Two Kinds of Fishermen

Two kinds of Fishermen

‘What will I have for tomorrow’s evening meal?’ I wondered as I hurried round the 
supermarket.  ‘Something quick and easy! I won’t feel much like cooking after an afternoon at Dungavel.’  

 My first visit to Dungavel Detention Centre for asylum seekers had been emotionally demanding, as I had tried my best to communicate with Kenene, a young French-speaking man from the Democratic Republic of Congo – a war-torn country of which I unfortunately knew practically nothing.  I expected that my second visit would be just as much of a challenge…

My eyes fell on a new product at the chilled food counter: big fat sardines!  Not the usual little tinned ones, but large plump fish, just like those I used to buy fresh off the boats at the harbour in Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie away back in 1960. As part of my degree course in French and German, I had spent nine months in that little Vendée fishing town.  How delicious those freshly-caught sardines had tasted then, lightly fried in a little oil, with only salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice, and accompanied by buttered slices of a fresh baguette, plus a glass of the local Muscadet!  Relishing the thought of this rediscovered pleasure, I bought the sardines and, once home, stored them in the fridge for the following day.








The very next morning, a letter arrived from my friend Marie in France.  She had enclosed a newspaper article from Le Monde.  Unfolding it, I was astonished to see a large coloured picture of a sardine!  The headline above it read ‘Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie renoue avec son passe sardinier (Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie goes back to sardine-fishing.)

The writer described how the fishermen of this Vendée port had, in the late1960s, given up this, their traditional catch, in favour of the more profitable anchovy.  Now, however, there was a movement afoot to promote the sardine once more. I could hardly believe my eyes!  Over the forty years since my stay in Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie, my life in Scotland as a teacher, wife and mother had been so very full that I rarely looked back to that period, yet here were two vivid reminders within the space of twenty-four hours!  Chuckling, I fetched the packet of sardines from the fridge and took a photo of it beside the newspaper article as visual evidence of this latest striking coincidence.

But another surprise was to follow. When I turned the paper over there was a most remarkable photograph of fishermen - but of a completely different kind. These were perched precariously, like acrobats, on flimsy wooden scaffolding above the rapids of the mighty River Congo, hauling up their catches in conical bamboo baskets. The name Kisangani immediately caught my attention, as that is the capital of the D.R.C.

Details were given in the ensuing article about this war-ravaged African country where, according to the writer, conditions seem to be reverting to those at the time of the cavemen.  The only people able to exist successfully there are those fishermen, incomers whose tribe has devised this perilous means of survival.  How I wished that this article had reached me sooner!  Here was valuable background information which would have helped me converse more sympathetically with Kenene the first time I went to Dungavel.

A local pastor had found out that this young man wished to be baptised as a Christian.  Hearing that I could speak French fluently, one of his fellow visitors, a lady member of his congregation, had telephoned me to ask if I would accompany her there and talk with him. 

When we had reached Dungavel I was horrified to see the high barbed-wire fence, the yellow line in front of the big building which the children were not allowed to cross (so there were children confined here too!), the lockers into which we had to leave everything we had brought.  Before proceeding farther, we had to have our fingerprints taken, pose for identity-card photographs and give the precise name of the detainee we had come to visit.  Fortunately, I was able to persuade the guard to allow me to take in one sheet of paper, a photocopy of an e-mail from my French friend, Suzanne. At my request she had sent me the French version of Psalm 13, which apparently was Kenene’s favourite psalm.

When at last he was brought into the visitors’ room, I was glad to have something to give to this unknown young man, to ‘break the ice’.  His face lit up when he saw what it was and, after thanking me, he began to talk about the reasons why, as a former soldier in Mobutu’s army, he would be in grave danger if sent back to the D.R.C.  With tears in his eyes he asked me to pray for him – not for his physical safety but for God’s forgiveness of his sins.  We recited the Lord's Prayer together, in French.

I heard that his appeal for asylum had been unsuccessful, and that he was to be deported.  However, he had been given the names of Christian contacts who, it was hoped, might be able to help him.  Now, gazing down at the photograph of the daring Congolese fishermen, I prayed once again for Kenene, and thought of the words of the Psalm which meant so much to him.

           Prayer of the oppressed

How long, O Lord, wilt thou quite forget me?

How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?

How long must I suffer anguish in my soul,

grief in my heart day and night?

How long shall my enemy lord it over me?

Look now and answer me, O Lord my God.

Give light to my eyes lest I sleep the sleep of death,

lest my adversary say, “I have overthrown him”,

and my enemies rejoice at my downfall.

But for my part I trust in thy true love.

My heart shall rejoice, for thou hast set me free.

I will sing to the Lord, who has granted me all my desire.

A few months later I was invited to a Christmas party at the church whose members visited Dungavel.  To my surprise and great pleasure, there, sitting at the table, was Kenene.  His appeal had been granted.

He greeted me with a big smile, a hug and a kiss!