The Pope`s last journey (2005)

Vatican City, April 7th 2005

Dear friends,

All streets lead to Rome, this "saying" has never been so true as today as thousands of pilgrims have invaded Vatican city. Today Thursday, I am writing in-direct from Via Della Conciliation, the road leading the St-Peter`s Basilica to the Pope`s very last trip.

Knowing how long pilgrims had waited up to 24 hours for some and tales of 36 hours have been heard) to pay their respects to John Paul II, I arrived early Tuesday morning in Vatican city and I found myself surrounded by thousands and thousands of lay people, nones, clergy, families with babies and enthusiastic youth groups who had also reached the Vatican. All these silent pilgrims had been queuing in an orderly fashion (quite contrary to the Italians which is extraordinary!!!)

I stopped by my ex-office at the Canadian Embassy to the Holy See, which is conveniently located right on the... via Della Conciliation, some 200 meters from St Peter's square (as some of you may remember, I worked for the Canadian World Youth Day which took place in Toronto in July 2002 and I had the chance to work for the Pope and meet him).

A ex-colleague of mine suggested we go and pay our respects to the Pontiff. Believe it or not, we reached the Basilica through the back door (thanks to our passes) and in less than minutes I was standing in front of the world`s most famous pilgrim. It was unreal and magic; once it was the Italian policeman and another time it was the Swiss Gard's were opening the gates in front of us as we were swiftly proceeding. I could not contain my joy and my surprise...

Imagine the solemnity of the moment. I was suddenly in front of him. The crowd was silently queuing to see the Pope - these people were crying, praying and looking at him in awe. For so many, it was the first time "to see him". You could see the grief on their faces. As if the entire world was mourning a hero - and so it was...

I was moved and tears came to my eyes... I noticed his shoes, the one of a Peace pilgrim who had traveled throughout the world... As you may know, as tradition has it, Pope can not be embalmed so he looked different.

A moment like this in a life time is to be cherished. You may say that I am a bit morbid but its not the case as his death was a delivrance since he had been suffering in silence for so many years.

While I was looking at him, I thanked him for the intense moments I had lived and witnessed during the year preparatory to the World Youth Day and for his ecumenical work around the world. And also, for the impact he has had on my life. I remembered as a kid when JPI suddenly died few months after his nomination and suddenly, there weas this new Pope, young, athletic and

When we came out of the Basilica, I could see the gigantic line up (up to 2 million persons yesterday) that had grown while we were inside. I had brought some candles and I light them up near by one of the pillars on the famous Via Della Conciliation.
These candles I lighted where for my family, my future daughter I will adopt from China, for my friends and colleagues wherever they may be and I thank the pontif for his tireless campaign for Peace. I sincerely hope that my little prayer reaches you...

Last night, Wednesday, the news said that the Vatican had been barred to all pilgrims. However, I still decided to come and try my luck as a friend of mine came expressly from Geneva. As an entrance pass, I decided to use my ex_Embassy business card to let us in, and it worked, thank God.

Hence, since we arrived at 7h00 this morning, my friend has been lining up to see the pontiff's body. I stayed with him for a few hours, lining up and got the chills... It was windy and damp. But, the Civil protection officers distributed hot chocolate and during the night, pilgrims were even given blankets... Not bad for an improvised pilgrim bed and breakfast.

I will stay here tonight and rest in the stairs of the Embassy waiting for St_Peter's square to be opened to the pilgrims in view of tomorrow's mass at 10h00. It would be crazy for me to leave my golden spot!!! Not all pilgrims will be able to attend the Mass on the Piazza has it can only hold so many people. Numbers are usually 300 000 but this time, they may cramp more people. Huge screens are being set up throughout the city.

Poles have invaded the Vatican. There are hundreds of these red and white banners reminding me of the Polish pilgrimage I have done in Poland back in 1984 when Solidarity was in full swing...

Later....

