[Transcription of public reflections made on Sunday 14th October at Ringwood Uniting Church.]
Firstly let me say thankyou to those people who were able to donate the nine recorders for our trip. In Australia it’s true to say the recorder is a much-maligned instrument, and there were many jokes flying around about whether it was fair to burden the East Timorese with the instrument that drives so many parents to distraction. When we left for Dili we did not know whether anyone would be interested in them, and so by way of introducing the instrument, decided to include recorder in our presentation at the Saturday night concert on our first evening in Dili.
The following
day we were told there were some young women who were interested in the ‘flute’
I had played, and I said I happened to have some instruments with me and would
be happy to give some lessons while we were in Dili. The following evening, the
first of three consecutive nights, seven young women who I guess were aged
between 16 and 20 arrived for the first lesson, and with the two Tims building
a fan-base amongst the young men next door with their guitar prowess, I began
teaching the girls to play the recorder. I have to say I have never had such polite, quiet,
determined, disciplined students – but I also felt they were unconvinced of
their capacity to learn a musical instrument.
I have no
idea how long that first lesson went, but it was much longer than the planned
hour. We worked together overcoming the language barriers via translations by
two of the young women who understood English, and by lots of sign language,
nodding and smiling, and physical demonstration. Several times I thought the lesson
was coming to an end, but the girls urged me on.
At the end of
the lesson, as I was packing up, the girls got into a kind of huddle, and then
a representative said, We are wondering
if we would be able to borrow the recorders overnight to practice? It is
hard to adequately describe their reaction to you when I told them they could
keep the recorders – they were a gift from this congregation. If I were Enid
Blyton, perhaps I might describe their eyes being like saucers and their voices
squealing and pealing with glee as they jumped up and down hanging onto one
another. Mostly plastic, second-hand recorders that I imagine had been
forgotten at the bottom of wardrobes, toy boxes and under beds in Australia,
were now prized possessions. I will never, ever, be able to forget their
response as long as I draw breath.
What happened
next was also very revealing. Some girls ran outside where the guitar lads were
emerging and literally waved the recorders in their faces - Now we have our own musical instruments too.
We can play music just like you, so there.
The boys were
as gobsmacked as boys can be, and two of them immediately came to me and asked
if I had any more, so I gave them the remaining two. I learned later some of
the young men had expressed doubts that the girls were really up to the
challenge. My feminist sensibilities were, you might say, ignited!
As we arrived
over the coming days at Hosana Church’s training centre to take respective recorder
and guitar lessons, we could all hear the recorders playing, practicing
somewhere, in the distance around the grounds. One girl reported practicing all day and while this was encouraging I’d
have to say I’m eternally grateful she wasn’t living in close quarters with me.
Two of these
wonderful young women have decided to continue the recorder group, and I have
promised to send music to them once they have exhausted the supplies.
So to the
second story: On one other day we travelled up to Manluana, north of Dili. We
are talking poor here people, houses with dirt floors made with whatever the
people can come by. At the church we met Francesco. He is a songwriter. Francesco’s
father was a farmer who died when he was a young boy. His mother brought him up
in the Catholic church out in the country, but he decided to leave her and
travel to Dili, leave the Catholic church and get involved at Hosana. Many
years have passed and Francesco is now nineteen. He did not go to school
because he had no one to pay for it. He has no work. He lives from house to
house wherever he can find a bed amongst friends. Francesco’s story is one like many others, but
the thing that struck us all about him is the sentiments in the songs – they
centre around a loving God who is a great Father who has been gracious and
generous to him. It’s hard to reconcile Francesco’s story with his heightened
faith of gratitude.
These are not
merely nice stories about a bunch of young women learning recorder, and an
orphaned boy who writes great songs. Though that alone would have been enough
for me. This encounter has heightened in me an awareness of how weak my
theology of gratitude is. Of course I am thankful for what I have, the
opportunities I have, education, and all that stuff. I am. But in terms of
faith I’m not sure I truly demonstrate a grateful heart – you know for all those
things God has done for me. I’m much
more likely to reflect on how lucky I
am.
I reckon the
lucky country has now become the land of entitlement. In Australia we believe
we are entitled to an education, to shelter, to work – or else unemployment
benefits, to a pay rise, access to power 24/7, to clean drinking water, to
healthcare, vaccinations, early childhood care, legal advice. When we buy
stuff, most of us don’t consider getting second-hand. When it breaks, we chuck
it out. We expect our workplaces to be safe, and if we incur and injury at work
or as a result of our work activity we look for someone to blame. If we get sick
we expect on-the-day care, and we expect to recover. If we are overweight, or
unfit, or tired, or broke, it is often the case that self-denial rules the
roost. If someone is poor, as a society we often look for reasons why it is
their fault, and why we shouldn’t help. If we are fined for speeding, we look
for loopholes rather than accepting responsibility. When travelling on roads
there is a veritable uproar over a pothole, and yet people regularly speed in 40km
zones past schools.
Timor-Leste
is the poorest country in Asia. While I knew something of Timorese struggle for
independence (I even attended a few protest rallies in my student days) I had
no conception of the extent of the suffering endured by the Timorese during the
period of occupation. We are talking about genocide people – concentration
camps, and period in which it is believed the population of Dili was almost
halved. So in that context, how is it that there is such an overwhelming sense
of gratitude?
I’m not sure
I will ever have a really grateful faith, because I’m unconvinced God intervenes
or acts for some people over others. What I do hope for is courage and openness
to explore gratefulness further.
Can I close
by saying how great it was to share this experience with Stan and ‘The Tims”. I
reckon we have different and complimentary skills, and the evening de-brief was
always revealing and delightful. I'd also like to thank this congregational for
trusting us with this particular segment of the ongoing journey. It has been an
adventure and a privilege none of us will ever be able to forget.
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