There will be many stories and much written about this compassionate, remarkable man. I would like to share a short story of my own. May he now rejoice in the glory of God with everlasting peace.
A Good Shepherd
“I want you to
examine a prisoner of war,” he told me in the dead of night.
I was traveling
with our Bishop Taban Paride Kenyi Abraham.
Italian missionaries nurtured the Christian faith of his mother and the priest who baptized him gave him the name Paride. His father was a
Muslim and their clan was a mixture of Bari and Kuku peoples. The names Abraham and Kenyi came from his religion and clan. During the mother's pregnancy, the father was arrested by local Sudanese police and thrown into jail for many
months. When released from jail, he
found his wife pregnant, assumed she had been with another man and, in a rage,
beat her ‘properly’. Soon afterwards, Taban
was born. He looked exactly like his
father, confirming the mother’s faithfulness. The name, Taban,
is an Arabic word meaning ‘tired’. It
recalled the misery of domestic violence that mother and child endured during
pregnancy. It was the name we all called
him. This Bishop was a living amalgam
of different faiths and cultures. His
entire life was filled with violence.
Our journey inched over a rutted path that
connected the Diocese of Torit in Sudan to northern Kenya. The SPLA ran a prisoner of war camp in the
bush near the border. We arrived at
11pm. I kept my head down and followed the torch of my Good Shepherd past vague
tall, slender figures. The poorly clad rebel
soldiers were visible only when they moved and caused a wrinkle in the profound
darkness that illuminated a cornucopia of twinkling stars overhead.
We stopped before
an elderly, wizened soldier sitting on a thin piece of plastic with legs
straight out in front of him. His name
was Jamuus. It means buffalo in
Arabic. Other than a thin blanket, he
was naked. At that moment, we were all
enjoying a cool breeze that swept away the ferocious daytime heat. The air would soon turn bitter cold without
clouds above to trap the warmth emanating from soil and stones.
The two men both grew up in this diocese
learning different mother tongues. But
Jamuus was educated in Arabic and fought for the north. Therefore, the Bishop
spoke to him in Arabic. They were good
friends. My patient was well known for
his bravery and skill as an officer in the army of the Sudanese government. The
SPLA had captured a valuable prize and reduced him to nothingness. He allowed me to examine him with my penlight
and stethoscope as I knelt at his side on the flimsy tarp, painful stones
digging into my kneecaps. Taban asked
about food and he stretched out his hand to retrieve a small tin can from the
corner of his plastic sheet, half filled with dry, caked sorghum. My stomach wretched and I swallowed hard to
control it. A human body that consumed
such ‘food’ would surely be harmed but it was all he had.
It was obvious my
exam would be his best treatment. He
needed to know that the gentility of my hand was meant to convey kindness and
concern. I gave him some vitamins and
medicine to remove worms. The Bishop
gave him a new, thick blanket. Neither
of us expected him to own any of these gifts for very long. His guards would help themselves immediately
after our departure. But the Bishop,
himself, had been a prisoner of war for one hundred days in an SPLA camp and he
knew what this visit would mean to his friend.
Everything.
I first met this
Bishop in Nairobi, Kenya at AMECEA, the Association for Member Episcopal
Conferences in Eastern Africa. Apparently
once, when he arrived at the gate of this formidable modern compound, the guard
angrily rebuked him for trying to enter at nighttime, shouting that they didn’t
admit any refugees. Taban sported a full
and sometimes scruffy beard. He often traveled
in clothes suitable for a journey that might be challenged by mud, rocks and
the bush in general. He could easily
resemble, as well as smell like, the sheep of his flock.
He had requested
missionary priests, Sisters and Brothers to help serve the people of his
Diocese in Torit, Sudan. Long ago, the
British had geographically carved up the map of southern Sudan, assigning
specific areas to various Christian faith traditions. Owing to the considerable acrimony and
blatant violence among different ethnic groups, the Brits didn’t want the
missionaries increasing the background noise by competing for converts.
It was only later
that I would learn about Catholic missionaries first assigned to a different
state called Bahr el Ghazal. These
Catholic Europeans utilized this same missionary model and had few if any
converts. At some point, the restriction
on different faith groups was relaxed and Protestant missionaries were admitted
to that area too. To the chagrin of the
priests, the Protestants succeeded in winning over local people to join
them. Distraught and bewildered, the
clergy questioned these converts about their choice to join the Protestants
despite long years of hard work by the Catholics. Their response was straight forward. They thought that Catholics didn’t allow their
members to marry and have families, as evidenced by the celibate missionaries. The Protestants did. Since the Sudanese wanted the same, they were
more than willing to join up.