I have now just returned from the Vatican walls, all the way up to the entrance door of the Pope's private apartment. Imagine that the Embassy's driver, my ex_colleague invited me to join in (he picked up the precious yellow tickets which will allow our Prime Minister and his entourage - five altogether - to assist to the Mass.)

Oh, it was so wonderful to wisk through all the barricades and be saluted by all these Swiss Guards. What a great feeling... There is a fervent fever running around. Its beautiful and I am glad to share this precious moment with you.

Thinking of you in these spiritual moments.

Marie-France

4 years ago - the bomb in Baghdad

I wanted to write about the impact of the bomb in Baghdad on this very day 4 years ago but my dog suddenly died tonight and my heart is somewhere else..........

Sorry........
Adventure mum

Julia is from Tim Tim - Julia est de Tim Tim

Article paru dans le Rapport Annuel de ECHO (Union Européenne en 1999)

Marie-France Bourgeois, ancienne coordinatrice d’ECHO (Union Européenne) en Corée du Nord a rédigé cet article lors d’une mission d’évaluation des besoins humanitaires pour le Programme Alimentaire Mondial (PAM) pour le Timor-Oriental (maintenant devenu le Timor Leste).

Julia a huit ans. Elle a de magnifiques cheveux longs, et ses yeux s’illuminent tandis qu’elle rit en m’entendant essayer de m’exprimer en tétum, la principale langue utilisée au Timor oriental. Julia est de TimTim, au Timor oriental. Je viens de m’inviter chez elle dans le camp de réfugiés situé dans le district de Belu au Timor occidental. Je suis assise sur un lit de planches, qui sert également de table dans une petite cuisine enfumée. Il fait extrêmement chaud et je transpire à grosses gouttes, mais je ne peux laisser échapper cette occasion unique de parler au clan des femmes de cette famille réunies autour de moi.

La mère de Julia,Lucia, prépare du riz et des feuilles de manioc. Il est une heure et demie, le déjeuner sera bientôt servi. La grand-mère Maria sourit, laissant entrevoir ses dents rouges. Maria a mâché de la noix de bétel toute sa vie et ce rouge vif a coloré ses dents et a abîmé ses gencives. Judy, mon interprète du Timor occidental, m’explique que chiquer de la noix de bétel a le même effet que fumer une première cigarette. La grand-mère m’en propose, je décline poliment.

Il y a une autre pièce dans cette habitation rudimentaire. Il s’agit de la chambre à coucher familiale dotée d’une moustiquaire fournie par une organisation humanitaire internationale sous laquelle dort toute la famille pour se protéger des piqûres de moustiques porteurs de la malaria. Apparemment, les seuls autres biens sont des vêtements et une statue de la Vierge Marie.

Comment Julia et les autres membres de sa famille sont-ils arrivés ici ? Ils ont fui la ville de Suai au Timor oriental au début du mois de septembre, lorsque les milices pro-indonésiennes ont systématiquement expulsé la population, abattu le bétail et incendié les habitations. Ils n’ont pas eu le temps d’organiser leur départ et se sont contentés d’emporter ce qu’ils pouvaient de manioc, de maïs et de riz. Ils ont laissé derrière eux une des villes les plus saccagées que j’ai vues au Timor oriental lorsque je m’y trouvais à la fin du mois de novembre 1999.

C’était comme un immense terrain de camping, je n’avais jamais rien vu de pareil. Les gens qui venaient de rentrer du Timor occidental après deux mois d’absence campaient sous des bâches en plastique accrochées, pour les plus nantis, aux restes d’antennes paraboliques. Les familles plus modestes devaient se contenter d’abris de fortune faits de feuilles de palmiers, à côté des cendres de leurs habitations. Ils se réunissaient tous pour discuter le soir à la lumière de leurs lampes à pétrole. Il n’y avait ni électricité, ni marché pour acheter de la nourriture.

