Moving to the margins

He assured me he would only take a few minutes; just enough time to trim his toenails. That’s why I agreed.  We, the jail chaplains, had access to nail clippers, a luxury which the inmates did not possess. It was another service we provided! I had just finished a three-hour art session. The clock had struck 4:00 p.m. on that last Friday of October, and I needed to get out of jail as quickly as possible. I still needed to rush to the market for that evening’s dinner. I anticipated the crowds due to Halloween.

While David meticulously cut his toenails in my office, my mind went through the shopping list: onions, potatoes, tomatoes, fish—yes, it was Friday, no meat tonight. Amid my mental checklist, I heard David’s voice breaking the silence.

“Chaplain, I heard you are from Malta,” he said.

I confirmed his question with a nod.

“I have been in Malta,” he continued.

Encountering someone in an American jail who had visited my native Island was incredibly rare. By now, I had forgotten whether I intended to buy tilapia or bass. Now I was curious, so I shifted my chair closer to David.

Feeling blocked and unable to write, I often find myself sitting at my desk, jotting down some ideas and never getting beyond two paragraphs let alone two pages. I type it, save it, and look for a different topic. But nothing comes. Is this what some people call ‘writers’ block? I fool myself into believing that I am one of those big professional writers who experience such a phase.

Upon returning to Los Angeles after seven years, I thought that life was going to resume where I had left off. I expected to return to jail and continue my apostolate there. However, that was not the reality. I patiently awaited Providence to guide me while exploring newer areas of work. Unfortunately, even those efforts, for reasons beyond me, have not worked out yet. (Gone are the days when volunteering meant a simple process, without the numerous interviews, days of training, police background check, medical examinations, and a series of vaccines which one should have received as a newborn!) In moments of prayer, I seek to understand what God is trying to tell me.  And one day the realization came to me: I am no professional full-time writer; I am a Missionaries of Charity Brother. The obstacle I face is not writers’ block but a lack of direct contact with the poor—my source of inspiration.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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The first time I caught a glimpse of her was on a November afternoon in Bogota, while riding the bus one. I was utterly stunned and couldn’t believe my eyes. Determined to confirm what I saw; I made it a point to get a good look at that particular statue of our Lady in the front garden of a big house in the northern part of the city the following week. Fate, however, was not on my side, as I found myself standing and unable to get a closer look. Undeterred, the third week, I decided to interrupt my journey and got off the bus. And there she was—the unmistakably white statue of the Virgin of the Poor.

            It took me a few more weeks to muster the courage and finally knock on the door. You see, we Missionaries of Charity Brothers share a special connection with Mary under this title. The year was 1999 and statues like this were exceptionally rare to come by. This particular representation of Mary is striking in simplicity—a young woman, slightly inclining forward, her hands folded in prayer, dressed in a long white gown with a blue sash and a transparent white veil. Her only one foot is visible,  on top of which lay a single rose.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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I’m among those who firmly believe in the importance of building a strong and healthy personality and character through an internal structure rather than seeking an external structure such as a geographical solution. I often use the example of a drug addict who, even after moving to a totally new city, can quickly find the whereabouts of drug dealers in less than 24 hours.

However, Diego proved me wrong. His story challenged my perspective. Diego is one of the residents in our Hogar de la Paz in Peru, and he faces deep mental challenges. He is locked up in his own world, he does not talk or interact with anybody. Diego suffers from a condition known as coprophagia, which means that he eats his own faeces.

It comes as no surprise that very few people are inclined to approach Diego. Who would want to sit next to someone whose hands, nails, mouth, and teeth are persistently dirty and stinking? And this reluctance to engage with Diego, most likely worsens his self-isolation, pushing him further into his own fetish, to the point of self-harm. It’s as though he is caught in a vicious circle. I think it was Ionesco who remarked: ‘Take a circle, caress it, and it will turn vicious.’

Br Carmel Duca MC

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He unexpectedly entered my life on that early morning of 19 November 2021. The previous night, I had returned late from Howrah Station after travelling from Hazaribagh. My sleep was interrupted by some of our HIV men (who were residing in our Shanti Bhavan in Kolkata) talking underneath my window. As I opened the door, Prem Singh exclaimed, “Brotherji, dekhiye, chota billi hai.” And there he was, a tiny kitten trembling with fear. A large falcon was perched atop a nearby tree ready to launch its attack.  The little kitten couldn’t have been more than three weeks old.

