Politics in Bundibugyo

Our district is not settled.  Health workers tell us daily that their salaries are not being paid.  They believe that top elected officials somehow stopped payment at the bank, in order to create chaos and discontent, a ripe situation for mass action against the central-government-appointed administrator who is investigating the finances of the district.  It does make sense in a Bundibugyo-logic sort of way.  If a locally elected official has been siphoning funds for years, and then someone comes with the authority from the central government to ask questions and put their nose into the records, what better way for the local politicians to protect themselves than to create mayhem and focus it on the investigator, trying to get him thrown out!  The man at the crux of the conflict is the main central-government appointed official who supported Dr. Jonah.  He may not be completely clean of corruption, but sentiment in the health system is that he is the lesser of the evils, and being persecuted by those locally-elected officials who are more corrupt.  On Monday mass protest was averted when the official who was threatened called in riot police with tear gas, and the agitators dispersed their meeting peacefully.  So life goes on.  But for those of us who have been praying for a shake-up of business-as-usual, for uncovering of corruption, for accountability, this may be the beginning of real change.  Jesus said, be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.  That sounds like good advice for living in Bundibugyo where we work with the serpent-hearted while trying to keep our own hearts dove-like.

Number 21, and other numbers more complex

21:  Here is Julia with her CSB girls’ team, sporting the jerseys donated by Miss Ashley’s Covenant College coach.  Ashley gave Julia number 21, her old number, which meant a lot to her.  We are thankful for the little slice of time when Julia can be part of a group of girls as their peer and friend, we’re thankful for the physical exercise and skills, and we’re thankful for the role model that her coach provides in a life surrounded by much that is foreign and harsh.

i, the square root of negative 1 . . . :  Miss Sarah has been coming up to our house every afternoon to share the one copy of the pre-calculus book from which she teaches Luke, striving to get him ready for entering RVA, teaching him a bit about choral music and even getting him to read some pretty dense British literature.  In short, she’s filled a role this year that no one else was quite capable of, and we are amazed and thankful that God put her there at just the right time.

Counting Up

Some moments of beauty, unexpected and undeserved, this week, all the more sweet as they stand in contrast to the rest of life.  There is wisdom in the admonition to count our blessings, it is a way of balancing reality, of turning from a short-circuited drained out electrical system plunging us into darkness, away from a girl Julia’s age with a brain abscess gasping out her last breaths, away from 35 patients on a ward built for 23, away from the terrible tally of 12 deaths in 14 days.  Counting up, forcing a balance in awareness.  So let me start with 7, a Biblical number of completeness . . . .Watch out, this will be LONG, because a lot happens in a week.

Number 7 ---Students.  Today the CSB girls’ football (soccer) team challenged the teachers and missionaries to a match.  Only the school secretary (none of the seven female teachers) was willing to risk the humiliation of playing full field in broad daylight on a market day, so we recruited a few of the older non-team student girls to get our requisite 11-woman team.  We missionaries lost 1 to 0, not bad for our racing hearts and sluggish feet.  I really enjoyed being out on the field with girls from my old cell group, and others I had played with often over the years, laughing and running.  Also a boost to see Julia and Acacia on the student team, pulled into the group.  I was reminded of how much I like the spunkiness and energy of these girls.  Also this week we received one of the most mature and thoughtful letters ever from one of our students, just talking about what was happening in his heart.  An encouraging reminder that boys grow up, that they mature, that the Spirit is at work.

Number  6---Ebola-free, still.  The child whose death raised concerns week before last did not have Ebola or Marburg, all his tests were negative.  This is particularly great news in view of the death this past week of a Dutch tourist who contracted Marburg while visiting caves in the Queen Elizabeth National Park where we just went camping.  I never quite saw the tourist appeal in the advertised “bat-cave” hike . . . But I suspect it has now dropped off all itineraries.  So our relief is tempered by sadness for this woman and her family.  Yet maybe her death will be a clue that unravels the mystery of the reservoir . . .

Number  5---Once a team mate, always a team mate.  Larissa is back, using her holiday in her master’s program in midwifery to plunge back into Bundibugyo health care (or lack thereof).  We are also hosting Scotticus’ fiancee Jane this week, a person we only knew last year in her letters and interesting return addresses as a woman of humor and generosity, and who has now materialized as his bride-to-be.  On Wednesday the Pierces hosted a mock “Introductions” ceremony as a way for us as a team, and a few of Scotticus’ Ugandan friends, to commemorate the marriage.  We will miss his ceremony in August, as well as Becky Carr’s (former teacher) this coming week.  But the return of our friends solidifies the assurance that once we serve here together, the bonds never break.