Cependant, le mois de novembre était une bonne période pour revenir : c’est la saison des semailles. Suai est l’une des régions les plus fertiles du Timor oriental. On y cultive le maïs et le riz. Revenons à Julia au Timor occidental. Nous sommes maintenant au début du mois de février et la famille a épuisé ses stocks de vivres depuis longtemps. Elle doit compter sur le riz fourni par le Programme Alimentaire Mondial ou d’autres organisations humanitaires et sur l’argent qu’elle reçoit du gouvernement, c’est-à-dire 1.500 rupiah par jour et par personne, l’équivalent de 0,14 dollars. Cet argent lui permet de faire quelques extras comme par exemple acheter des légumes frais. Néanmoins, l’apport en protéines nécessaires à une croissance normale n’est pas suffisant pour Julia et ses frères et soeurs.

Le PAM (programme alimentaire mondial - WFP in English) s’occupera de la coordination de l’aide alimentaire en vue d’assurer aux enfants comme Julia une alimentation équilibrée avec les protéines et les substances nutritives indispensables à leur croissance. L’histoire de Julia et de sa famille ressemble à celle de la plupart des personnes venues se réfugier au Timor occidental. Elles croyaient que ce serait seulement pour un court séjour. Mais elles sont toujours là soit parce qu’elles sont terrorisées par les milices, soit parce qu’elles ne veulent pas rentrer chez elles pour des raisons de sécurité.

La mère de Julia raconte qu’elle ne sait pas ce qu’il est advenu de son frère qui est rentré avec sa famille à Bobonaro dans la région du Timor oriental où l’on cultive le café pour essayer d’améliorer ses conditions de vie. Julia ignore tout cela. Ce qui la dérange le plus, c’est qu’elle ne peut plus aller à l’école pour le moment. Sa mère n’a pas les moyens de lui offrir l’uniforme obligatoire dans les écoles d’État du Timor occidental : un chemisier blanc et une jupe rouge.

Timor oriental
Adventure mum - 1999

Chambre des communes du Canada; personnalité de l`année 1996

En 1996, j`ai été nommé PERSONNALITÉ DE L'ANNÉE DE DRUMMONDVILLE ex-aequo avec Jean Guilbeault - voici un texte qui a été annoncé aux chambres des communes du Canada en 1997.

Mme Pauline Picard (Drummond, Bloc Québécois): Monsieur le Président, le titre très convoité de personnalité de l'année, décerné par la Chambre de commerce de Drummond, lors du 14e Gala des affaires, a été mérité par deux jeunes Drummondvillois.

Marie-France Bourgeois, première Québécoise et première Canadienne à obtenir un diplôme du collège de Long Island en développement international, oeuvre maintenant en Afrique pour le compte des Nations Unies au sein du Programme alimentaire mondial (WFP in english). Cette jeune femme de 33 ans est mandatée par l'ONU pour coordonner les distributions de vivres à 670 000 réfugiés hutus en Tanzanie. Dans un contexte politique fort troublé, elle doit, pour soulager la misère de ces peuples, agir avec efficacité et diplomatie.

Je veux aussi féliciter Jean Guilbeault, également désigné personnalité de l'année. Il est le premier Drummondvillois à faire partie de l'équipe sélecte des pilotes des Snowbirds.

À ces deux jeunes qui nous font honneur, je souhaite une fructueuse carrière qui les conduira au bout de leur rêve.

A blind witness to heavy fighting in Kinshasa - March 2007

Dear all,

I (we) have gone through “sheer hell” these past few days. We knew something was in the making. As I was driving to work on Thursday morning, I saw the UN Mission (MONUC) soldiers had reinforced their troops around Bemba’s house (he is the former vice president who also happens to have lost the first democratic elections last year). Bemba is also the man behind last August's fighting and the continued recurrence of violence last fall. Luckily for me, I had to go to the Chinese Embassy to get my visa for the big trip of my life. On my way back to the office, I realised that Bemba’s troops (we recognise them with their red bandannas) and the Government troops were positioning themselves to start fighting. It was eerie. People were fleeing, by foot and by the hundreds. I thought: "I am dreaming all of this!". I asked my driver to hurry home.

