The bag of bread

Portuguese Version

In 1985, I arrived to work in the besieged city of Huambo, in the central highlands of Angola, a country then affected by a devastating war between the central government based in Luanda and the guerrilla movement of UNITA.

There were a dozen young students under the shared responsibility of a colleague and me. We had to feed, protect, educate and guide them. I had the feeling that the lights in that country were fading off one by one and that our house,the Holy Spirit Minor Seminary was an institution at the brink of closure, but whose mission was to continue illuminating and preparing the future of that people and the Church.

W e faced great difficulties to procure the food needed for that large number of people. Our staple food was corn flour prepared into a paste called "funge" and dried fish. We complemented that when we could with sweet potato, kale and chicken from the villages, usually very thin. The lack of variety with the constant repetition of menu caused us to never feel fully satisfied even after meals. During the five years I lived there, we were at times very worried with malnutrition and with the replenishment of our food stocks.

During one such period, the siege on the city was closing in and despair was taking over. Truck convoys with supplies for the city were systematically attacked on the road from Benguela. Then we heard good news. My colleague, a tough nut Portuguese, informed me that there was bread at the only bakery authorised to sell us the good.

I quitted everything, cancelled classes and other commitments and set off to the Benfica neighbourhood w here the bakery was, determined to take something home. Before I got there I could hear the murmuring of the people gathered in front of the old house where they seldom baked the precious bread. One of the things I soon learned from the missionaries working in the region was to avoid getting myself in the middle of the push-and-throw that always started at queues at airports and shops. So I kept a distance with watchful eyes, observing the scene and imagining how I would manage to get into that house, looking out for a friend or acquaintance that could help me out.

Time went by and nothing happened. The turmoil was growing in front of the metal door of the bakery with the arrival of many "war mutilated", former soldiers wounded by land mines and combat - carrying their home-made crutches made of steel. No one with sense would walk into that crowd.

Suddenly I saw an Angolan nun from the St Therese Congregation waving in the distance. I went to find her and she guided me to the back entry of the house where I presented a document signed by the Comissaire Comrade authorising me to buy bread at that bakery.

Relieved, I went inside thinking that everything was sorted and to my surprise the room was already full! I waited a bit and was handed a big strong bag, of those used to carry wheat flour, full of bread. What a joy! How wonderful the smell of that bread was, still warm off the oven! Most people had already been served and we were just waiting for the moment they would authorise our leaving, because it was complicated to cross the turmoil outside. But then the noise and confusion on the street grew and the doors shook when hit by steel crutches. Those inside begged that the door should not be opened.

But the bakery chef was fool enough to half open the door to negotiate with the former soldiers, starting his plea with "Comrades, have patience! Look, this is not helping. You should look for an army section for your supplies. These people were authorised to buy at this bakery by the Huambo Comissaire... Blablabla". He was interrupted by the maimed soldiers wedging into the small opening of the door with their crutches to force the entry. The bakers gathered behind the door trying to stop them from fully opening it. All in vain! The mutilated broke into the shop yelling and saying they had lost their limbs defending their country and that now they were left to starve to death.

Panic started to arise among the ones inside the bakery. Soon the former soldiers were grabbing all the bread there was and people were surrending it willingly or not. Fear took over me and I decided: "I am not taking crutches on my head for a bag of bread!" But is was hard for me to let go of that bag, my arms seemed glued around it. I looked at the little nun, so small and so fragile. I could see she had more courage than me, so determined grabbing that bag of bread, she did not looke d inclined to give in. Then I changed my mind, - "if the little nun is not giving in, then I am not either." I lifted the bag and squeezed it to my chest as she did it. "I will wait and see what happens!"

And so the unexpected happened. Until this day I still don't understand why we were spared and left there with a bag of bread each. At dinner we ate that bread, chewing slowly for the pleasure to last as long as it would. That is how our life went, made of small victories and the reward was the smile of those boys who had no idea of what we had gone through for the bread.

I have learned in Huambo that in times of need we crave not for meat, cakes or fine desserts, etc. What we need most is bread. Then I understood why it had become the simbol of food and really captured the meaning of one's struggle to "earn the bread".