Number 4 ---Resilient Grandmothers.  Our motherless baby program is designed to rescue babies who would starve for lack of nutritional alternative when their mother dies:  we give a month’s worth of milk while the family organizes a surrogate breast feeder.  We believe in promoting breast feeding, . . .and usually it works.  But over the last two months we’ve had one persistent old lady who has tried and failed to relactate, perhaps because she’s technically a great-grandmother, and comes back every week asking for more boxed milk.  And every week I try to draw a hard line, try to stick to policy, but end up giving seven more days worth with a stern admonition to bring another family member.  Finally she brought a grandson, a brother of the tiny baby’s dead father, and he listened to our program and decided his wife (a young woman with a 1 year old child) could take the baby in.  But then when all this was translated to the grandmother, she shook her head.  She was holding that baby tight, and not about to let go.  Clearly she did not trust her grand-daughter-in-law to care for this child, and clearly she had closely bonded with the tiny remnant of her dead grandson and his wife.  She begged us to give her medicine that would make her milk come.  Pat and I looked at each other.  Should we stick with our rules, which we have set for good reasons?  Or should we throw them out the window and say, what is the cost of a few more months of milk compared to the risk of a broken heart?  We decided the bond between this woman and child was more important than our policies.  We gave more milk.

Number  3---Goats.  They are a bit smelly, stubborn, flighty, small-brained and strong-willed, tugging at their ropes and friskily kicking.  But these bundles of fur mean life for the baby mentioned above, and for many others.  The Matiti project dairy goats, the second wave of animals purchased by the Christmas Ornaments, arrived his week.  They were joined by a dozen or so males which the mission farm in Masaka decided to donate due to the escalating costs of animal feed for them, and their interest in the project after their visit with Karen in May.  So once again we as a mission had the privilege of a goat party, a day where the HIV-infected and bereaved turn their mourning into dancing, or at least a brisk goat-chasing trot, as they hear and see God’s love for their family in a gospel message, enjoy lunch together, and then receive a milk-producing goat.

Number  2---Peanut Butter (and collaboration).  I was raised on it, and now it turns out that ground peanuts mixed with milk, oil, sugar and vitamins, a thick sweet paste called Plumpynut, has become an increasingly accepted form of treating malnutrition.  Problem is, it is a bit expensive to access the commercially prepared product.  So Stephanie came up with the BBB (Lubwisi acronym for good food) program using hand-grinders, locally grown ground nuts, soy beans, and moringa leaves, the vitamin-rich leaves of a common tree.  We have now enrolled four cycles of 25 kids each at two outpatient smaller health centers, where moderately malnourished kids come weekly for a couple of months for growth monitoring, education, and this food supplement.  Part of being a responsible missionary is doing responsible science.  So for the last month, Scott Ickes has been interviewing caretakers, health center workers, observing food preparation in the homes, and generally applying his skills to evaluate the program.  Yesterday he presented his preliminary findings. The program is popular and helpful, kids are gaining weight, but we can do better.  He discovered that most families to not use the paste as a ready-to-eat food, but dilute it with water as they cook it again in a sauce.  This means the targeted child gets fewer of the calories.  I think the most interesting part of the presentation was that he invited the handful of Ugandans we work with, two college-students on break, one recent grad, and the two agricultural extension officers.  While we were aspiring to approximate the international standard of Plumpynut, they pushed us back to stick with a food composed of all local ingredients.  As we brainstormed we used information from two of our nurses as well, and have a new way to try to deliver the product and teach moms to use it, that may give better results.  It was an afternoon of collaboration, of the kind of synergy that academics, missionaries, university students, and community members can generate.

Number 1---You.  Anyone who read this far clearly cares about us, about Bundibugyo, about justice and healing and the Kingdom coming.  I am thankful for the wonder of reflecting on life in words, so that others can be drawn to pray and consider a different reality, the intangibles and the distant truths.  A college friend this week offered to raise money for nutrition, another friend from that era (the 1980’s!) connected us with a potential source of medical supplies.  We are grateful to be one small voice for your compassionate ears.

To Sudan and back again..

PSALM 13

How long, O LORD?

How long will you hide your face from me...?