The heavy gun and mortar fire broke out just after I arrived home and it went on for a seven hours marathon. As the UN Secretary General mentioned: the civilian population was "seriously threatened by fighting in the heart of the city". Well, it just happens that the heart of the city is where both my office and my little bungalow are located. Charming isn’t?

There are many stories to be told; children stranded in schools, colleagues stranded in our building, and several friends and acquaintances stranded at their offices. All of us cut off from the world for a solid two days. Some did not have food but most had enough water. Since I am known to be a little squirrel, as I always leave food in my office, my colleagues could help themselves in my pantry!

I spent Thursday afternoon on the floor of my bathroom, as I felt my kitchen floor was not secure enough this time, as it has a big window. The sounds were unbearable, I tried to read, to write, to pray, to listen music… I just sat there, motionless. It sounded as if a constant fire works exploded but with an intensity difficult to describe to someone who has never heard such sounds. When grenades exploded near by, my little bungalow shook like a palm leave. I feared bullets landing inside my house, as it has been the case for several people.

I was in constant touch with friends and the MONUC soldiers. My cleaning lady was with me and she was very scared. I had to calm her down. This helped me to stay composed and alert. She and some 15 staff working in my compound stayed overnight. Luckily, I had enough rice to feed everyone…

Just as last August, I was the blind witness to a war. This one was worse, though. In fact, some told me that the fighting was the worse Kinshasa had known in 20 years! Casualties are heavy this time, some 700 persons were killed: 500 were soldiers and the rest are civilians. One young woman was sipping a drink at the bar of a hotel, another was killed watching TV and a colonel and his kids were shot dead when he was trying to bring them home from school prior to the start of the fighting! Homeless women were found dead with their babies on the street, as they were trying to flee for a secure shelter.

A friend of mine described how the streets were full of corpses by Thursday night. By dawn the next day and just prior to the start of the battle on the 2nd day (it started at 5h00 in the morning by the explosion of the oil reserves), the victim corpses were quickly dumped in the Congo river… That’s why official statistics only mention 160 losses!!!

There were many acts of bravery. Kids from a primary school had to be evacuated, as they were in the eye of the storm. Imagine little kids being transported in armored vehicles. They were repatriated at the French Embassy and were good as gold… For OCHA, our main casualty is a house converted into an office: it was damaged as shelling fell against the wall. Many windows were shattered and received bullets. I also found many bullets in my garden at home.

My neighbor received “lost bullets” in his living room and my other neighbor’s bedroom was cribbed with bullets. My UNICEF friend was evacuated by courageous Uruguachos during the battle as the building received some mortars shells. Luckily, they did not explode. If they had, both UNICEF and the Spanish Embassy staff would have been killed.

On Saturday, by lunch time, after 48 hours, just like all of us in Kinshasa, I finally ventured outside. Shops were full of people sharing stories and buying food. We were all happy to be alive and have escaped "hell on earth". Yesterday, the boys and I after our polo game ordered wine and made a toast to life!!! We were all in the same mood; celebrating LIFE over and over again... How great it felt!!!

Yes, I do thank God that I am alive and well and that I will soon be getting the hell out of here, as my old friend Tom ordered me to do! Enough of this life!!! I am off to motherhood in a peaceful environment…

Yours,
Marie-France

The pilgrim`s soul and feet ; on their way to the Black Madona in Czestochowa

The year 1984; the date - 15th August - Assumption.

The Background; after one year of "group traveling" in Up With People (1982-1983), I decided to embark on a unplanned 3-month long voyage to Europe in a "non accompanied" mood and without a GPS. People I spent time with were either UWP friends who hosted me and/or people I would connect with during the course of my journey.

Poland was far from my plans, but... plans are made to be "unmade". Thus, through a friend of mine in Belgium (thanks Nicolas), I set out for the most remarkable episode of my European journey of my 1984 summer; the Czestochowa Pilgrimage. Here is the tale of my arrival to the "Jasna Gora" (Brigth Mount in English) Pauline monastery to admire the famous "Black Madonna" painting (with her "two scars")...