I knelt close to him, and he just huddled against the corner, perhaps mistaking me for another falcon! There was no way of escape. As I gently lifted him by the nape, Prem Singh was already running to the kitchen, “dudh dijiye, dudh dijiye billi ke liye,” and he was back in a jiffy with some milk in a saucer. I carefully placed the kitten down. He looked around and put his paw in the milk. Soon he realized he could lap it up. And there we stood Prem, Bagheera, Gopal, Ravi, Asharam, Raju, Parimal, Saiful, Vincent and I engrossed in the cuteness and sweetness of such a tiny creature.

Dante quickly became a regular presence in my room. Training a young kitten was quite a task, requiring daily attention to his food, milk, and a clean litter box. Luckily, as winter approached, Gopal and Saiful provided bags of dried leaves for Dante’s litter box in my bathroom. He adored the leaves, turning my room into an autumn garden with his leafy antics. I’d often lose track of time watching him play. However, I had to be vigilant to prevent him from getting stuck in small spaces or under furniture. Over time, one of these spaces became Dante’s go-to hideaway whenever he sensed my displeasure.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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Journeys intrigue me. When I was living in Kolkata, because of work I had to travel quite a bit. I crossed India from Cooch Behar and Assam up north to the southernmost tip of Tamil Nadu—Kanyakumari. From Mumbai to Delhi to Chhattisgarh to Odisha, Andhra, Karnataka and Kerala. During train or bus journeys I just love looking around capturing details, colours, people’s faces, idiosyncrasies, the way people relate to each other: from the boisterous fun-and-food loving Bengalis to the quieter and a little more ordered Malayalis (if I may generalise). After a trip, I was never the same: for one thing I used to be dead tired. But there is something deeper than just tiredness and grime; I realised that there was a shift in me, I can say that I was richer just for the fact that I undertook the journey. I remember when in 1988 as a twenty-two-year-old I had stepped for the first time, out of the Air India flight in Kolkata, I felt as if I was ready to go back to Malta from where I had started. The fact that I had succeeded in arriving in faraway India was enough for me.

There are some journeys we only take once in our life. They are few but unforgotten. Nobody can take such journeys for us. They are those journeys which will remain etched in our hearts. For Sri Aurobindo the change came after he stepped out of Alipore Presidency Jail. He knew he was not the same Aurobindo Ghose anymore: there was a shift from a nationalist to a spiritual visionary. For the Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh, it was the journey he undertook from France to Belgium — a journey on foot for three days and three nights in the beginning of March, harsh winter in Europe. He was only 27 and after that journey he knew he was a painter. For Archbishop Oscar Romero it was the road trip that led to a heart-wrenching discovery: his friend, Jesuit priest Rutilio Grande, murdered alongside an elderly layman and a young boy. This tragic encounter shattered Romero’s timidity, propelling him to break his silence and demand a thorough investigation from the oppressive military regime.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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Welcome to LALA Land! Welcome to Los Angeles! Welcome to the land of Hollywood. According to the US News attractions guide from this year, “Los Angeles has an exhaustive array of fun things to do, from the family-friendly La Brea Tar Pits and the must-visit Natural History Museum to a behind-the-scenes studio tour at Universal Studios or Warner Bros. Out-of-towners love the palm-lined streets, star sightings and eclectic vibe. If you’re a film buff, vintage Hollywood is a must-see. Some classic attractions include the TCL Chinese Theatre, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, neon-lit Hollywood Boulevard and Paramount Pictures Studios – the only television and film studio left in Hollywood. For a taste of stardom, head to Beverly Hills to window-shop along pedestrian-friendly Rodeo Drive or cruise the Sunset Strip in search of rock ‘n’ roll. There is also a plethora of shorelines to choose from, including Venice Beach, Zuma Beach and Santa Monica Beach. Art lovers will want to see a show at the state-of-the-art, Frank Gehry-designed Walt Disney Concert Hall; admire art from the masters, as well as up-and-coming artists, at the Getty Center; or swing by one-of-a-kind Los Angeles County Museum of Art to admire its collection.”
And it’s all true, just Google the words Los Angeles+tourist+guide and you will get 94,800,000 results in 0.56 seconds. But then Google the words Los Angeles+homelessness and you will get 173,000,000 results in 0.41 seconds. Los Angeles+jail 199,000,000 in 0.40 seconds. Los Angeles+mental health 279,000,000 in 0.53 seconds. Los Angeles+drugs 456,000,000 in 0.42 seconds. Sorry to deceive you, but I do not like this LA of jails, drugs and mentally sick people! It is Ok to have them in Kolkata or Kibera—the biggest slum in Nairobi. But here in Los Angeles? No.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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The day I had to accompany one of my Brothers to the immigration office in Lima to apply for his residential permit turned out to be a nightmare. Two weeks earlier I had gone to apply for mine and in less than ten minutes I was in and out. But not this time. The appointment was for 1.30 pm and since we had arrived early, we decided to attend the midday Mass at the Church of Our Lady of Mercy in downtown Lima. Thirty minutes later we were in the midst of two or three hundred people waiting in three different lines. We were assigned to the middle row—lo and behold the longest one. I was not prepared for such an “endeavour”—I did not even carry a book or my water bottle with me. Three full hours in the midday Peruvian scorching sun! And to top it all, when the turn arrived for my Brother to enter the office building, I was not allowed in to act as his interpreter since he spoke no Spanish. So, I had to wait outside.