How long shall I take counsel...having sorrow in my soul daily?

How long will my enemy be exalted over me?

The WHM-Sudan Team sprouted from the vine from the WHM-Bundibugyo Team so it's only natural that we would be involved in the development, formation, and advising of our fledgling Team Leaders, Michael and Karen Masso.  So, last week I (Scott) embarked on my third trip to Southern Sudan and my first to the town of Mundri where our new team will take root.  

From the air  Southern Sudan sprawls endlessly, now a lush lime which will fade to burnt umber in a matter of months.  (Michael's fondness of seasonal change will be rewarded in Sudan where the passage of time is easily marked by the color and height of the grass.)  The Mundri airstrip appears like a light chocolate cross from the sky, because the Mundri-Lui road cuts straight across the airstrip!

The Episcopal Church of Sudan (Diocese of Mundri) invited WHM to partner in the rebuilding, retraining, and  equipping ministries so critical to the healing and restoration of Southern Sudan as it recovers from decades of civil war.  Michael has done a phenomenal job of developing a productive partnership with the Bishop of Mundri.   The ECS staff picked us up from the airstrip, housed us, fed us, toured us, introduced us, and generally hung out under the shade of the big mango tree in the heat of the sultry afternoons.  Their told their stories stoically, but the facts were breath-taking.  The story which sticks so vividly in my mind was told by Peter (not his real name), a 50-something ECS pastor.  He recounted the bombing raids on Mundri which happened as recently as 2004.  They would hear the distant drone of the Antonov bombers, the whistle of the plummeting bombs, and then dive into their hand-dug trenches.  The domestic animals even learned to follow them into the trenches.  The thunderous earthquakes and flying soil followed.  He also described the low-flying helicopter gunships heralded by their low-pitch thumping which flew through Mundri mowing people down with their machine guns.  Forty women and children died from the helicopter guns in the last attack.  (While we were there a mine sweeping organization was combing the river banks for unexploded ordinance).

Not surprisingly these Mundri residents are bitter about the repeated deceptions and murderous betrayals by the northern government.  They said, "We cannot forgive..."

The other experience etched in my memory is of our visit to Lui Hospital, 20 km to the east of Mundri.  Built in 1920 by a missionary, Dr. Frasier, this hospital closely resembles the Bundibugyo District Hospital in size and services.  About 100 beds, 100 deliveries/month, one doctor....it felt so familiar.  Several differences became clear during our tour.  We found two children on the surgical ward with hands bandaged up like boxing mitts.  Two separate hand grenade accidents.  The kids found the weapons and played with them not knowing what they were.  Also, there is a separate African Sleeping Sickness ward, to serve those afflicted with this indolent, but deadly disease.  The most striking finding, however, was that the staff of Lui Hospital continuing to work long hours ... and yet they HAVE NOT RECEIVED ANY SALARY IN TEN MONTHS.  When asked why they keep coming to work, they quietly responded one after another,  "We must serve our people."  Basically, they work for nothing.  The Government of Southern Sudan should be paying them, but has no money in the coffers to do so.  Unimaginable in Uganda.  Even for me.  How would I manage to continue with no salary for ten months.  Would I not slip into survival mode and stop going to the hospital?  Not the Sudanese.  Their sense of duty and service to community, country, and God runs very deep.

In the last two verses of Psalm 13, there is the abrupt transition from Self to Other.  "With a disturbing clarity", David acknowledges God's hesed (his "enemy-love", his mercy) and melts into worship.  We need to pray that as we work to with the people of Southern Sudan to rebuild their country, that we can help them by faith to "cross the line" over to reconciliation and worship.

Paradoxically, home

Coming home is a paradox in and of itself.  My heart is here, but my soul also feels the heaviness of this place.  In fact, as we packed up camp with the interns and prepared to drive back, we later found out that the rest of the team narrowly decided against a full-scale revolt in bagging their return from the Kingfisher (where they stayed while we camped) and extending the heavenly weekend by another day!  I understand that sense of unease, the lingering feeling that just one more day in the little paradise of flowers and order and escarpment breezes carved out by a German missionary would fortify the spirit for re-entering the miasma of Bundibugyo.