4h30 am - the wake up call or bell is already ringing. I have to get up so we can enter Czestochowa as the sun rises. As a romantic, I had liked the idea but right now, my body does not agree with romanticism anymore. It is cold and I have nothing warm to drink prior to set on for the last few km left to walk. I am going to see if my French friends would have some Nutella to give me!!!

5h15 am- we all gather with our respective groups and start to proceed. As I am walking, I am remembering that for days, when blisters on my feet gave me excrutiating pain and my empty stomach reminded me it existed by growling noises (I was not prepared for the walk nor were my Polish friends - thanks to a French group, they fed me on regular basis), I kept walking and dreaming of the moment I would be standing of this famous Black Madonna and in a few hours my wait will be recompensated...

6h00 am - when we finally enter the sleepy city, I am surprised to people lined up on the side of the road. They are handing little goodies to us, the young and tired pilgrims that we are... I am so touched by their gesture and tears want to come to my eyes.. but I stupidly refrain.

When I first heard about the painting back in Belgium, I was intrigued, how a "black" painting could be so revered in a country such as Poland. I had to participate. Imagine, walking with thousands young polish during the height of the "Solidarnosc" era in Poland? For the adventurer that I am, I could not pass this opportunity. I would enter the communist side for the first time...

During the walk, I remember vividly the USSR helicopters hovering above our heads as we are praying and chanting in Polish. Why so did I ask to one of the priest Voytek I had become "friends" with. Because many of us have returned from prison recently... said he in a soft voice... I remember the Polish wedding we attended were the bride and the groom exchanged the salt and the light. A tradition I liked and which was retained as the Canadian 2002 World Youth Day theme: "You are the Light of the World you are the Salt of the Earth".

I also remember sleeping in farms on humongous hay balls and swimming in lakes with thousands of youngster just like me and singing under the stars late into the night... They were so intense about their faith I was pleased. Also, they gave me proofs that Poland would not remain into communist hands for much longer. Of course, when I share this view to my north american friends upon my return, I was laughed at, but at the end, it prooved to be true in the late 80s.

This pilgrimage was a bit of my Woodstock version "à la polonaise"...

As far as history is concerned, this beautiful pilgrimage tradition dates back to 1382 when Prince Ladislaus Ii of Opole invited Pauline monks from Hungary to Poland. He gave them the "Jasna Góra Hill" and the miraculous picture of "Our Lady".

According to the legend, this "Black Madonna icon" was painted by St. Luke on a cypress table top from the house of the Holy Family. My Polish friends told me that the presence of the Black Madonna has saved the church from being destroyed in a fire, but not before the flames darkened the flesh tone pigments.

The legend concerning her two scars on her right cheek is that a robber drew his sword upon the image and inflicted two deep strikes. When he tried to inflict a 3rd strike, he fell to the ground and squirmed in agony until his death. Despite past attempts to repair these scars, they have always reappeared!!! Mysterious isn`t?

Going on pilgrimage is an important part the Catholic faith and I had never thought much about it. Compostelle has become "à la mode" in the past few years but I had never heard of the Czestochowa. I am glad that life events brought me there, or was it "events" really?

My experience has strengthened my belief in God and did renews my soul. Similar feelings I felt in Poland were renewed while I attended the World Youth Day in 2002 in Toronto, Canada (I was part of the organizing committee based at the Canadian Embassy to the Holy See for one beautiful year) and when John Paul II died... I spent these spiritual days around the Vatican talking to pilgrims queuing to pay their final respect to the Pope and attending his solemn funerals. More on this later..

I have become one of the 5 million who visit Jasna Gora yearly. When 15th August turns around, you find me praying in Polish... I do not know if it has the same impact on them that it has had on me, if so, I may say that the world is now a better place...

