We were half a hour into day one of my introductory workshop – the one where we make a bag garden and talk about the forest ecosystem and human population pressure, composting and rubbish.
The group of 12 women included the pastor – one of very few such women in the Friends Church of Rwanda. She left the group for a few minutes and came back with an urgent request. Would I mind if they prayed for a sick child? Of course not. (The picture shows some of the participants in a quiet moment.)Into the church was led a teenage boy, looking completely shut down, as though tranquilised. An older man, presumably his father, had him firmly by the back of the hand, whether for reassurance or restraint I couldn't tell. A bench was brought into the middle of our working space and the boy encouraged to sit. The women surrounded him. Several, including the pastor, began tapping his back, his shoulders, his chest, then increasing the intensity till they were pressing pretty hard. All were praying aloud. One, alternately shouting a single word and making a harsh sound like a dog's bark, had her face within an inch or two of the boy's, rubbed her hands over his head and and pulled his ears from time to time. Then he was roughly shaken, though not toppled. After about 5 minutes the voices became calmer then ceased. The pastor spoke softly to the boy. I think she asked a question but he didn't reply. He was led away
We had about 10 minutes remaining before the scheduled morning break. I felt unable to return to my topic as though nothing had happened. I said to the group that in my worshipping community of Friends we didn't do what they had just done. I asked them to explain to me what had been happening. The boy had not been sick previously, they said. He was possessed by a devil. He had been working with his mother in their field and had suddenly fallen to the ground. Later – I don't know how much later – he had run to the lake and tried to drown himself. They were doing as Jesus had instructed his disciples, casting out devils in Jesus' name.
I lead a sheltered life in England, socially and religiously. For all I know the same practice may occur within walking distance of my home.
I don't have a better explanation for the boy's condition or a better remedy. The next day I asked after him. The tone of the reply was matter-of-fact: 'Il est gueri.' He is better? He is cured? He is healed? Does it matter which?
The church at Cyete has an area of floor where bricks give way to boarding.
(When I was here dancing 2 years ago we skirted the area nervously.) I now know why: last weekend, visiting Antoine's family, I was surprised to be shown photos of the total immersion baptism of the three teenage children and checked that it was indeed in the Friends Church at Kagarama. We don't do that in Quaker Meetings in England either. It hasn't seemed right to make an issue of the theology, and so far I haven't even asked what distinguishes Friends (Quakers) from other protestant Christians here. (I see from the emailed minutes of our recent business meeting that Ealing Meeting has declined the opportunity to contribute to a leaflet from local churches to be handed out at the Good Friday procession of witness to a church in the town centre, which a few Friends support with their presence.) My translator the other day was Silas, a teacher at the Kamembe Friends School and a theology graduate. He was eager to talk about George Fox, about his emphasis on personal spiritual experience, and about how Friends emphasise the gospel of love above strict adherence to rules.
In Britain our weekly Quaker magazine, The Friend, has frequent spates of letters on the question of whether Quakers are Christians. Am I doing what I do here as Christian mission? No, I don't think so – and the denial is not entirely because of my negative perception of the cultural baggage brought by well-meaning Christian missionaries in Africa. Would I be here if I were not involved in the spiritual community of Ealing Quaker Meeting? Probably not.
Collecting soil to go in the sack.
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