But in the end we all returned, the draw of home and the dread of facing problems again all jumbled together as we bounced over the rocky, rutted road.  And the return was both grueling and joyful.  Grueling in the physical and emotional toll (see below).  And unexpectedly joyful, because of Julia and Jack.  They get car sick and we were so crowded that we let them ride on the top of our crazy load of camping gear (tents, cooking equipment, clothes, etc for ten), groceries, cow feed and mosquito nets for HIV-infected families on the back of the truck.  And they decided to wave greetings to anyone along the road, smiling, getting them to wave back.  In Bundibugyo there are A LOT of people along the road.  So instead of “mujungu mujungu” cat-calls or obnoxious curiosity, we entered the district being smiled at and waved to by several hundred people.  They were of course responding to the kids, but from the front seat of the truck we could imagine that the grandmothers shifting loads of firewood to greet, or the dancing children coming home from their gardens, had specifically waited just to welcome us.  It was very pleasant, the sense of being drawn in and celebrated mitigating the anticipation of the problems we would soon face.

This is the place of paradox, moon-washed mountain views seen from the valley of shadow, culture-crossing friendships tainted by misunderstanding, children plumping up on treatment while others gasp their last breaths.  This time was no different, we were once again awash, as we knew we would be, with abundant views of creation splendor and crushing realization of the desperation of the Fall.  Scott struggled all day with the bike of Jack’s that I ran over before I left—unfixable it seems, until we can get new parts, plus the broken toilet and the broken lawnmower, the obscure Ugandan bank statements and the neediness of people who had missed his help for a week.  I plunged back into the health center where the third patient on rounds died right before our eyes, a little twin whom we had cared for with moderate malnutrition and probably sickle cell anemia, who needed a blood type that was not available and whose heart could not sustain him until the proper blood could be found.  Nine patients have died in just over a week, including three transferred from the district hospital with end-stage severe malnutrition who did not even survive one day of treatment.  In spite of all that, it is a relief to be home, to be together after all that edgy anxiety last week, to listen to a dust-dampening sprinkle on my own roof, to sit around our own table in candlelight and laugh.  Paradoxically, we are pilgrims and strangers who have the sense of coming home.

Job's Journey

Mid-summer, we take our interns to the game park.  This is a weekend for them to get away from Bundibugyo, to get perspective on what God is teaching them, to avert their eyes for a few days from the relentless suffering of Africa and be awash it the continent’s beauty.  When Job’s friends exhausted themselves trying to explain his problems in a cause-and-effect obedience-and-blessing universe, God finally steps in (chapters 38 to the end) and basically takes Job on a safari.   Can you hunt prey for the lion?  Can you mark when the deer gives birth?  Did you set the wild donkey free?  Will the wild ox be willing to serve you? Does the hawk fly by your wisdom?

As an answer to Job’s distress,  God’s tour of the wild wonders of His creation seems to point to His power, His beauty, His creativity, His being GOD.

But this weekend, I saw another side to this lesson.  Over and over God takes Job on a journey of the animals and nature to point out:  Job can not control them.  Nature is unpredictable, untamable.  Camping in the wilderness we experience this first hand.   We drove through the park with our interns piled on top of our truck. At some points we were awestruck by the splendor:  in the pre-dawn darkness, a majestically powerful leopard stretching his night-weary limbs, slowly rising, regarding us interlopers and then sauntering off into the bush.  Restless elephants trumpeting, semi-playfully pushing each other in slow-motion splendor with their ponderous strength.  The flash of jeweled orange as a tiny malachite kingfisher flits up from the reeds.  But at other points we drove and drove and drove, watchful, not seeing anything.  A large grey male lion trotted away after barely a glimpse in the distance, lying down concealed in inaccessible bushes, tantalizing but unreachable.  There was nothing we could do to make animals appear where we wanted, or wait for us to see them well.  They are, after all, wild. This is a savannah, not Disney World.  The experience is not humanly orchestrated.  Sometimes we will be disappointed.

Driving home today, I began to think this was the real point God was making with Job.  Yes, nature shows how creative He is.  But what He was trying to point out, is that nature shows how wild He is.  How Other.  How beyond being orchestrated by human desires and ideas.  We want formulas that work, like Job’s friends we want to put our good intentions in and see God’s abundant blessings flow out, measure for measure.  But God tells Job, look around.  You can’t tell the wild donkey where to go, nor can you control the details of your own life.  God is God.  He does not show up on our schedule.  His actions may not correspond to what we would want.