            This time, not being constrained to standing in the long queue, I found a shady spot, bought a bottle of cold water and sat down on the doorstep of a building. And that’s when the miracle happened. Next to me sat a young woman carrying a small child. As soon as the small boy saw me, he started smiling and was trying to touch me. Eight-month old Daniel Tadeo had a beautiful trigueño -wheat-coloured skin, with typical Andean almond shaped eyes.

            I must admit that I am never very popular with babies. I can still recall my two-year old cousin Clare’s screams as soon as she saw my face and heard my deep voice! But not with Daniel Tadeo. He seemed to be such a happy baby, radiating pure joy. One could sense that he was loved. I just cherished that present moment, talking to this young mother and her adorable baby. And that’s how my Brother found me when he came out of the office after more than an hour.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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The world of the mareros as gang bangers or gangsters are derogatorily called in Central America has called my attention since the first day I met some of them in a Guatemalan prison. Marero is a member of a mara — a gang. It is not known where the word mara comes from, but one plausible explanation is that it derives from the Portuguese word marabunta. Marabunta means the massive migration of some legionary ants which devour everything edible they find in their path in a jiffy. The marabunta is extremely dangerous both because of its sudden appearance and the unpredictability of its itinerary.

Very few know from where the gangs emerged, but many people say they originated in the United States. Central American young boys started organising themselves to defend themselves from other groups who were already well-established in Northern American territory.  When later these groups developed into criminal activity gangs and ended up having clashes with the law, there was a widespread deportation back to Central America. While in El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras, these young boys reverted to what they knew best—they reorganised themselves and resumed their criminal activities back in Central America. Mara ranks swelled in the marginal areas of Central American countries which for several years had been immersed in internal wars.  Sadly, nowadays, La Mara is the only affective link that gives a sense of belonging and identity to many Central American young people.

Br Carmel Duca MC

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One week after I arrived in Perú, the President plotted for a coup d’état. He tried to close the parliament and take charge of the country. Instead, it backfired, and he ended up in jail. His corrupt cabinet turned against him and ousted him, leaving a country disorientated and violent. But then, such a situation is not new in Peru. In the last five years there were as many as six presidents. Quite a few of Peru’s presidents ended in prison: Fujimori and his daughter Keiko, Humala and his wife, Kuczynski (who once said that a little corruption is all right), Alan Garcia who opted to commit suicide instead of going to prison, and Alejandro Toledo and his wife who are still waiting to be extradited to Peru from the US.

Mention a country that is not immersed in such turmoil and greed. Five years ago, Daphne Caruana Galicia, a Maltese writer, journalist and anti-corruption blogger who reported on political events in Malta was driving close to her home when a bomb placed in her car exploded and killed her instantly, leaving her body parts scattered all around. Caruana Galizia used her blog to reveal corrupt and shady money laundering deals by members of the same parliament, their friends and acquaintances.

Less than a year ago, India’s financial-crime investigation agency arrested Partha Chatterjee, who was the education minister in West Bengal and was accused of appointing hundreds of teachers and non-teaching staff for money and other bribes. Police recovered more than $2.5 million in cash from a close associate of Partha.

Brother Carmel Duca MC

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