Adventure mum

Kimchi days

This article was published in early 1998 in a magazine called "Humanitarian Affairs" and this was the introduction: Marie-France Bourgeois worked as an expert in assessing and monitoring humanitarian aid for ECHO in North Korea in 1997 and 1998. Below is an exerpt from her diary.

" It's a cold, crisp October morning. The sun is shining and I am being driven along the deserted highway in a rented Mercedes - our official ECHO vehicle, the only car available. That's a first for me: a humanitarian aid worker in a Mercedes! We're five minutes from the national capital, Pyongyang, and we have yet to pass another car. The double white lines are redundant. There is no traffic at all just outside this city of a million people. What planet am I on?

PS: The photo represents a nurse at the Wonsan orphanage with one of the many orphans. In this particular orphanage I was taken to a room filled with 25 dying children on a gray autumn morning of 1997. I shall write on this difficult morning in a later blog page... 10 years after when I remember that dreadful morning tears fill my eyes... How can human do this to babies???

From a distance, alii can see on the road are blobs of blue and red. As our car rolls alongside, I realise I'm seeing children in uniform, hundreds of them, marching and chanting energetically. Some of them carry huge banners with slogans glorifying the Great Leader. Where are they going? I see no schools, no play grounds, no
buildings, only the highway and the surrounding fields.

"They're going to harvest kimchi in the fields,' Mr Yun, my interpreter explains. He is my shadow for the duration of my mission in North Korea. Kim what? Kimchi. Kimchi is for Koreans, from North and South, what wine is to the French: never a meal without it!

Kimchi is a long green and white cabbage which is harvested in October, pickled and then eaten until stocks run out in about July. You mean to say that the kimchi I have been eating since my arrival in August is not the real thing? Of course not. That's the stuff made with pickled cucumbers, eaten during the summer until the new harvest is in.

Making kimchi is a traditional family activity that predates communism. It gathers the entire family around the mother, each of whom has her secret recipe. As we go through the suburbs, I see big brown clay pots full of kimchi on everyone's balconies. They are full of finely shredded cabbage, radish, onions, garlic, ginger and of course, red peppers, a symbol of virility here. When a boy is born, Koreans hang a cord bearing red peppersoutside the house. The kimchi has to ferment for at least five days at 15 degrees centigrade to produce the authentic taste and texture. It supplies most of the vitamins in the diet during the winter.

Suddenly, we catch up with five heavily overloaded trucks. At last, we are not alone on the highway! They belch out dark fumes into the clear sky. They run not on diesel nor gasoline -- since the collapse of the communist system, North Koreans have little access to fuel -- but on a local concoction that makes the engines hiccup all the time. They are so overloaded that they sway under the weight of their cargo of kimchi, dropping cabbage heads along the highway in a trail.

It goes without saying that kimchi is the national dish, so national that the North Koreans have declared the harvest a national holiday. It's the only holiday not related to some communist remembrance date. From the excitement I pick up, I would say that kimchi days are the most significant, sociable holiday in the country's calendar.

In truth, the holiday is a means for the Communist Party to institutionalise some extra days of particularly hard work. The entire workforce and transport system, consisting mostly of trucks belonging to the army, are mobilised for the occasion. Some non-governmental organisations are complaining they cannot get essential drug supplies to targeted hospitals on time because all army trucks rented from the government have been requisitioned to carry goods other than ECHO's medical supplies. Blame it on kimchi days.

Even my monitoring visits are hampered by the frenzied activity. I go to a warehouse to check ECHO-funded stocks of High Energy Milk. No chance. The person with the key has gone to the fields to give a hand with the harvesting. Blame it kimchi days. I go to a centre for the elderly, and ask to see the group of single widows I know are supposed to be there. Sorry, not today. They've all gone picking_. yes, kimchi. Even my home help won't come to work - she says she has to go and pick kimchi too.

Like most people, I enjoy Asian food, even after the stress of missions to North Korea and a bout of hepatitis. Do not invite me for rice and kimchi.I've eatenn more than enough of them for a lifetime already."