Like Job, we need to be pushed to break out of the mold of a God-in-our-image, a God who acts as we would, who does whatever we plan.  The inexplicable suffering of Bundibugyo and the untamable beauty of the African plain both shake us out of our illusion that we can predict, let alone dictate, God’s actions.  Like the leopard we saw this morning, He defines Himself on His own terms:
I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion.  (Ex 33:19)

Driving the Ledge

Well, today I’ll be literally driving along a ledge, the spectacular mountain road that leads out of Bundibugyo.  The kids and team and I are heading out, we will all meet up with our Sudan returnees at a small lodge on the edge of the national park about five hours away, for a long weekend together.  Last night when I was struggling to load the car with trunks and camping equipment, and we heard hissing air from a tire, so I was rushing to get it parked on cement to make changing a tire easier and ran over a bike left on the ground . . .Jack’s, which he uses to avoid walking on his heels . . .well, it was a low point, being eaten by evening insects with a half packed truck, a broken bike, and what I thought was a flat tire, in a day in which four patients (!!) had died.  In short, I keep thinking about the edge, and the path was seeming rather narrow.  But Caleb says the bike is probably fixable, we tightened the cap on the tube of the tire (it would have been the fourth flat this week) and as of this morning it is holding, the kids got the tarp over the mountain of stuff and after prayers and dinner we were all more calm.  Pray for us to rest, in the wild wonder of God’s creation as we visit the park, to get a bigger picture than our daily struggles.  
PS Check out the Macha’s blog:  Nancy’s tumor has shrunk, so that is encouraging news!  

The thing about edges . . .

. . . Is that while standing on them, one is perfectly safe, but the perceived drop to disaster is very real.

Which may be why God likes to take our path along the ledge.

For instance, yesterday morning the UPDF began a training exercise that involved intermittent large artillery which we could hear in the distance.  The main barracks is about 15 km by road from us, though with mountains reflecting sound and our house being on a rise it sounds closer.  This practice is good, in reality, part of that solid rock where we now stand, protected.  But it started literally one minute after I hung up the phone with Scott who was from that moment on unreachable, en route to Sudan.  And in the early morning, the sonic booms of distant guns were for me a peek over the precipice, a gut-tightening recall of times now long past when we did not have a prepared military and when rebels could make forays across the border at will.  I am not falling, I’m standing on the path.  But the view into the Fall is dizzying.  

This is similar to the case of the little boy who died last week, whose blood and tissue samples are now being processed by the CDC.  The real danger of this being a viral hemorrhagic fever is almost nil; follow-up in his village has assured us that no one else is sick.  Again, we are standing securely, but the events of the last year make the view over the edge steeper and more frightening than it would have been.

So it is no surprise, in this context, that just after daylight this morning there was yelling, running, commotion and cries a few houses up the road from me . . . No, no rebels, no real danger, just a goat thief.  By the time I got there most people were laughing, perhaps to cover their anxiety.  The goat had been recovered but the thief got away.  

And though I am distressed by the slowness of UNICEF to get milk to our malnourished kids (18 of 29 inpatients now with severe acute malnutrition, little signposts of no rain and rising food prices), when I plead on the phone I’m looking over the edge and feeling faint, instead of noticing that we do still have enough for another two weeks, and kind supporters who I know will rise to the occasion if nothing happens by then.

A wise friend asked me last night to reflect on the timing.  When I am here alone, my sense of the edge is more menacing, my reserve more strained.  But this is the time to look at the path instead of the drop-off, and be thankful for the Rock on which I stand.  Not easy.

Edgy

Scott and Luke headed out under the crescent of a waning dawn-tinged moon this morning for Kampala with Kim, Nick, Jesse, Katie and Michael.  Unfortunately, they had to go in a vehicle with the hood held on by a bungee cord and hourly bolt-tightening checks to make sure one of the loose wheels does not fall off.  That’s because this vehicle is MORE reliable than the one that nearly subverted my trip last week:  after much work, Michael and Scott prepared it for a test run last night, but it overheated without ever leaving our driveway.  And that’s because they had to leave me the MOST reliable of the three, our truck, which had three flat tires within the last 24 hours but still beats out the other choices.