Of course, Taban
knew this history. His diocese in
Eastern Equatoria was also ‘Catholic’ and the missionaries were, for the most
part, priests, Sisters and Brothers. So, it was de rigueur for a Catholic
bishop to omit lay people in his request. It was lunchtime and I sat at his
left. I knew I was being informally
interviewed in the presence of about ten other people. He was a very busy man. I wouldn’t get another chance to talk to him. I asked him if he would take a lay person. His
diocese had been decimated by constant war.
The needs were huge and I looked respectable enough. He looked me up and down and said, rather
curtly, “Yes”. His love for his sheep was
not constrained by the routine of the past.
I wasn’t sure what he thought of me.
Time would tell.
I worked in his diocese
for twelve years in health care.
Sometimes we traveled together.
On another safari, both of us were part of a convoy of Diocesan
personnel that included several priests and another female lay missioner, once again
heading to northern Kenya in the dead of night.
It was cooler to travel after sunset and local bandits couldn’t see what
was coming in the dark. While the
would-be robbers slept, we crawled along over an international road that was
never worthy of the image that title conjured up in my mind. This particular journey landed us in
Lokichokio, Kenya at 2am. Taban went to
a local business man to find a place to sleep.
Only one room with two beds was available. The Bishop ordered the two of us women to
take the room. He and the five Irish
missionary priests in tow would stretch out on wooden benches encircling the
cement slab outside our room. We women
gratefully followed his orders. It would
be only one of many instances where this shepherd made sure every one of his sheep
was safe.
Taban travelled often,
advocating for southern Sudan in other parts of the world. The times when he was present in the Diocese
were rare opportunities for me to listen to his lyrical stories and learn from
him. When he was a parish priest in a
rural village among his own ethnic group, a man was brought to him who had been
gored by a bull. The unfortunate herder
lay on a locally constructed bed carried by his neighbors. Taban was the most trusted and well-educated
person in a place where trained medical personnel didn’t exist.
The man lay
supine with his abdomen split open. His
intestines glimmered in the rays of sunlight that Taban used to assess the
predicament. Calmly, he drew on common
sense and got busy. Using clean water
from a borehole, he gently washed away the dirt and grass that clung to every
crevice and corner of the exposed insides. When that laborious task was
finished, he gently put the man’s bowels back in his abdomen. Next, he threaded a sewing needle with white
cotton thread and gently approximated the skin edges. They came together by pulling the stitches
and tying them carefully but not too tightly.
If there was bleeding, he dabbed and pressed the spot until the bleeding
stopped. When everything looked dry, he
put a clean cloth over the wound and wrote a letter explaining what he had
done. With paper in hand, the villagers
carried the man north to the capital city of Juba in search of qualified
medical specialists in the government hospital.
The unfortunate man was admitted and observed carefully. Without any sign of infection or intestinal
blockage, he healed quickly and was sent home.
There was no need for anything further to be done. I was dumfounded. Had that man been brought to me, my mind
would have registered every possible complication in light of the lack of
medical equipment I assumed was essential.
I would have been overwhelmed with fear.
Taban taught me to keep my head on straight and do my best. Paralysis would only ascertain death.
While still in
the same parish, Taban heard a story about a woman nearby who was injured
inside her mud and wattle tukul. At
nighttime, the door had been left open to let in some breeze. A lion happened by and a paw passed through
the opening, slapping down on the head of the sleeping woman. It tore off her ear and scuttled away. The woman called for help and was taken to
the hospital in Juba by her neighbors.
Ever the vigilant shepherd, Taban set off straight away to visit his
parishioner in the capital city who had managed to survive such an attack. Upon arrival, he was shocked to find the
person was his own mother, Sara Mude. I
met her after he narrated this story, a tiny, wiry, very active woman who was a
force in her village almost up until her passing in her eighth decade.
