Martyrs
of fraternity in the Minor Seminary of Buta
Testimonials
of three survivors, now priests – Fr. Ildephonse
Niyongabo – Fr. Pasteur Manirambona – Fr.
Marc Bigirindavyi (Burundi)
Fr.
Pasteur: We come from Burundi, in Africa. I
entered the seminary at 13 years of age. It was 1992.
A short while later, civil war broke out in our country.
Hutu and Tutsi fought against each other.
Also
in our seminary, we were from both ethnic groups. We
heard about the awful atrocities that were happening
all around our nation but this did not discourage us.
Helped by our professors and the Spirit of God, we tried
to live in unity and brotherhood. We read the Gospel
and tried to put it into practice. In this way, the
minor seminary of Buta became a small Paradise.
On
April 29, 1997, the rebels were advancing towards our
house. How should we react in case they attacked us?
“Together,” we said, “We will remain
united.”
The
next morning at 5 AM, they broke into our dormitory.
They began to shoot indiscriminately, shouting: “The
Hutu on one side and the Tutsi on the other!”
We refused to separate. We stayed together.
Fr.
Ildephonse: I was immediately hit by a bullet
in the right leg. I ended up underneath the bed. Suddenly,
there was a huge explosion: they had thrown a bomb in
our midst. More than 30 boys died immediately. They
continued to shoot even among the dead and I was struck
by other bullets.
In
the midst of this hell, my companions were dying, saying:
“God our Father, forgive them for they do not
know what they are doing.” Some of them, among
whom also Pasteur, began to wrap the wounds of the others,
risking their lives.
I
will never forget what one of the 40 young men who were
killed, Niyonkuru Protais, said to me two minutes before
dying: “We must remain united!” This phrase
is still a living testament for me today.
Seven
years later, I saw the rebels again in the parish where
I was doing my pastoral experience. The Lord gave me
the grace to forgive those who had shot at us.
Fr.
Marc: When they attacked the seminary, I was
in the professors’ building. I escaped death by
a miracle.
I
was not a priest then, but a lay teacher. At the end
of high school, I had asked the Bishop to admit me to
the major seminary, but the day that I was supposed
to enter, there was a huge struggle within me: “This
way is too lofty for you,” I told myself. “You
can be a good Christian and serve God also at the university.”
So
I began to study geography. Fortunately, at the university
I met a group of committed Christians. They helped me
to live out the Word of God. I began to receive the
Eucharist every morning.
At
the end of our studies, the Rector called me to the
Seminary of Buta to teach geography. I had lived with
those boys and had shared in their Gospel-based life.
Seeing how they remained faithful to God, to the point
of death, changed my life. I thanked God for these “martyrs
of brotherhood” and I asked him to also make me
an apostle of love and unity. That same year, I entered
the major seminary, and in July 2004, I became a priest.
 Why
was the night so long?
Fr.
Helmut Kappes, a German priest overcomes alcoholism
with the help of the community
I
would like to share with you how, after decades of pain,
I was able to win over my dependence on alcohol.
I
began to drink during my first years as a priest. I
had the sensation that alcohol, in small doses, helped
me to better face difficult situations. Then these stressful
situations increased: I was not able to manage the heavy
workload. Everyone expected a lot from me, and I, at
times with a disproportionate sense of duty, began to
feel disappointed and lonely. My problem became always
more obvious to my parishioners.
In
January 1996, my housekeeper asked for help from a person
in the diocese who took care of people like me: people
with problems of dependency. During my conversation
with him, I strongly denied that I had a problem with
alcohol and told him that I could take care of myself.
I
was granted the opportunity, but under supervision.
After two weeks, I had to admit that I had once again
begun to drink. I had no choice but to enter into therapy.
I first informed the Pastoral Council. They told me:
“Count on us, we are with you on this journey.
We will support you also in front of the community.”
During
Mass, I confessed to my congregation: “I suffer
from alcoholism. I have decided to undergo therapy and
I ask you to support me with your prayers.” The
people were surprised, but reacted with respect.
In
the weeks that followed, I learned to accept my situation
and how to manage it. Different sessions helped me to
understand how important it is for me to listen to what
I feel deep inside. Above all, I learned to trust, to
trust that God who said to me: “I have placed
my law in your heart. Love your neighbour as yourself.”
After
eight weeks, the therapy sessions ended: since then
I have made it to live alcohol-free. I have received
the gift of a new life. I work fulltime in our pastoral
program and I feel sustained by the community. Together,
we have grown a lot.
Today
I ask myself: Why didn’t I have the courage to
take this step beforehand? Or, as the Jesuit Aimé
Duval says: “Why was the night so long?”
 Jesus
was asking me, “Do you love me?”
Fr.
Brendan Purcell, from Ireland, shares about a new and
deeper choice of celibacy.
After
a period of crisis, I was ordained a priest in 1967.
Of the 30 men ordained with me, 10 left the priesthood
in our first five years.
My
own foundations got shaky too. I was 28 at the time.
While taking a German course in East Berlin, I fell
in love with a girl who had been a very committed Communist
youth leader. I’ll call her Marta (to hide the
girl’s identity).
Without
planning it, I found myself in what was for me a very
emotionally involving situation, even if – believe
it or not – the relationship never got as far
as being expressed in gestures of affection or anything
of that kind. But we wrote to each other and got to
see each other. It took me three years – and I
should say, greatly helped by Marta – to accept
that I had to break off this relationship.
When
we decided not to see each other again, I asked her:
“What’s the secret of your life?”
Her reply was very simple: “I love Jesus, especially
when he became an atheist!” Though I thought I
knew everything, this was news to me.
Marta
had told me her parents had divorced when she was 15
years old. Since that time she’d been asking “why?”
– Why the suffering in the world, in her own life?
One of her fellow students at the university told her,
“The name of our God is ‘Why’.”
Marta suddenly said: “If the name of your God
is ‘Why,’ He’s the One I’ve
been looking for, for years.” She had discovered
that Jesus had cried out on the Cross: “My God,
my God, why have you forsaken me?” Jesus, the
God-Man, experienced that he was ‘without God’
in order to be close to her.
In
this light, she explained to me how, by losing each
other, we’d be more deeply united: just as Jesus
was most deeply united with the Father when he felt
he had ‘lost’ his relationship with the
Father.
In
this way Marta helped me make a second choice of God.
Jesus was asking me: “Do you love me?” Since
then I’ve come to see that to be a priest means
especially to love, to be transparent, not to depend
on status or social position.
During
these difficult times for the Church in Ireland I’m
often asked to speak on TV. Before each interview, I
say to myself: “You don’t have to win, just
go to love.”
When
the first official report about sexual abuse by priests
and religious came out, I was asked to speak on a popular
radio programme. I tried to put myself in the shoes
of the children who’d been abused. Instead of
saying, “Look, I had nothing to do with it, it
wasn’t me,” I spoke of my shame and dismay,
taking on myself the blame for what others had done.
One of the survivors of abuse was also on the programme.
The interviewer asked what she thought about what I
had said. I expected a harsh attack. After a long pause,
she said: “It’s good to hear a priest speaking
like that.”
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