The group is heading to Mundri, Sudan, where the Massos hope to establish a WHM team presence by the end of this year.  And the unsettled, edgy feeling I have today reminds me of that the team will not just materialize, there is cost involved. All three Masso children are moderately ill, not a great way to be left with a single parent, one with the first really significant asthma attack of her life.  As soon as they pulled out Jack, who had had a better weekend, began to spiral downward, and only went to school by faith, pocketing a verse from Psalm 23 to read and memorize when he felt the waves of sadness coming.  CSB was attacked by theft on Friday, someone breaking two padlocked doors and getting into a safe, someone who was incredibly lucky and brave or who knew just what they were doing.  So a school already in debt, already struggling, now losing another couple of thousand dollars. Our RDC is mobilizing people to awareness in case the anti-LRA increased pressure by MONUC in Congo sends any rebels our way (no real threat, just being cautious, but not the kind of thing one wants to hear).  Some of the UNICEF milk is now expired and patients showed me maggots in their packages today, just as the nurses I sent for training to Mulago called to say that in spite of my visit and verbal affirmations from Kampala that it would be fine, now that they are there the Mulago staff are expecting to be paid “something” to allow these two nurses, their own Ministry of Health colleagues, to observe and learn.  Aren’t we all trying to help starving children here?  Just to remind us of that reality, the latest admission, a 15 month old boy, severe malnutrition (6 kg--of which a fair amount is edema) Owera came in with his burning fever, listless gaze, scabby skin.   His father died with AIDS last year, and his mother finally gave up on the meager slow help she was getting elsewhere and came to Nyahuka to try and save his life.  And I hope hers, while we’re at it.  My patience wears thin and I was not so pleasant to two men asking for money and medicine, stopping me in the hot sun as I huff back home on my bike.  I feel overwhelmed already, and my guys have only been gone six hours.  In short, it is a morning that screams, “the world is not right”.  

But we head out on a wobbly wheel, believing that the Kingdom is still coming.  Needing prayer for our hearts mostly:  that hours and days of boxing with the devil, of pleading phone calls, of sympathetic listening, of weary prayers, of plain old sweaty gritting it out, will see the results.  That the cost will not prove more dear than the beauty to be revealed, in Nyahuka, in Mundri, in us.

Shooting Dogs

In the midst of being tossed about  in the sea of life’s sorrows here (see post below) we do still have our dear interns, and one of the ways we generate awareness and discussion of African issues is to watch a few movies after team meeting on Thursday nights.  One of the best:  Shooting Dogs (2005), set during the first tragic days of the Rwandan genocide in April 1994.  This movie got little play or attention compared to Hotel Rwanda, but it is a hundred times better.  Grittily real but grappling with redemption, it follows the true story of 2,500 Tutsi and moderate Hutu refugees who sought protection from the UN in a Catholic school compound.  It was produced by BBC Films.  The frame story is of a British career missionary priest and a young teacher year-long volunteer.   This movie is not for the weak of heart:  the violence of genocide is not glossed over.  But it asks very clearly:  where is God in the midst of this tragedy?  How should missionaries, powerless citizens, or foreign soldiers respond to flagrant injustice?  

As painful as the movie is, I’ve watched it several times, and each time I find it profoundly moving.  Many reasons:   it is based on actual events that occurred only a few hundred miles from our home, while we were living here, and contains many scenes that are familiar, from the dusty roads and chattering children to the agonizing scenes of evacuation and survivor guilt.  And because many of the actors and producers are actual witnesses and survivors.  But mostly because it provides a modern-day picture of the Gospel.  The Christ-likeness of the priest would be remarkable even in a Christian film, let alone a BBC secular production.  I won’t give too much away, but in this viewing what really stuck with me was the final scene.  He is driving a truck full of hidden Tutsi children through the dark streets of Kigali and meets a road block manned by a former school contact whom he knows.  As the man with the gun accosts him, he says “The amazing thing, Julius, is that I feel nothing but love for you.”  The first time I saw this I found that line unbelievable and corny.  But since it is witnessed by a survivor, it is probably true.  This time I saw it with hope.  That in the most extreme moment, a person who has chosen a cross-path, can actually be supernaturally filled with enemy-love (hesed) even as Jesus was.  

Our trials here represent cup-sized empty pots in comparison to the life-and-death whole-scale societal implosion of 1994 Rwanda.  But if God was present in the midst of that suffering, surely He is able to meet us in ours.  Because in the end, the reason the priest stays is that he finds the desperation of the tragedy makes God more real than ever.   This is the longing of the songs of lament:  relief, yes, but more deeply to meet God in the sorrow.  

(NOTE: a comment under this post by an informed reader says that this movie was marketed in the USA under a different title: 

Beyond The Gates (2005)).