops and archbishops and hundreds of people turned out to celebrate her life and death.

Marie and I stopped by the Catholic Church in the afternoon to see if anything was going on. Wondering around and sticking out a bit like sore thumbs, being the few mondela's in the crowd (mondela meaning "foreigner" in Lingala), the very nice Sr. Rosa (a tall, round and friendly Congolese nun here in Isiro) rescued us from being pinned up against a wall by curious kids wanting to see and talk to the mondela's. Sr. Rosa asked if we had eaten yet and invited us to eat with the other "guests" (priests, bishops, archbishops, other modela's) but we kindly declined. We explained that we worked for Medair here in town and had come from work to see some of the excitement of the day. She was more than happy to oblige; she gave us a tour of the church, showed us Sr. Anuratie's grave, told us her story and then explained that we were more than welcome to stick around for the evening's activities, especially the traditional dancing of the pygmy's.

Hunter-gatherer groups have always interested me, from the San of Southern Africa to the Mbuti Pygmy's found here in Central Africa. My knowledge on them is rather limited, but I did take a course on the different hunter-gatherer groups in graduate school--- just enough to leave my intellect thirsting for more. So this opportunity to observe some of their traditional dance was more than a privilege for me.

As Marie and I arrived back at the Catholic Church that evening (along with our boss and new doctor for the base), I found myself bouncing on the edge of my toes, eager to run towards the crowd gathered behind the church. You could see nothing except the crowd of people, but you could faintly hear the beat of the drums coming from within commotion.

Upon reaching the crowd, I noticed they had formed as if at an outdoor Greek amphitheatre-- without the seating. Edging into the crowd, another layer of people quickly sewed us in. There were hundreds of people there, if not near a thousand, with all attention aimed towards the center, heads bobbing from side-to-side hoping to get a view of the activity down below.

Have you ever had one those moments where excitement starts pumping through your veins, almost as if you were a kid again discovering something for the first time? That was the sensation I felt in my veins as peered over heads for a view. It did not matter we had less room than in a can of sardines or that we could hardly see. You could hear the drums that alone seemed to stir the blood in your veins.

The young girls in front of us turned around and giggled at the sight of us. While trying to see over the guy in front of us, the girls started ordering us:
"Mondela… passé, passé." (Foreigner, pass, pass.)
"No, no, ca va ici, merci." (No, no, fine here, thanks.)
But with further discussion in Lingala amongst themselves, with no room to move, let alone breathe, people began to part and nudge us forward through the crowd.

The tum-tum of the drums moved through the crowd. I watched the girl next to me as she unconsciously swayed to the rhythm. Looking from her down to the movement below, it was, quite honestly, better than any National Geographic or Discovery Channel special I have ever watched with my mom or brother (and we've seen a few). You could feel the dirt from the dry earth rising into the air with each tread on the ground, smell the aroma from hundreds of hot bodies pushed together which penetrated your clothes and skin, while piercing your nose. Having only been illusory before this was vastly full of life.

The pygmy's movements were rhythmatic, mesmerizing, and almost hypnotizing. They moved with extreme grace and vigor; their hips like a strong but smooth pulse, their torsos as gentle waves, and while the rest of their body were simply instruments of the music which aroused them. Movement, so constant and potent, yet it was as if their feet hardly shifted.

The outfits fit the occasion; the women bear small bush skirts and tank tops, one man sported large feathered hat, men wore longer bush skirts, white-paint hand prints across their bare chests, white marking on their faces, women with the white hand prints on their arms, neck and face. They let out a cry, raised their arms to their chest, continued to chant and sing, simultaneously turning with the pulse of the drums, moving forward a few more steps. Without romanticizing what we saw, while I found it hard to physically keep still, what I found dancing more than anything was my own core, essence and spirit.

Here I was, standing amongst a crowd of hundreds of people, watching these traditional movements of this group of human beings. Here they were, dancing and entertaining us in celebration for the life of a woman who lived to serve her people in a country which has been pushed aside by many of us except when discussing illness, war, and corruption. We are never reported "news" like this… celebrations with so much life, promise, and inspiration from a community. Certainly, a Friday night to remember.