His concern focused on me at one point. I was working pretty hard on the border between Sudan and Uganda and came down with malaria at a moment when he was passing through our parish. Hearing the traditional clapping of a person requesting entry, I called out to welcome him in to my simple tukul. He found me looking wan and drawn, sitting on the edge of my bed. Long ago, when I had little immunity, malaria would seize my slight frame and make me wish the end was near. However, after many years and frequent gifts of parasites from mosquitos feasting on my blood, this illness had now simply become a periodic ritual that made me slow down and sleep longer for a couple of days. He plopped down on the bed next to me, put his arm around my shoulder and suggested, “I can call in a plane to take you to Nairobi”. Fear wrinkled his jowls as his hand patted my cheek. “It’s only malaria!” I exclaimed, truly shocked that he would consider such an expensive gesture. The next day he found me gaining strength as my appetite returned. Reassured, he took off again in his beleaguered white Toyota landcruiser to another parish while the memory of his concern left me heartened and feeling appreciated.
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| Liz Mach, Taban, Susan |
He also had a sense of humor. One day he passed through Nimule on the border with Uganda. We had reached the southern most tip of Sudan and were hanging on for dear life to avoid becoming refugees by crossing that border. He showed up wearing a pair of red stockings, very different from his usual well worn sandals. We chided him for his regal attire and hinted that we would like the same. A few months later he passed by again with a pair for each of us!
Most Sudanese who survive to their fifth birthday are fit. Taban was one of the fittest. He never drank alcohol and chose a vegetarian diet, avoiding animal products when possible. He didn’t want people killing their only goat or chicken for him. He also claimed he never knew if the animal had been raided and he didn’t want to be eating stolen meat. On another visit to our parish, I caught a glimpse of him in the early morning hours making a round of calisthenics outside his tukul as the grayness subsided and the cacophony of feathered friends crescendoed. But he worked constantly with few resources. There was a radio in his landcruiser and offices in Sudan, Uganda and Kenya. One of his messenger boys half complained to me that he was awakened at midnight by the Bishop to go rouse the secretary to get up and come to his office. A satellite phone connected him to the BBC and other international entities, especially when confirmation of military activities on the ground required reporting.
A story I heard
repeated on more than one occasion described a journey made in a convoy from
the capital, Juba, to Torit, the seat of his Diocese. The government was still in control of Torit
and the SPLA was besieging the town. People
were dying of starvation. Taban had
organized seventy lorries filled with food to make the 84-mile trip, escorted
by the government army. The government commander
strategically placed Taban’s vehicle at a certain place to protect others fore
and aft. SPLA rebels viewing the crawling
parade from a range of hills in the distance knew exactly where the Bishop was
seated. They had been ordered to take
him out. His mission of mercy to feed
the starving was considered an act of treason against the ‘gallant, liberating’
forces of the SPLA. But the soldier with
his finger on the trigger couldn’t pull it.
Thirty-one days after leaving Juba, the food reached Torit. There were 20 fewer lorries and many wounded
travelers but Taban was not among them.
This is a man
well known internationally. In 2010 he
was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Voice of the Voiceless. In 2013, the UN Secretary General, Ban Ki
Moon, recognized Taban for building the Holy Trinity Peace Village in Kuron,
South Sudan by bestowing the Sergio Vieira de Mello Award for promoting peace,
security and better living arrangements for people living in conflict zones. In 2017 this Peace village was again
recognized by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, along with Taban’s
role in co-founding the ecumenical New Sudan Council of Churches and
Chairmanship of peace negotiations between the Government of South Sudan and
the COBRA Faction of the South Sudan Democratic Movement/Army which led to a
peace agreement in January 2014. They
gave him the Hubert Walter Award for Reconciliation and Interfaith
Cooperation. Again in 2017, he received
a peace award from the United Religious Initiatives for Africa. In 2018 the Roosevelt Foundation bestowed on
him the Freedom of Worship Medal for striving to bring peace and freedom to the
people of South Sudan.
Hopefully these awards have inspired others in the world by the way this shepherd has lived his life. But such awards don’t mean much to those of us who lived with him, ate with him, prayed with him and were loved by him. Over the course of thirty years in East Africa, I worked with five African bishops, one Irish bishop and countless clergy. Many were good shepherds of their flocks. A few were extraordinary. Taban was one of those who made every person feel like a member of the family, a person whom he would protect and love as his own. In the end, that is the measure of his achievements and, for us, his holiness.
Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God.
09 November 2023 - BISHOP PARIDE TABAN NAMED 2023 OPUS PRIZE LAUREATE
https://www1.villanova.edu/university/media/press-releases/2023/opus-laureate.html#:~:text=VILLANOVA%2C%20Pa.%20%28November%209%2C%202023%29%20%E2%80%93%20The%20late,Villanova%20University%20in%20a%20ceremony%20on%20Thursday%20afternoon.
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