Nineteen years have passed since Autumn of 1998, when Idanna and I were seated in the waiting room of Dr. Kevin Cahill in New York. We had just returned from Indonesia, and we were eager to be checked by the doctor, whose exceptional keen eyes always spot even the most obscure exotic microbe. We were enjoying the memorable Irish wit of his marvelous assistant, Joan Durcan, when Kevin appeared, and warmly welcomed us into his office. As always, he began to narrate a poignant story. That day, his words made immediately a strong impression on both of us.
The terrible conflict in the Balkans was still fresh, and Yugoslavia had been been torn apart. As a veteran of humanitarian responses to conflict emergencies, Dr. Cahill spoke about the new dilemma that UN agencies confronted: a large number of young people from around the world had joined the refugee camps as volunteers—as had happened before in other similar crises.
This time, however, it had become obvious that the volunteers’ good will and heart were not enough to give them the strength and emotional detachment needed to handle the situation in the field. Many were struck by sickness while others were so traumatized by the effects of the war that they had to be cared for just like the refugees. They had become burdens and had to be sent home.
“As a result, the UN agencies,” Kevin added, “can no longer afford to accept good-willed volunteers without any experience or training.”
It was then when we learnt for the first time about the IDHA—International Diploma of Humanitarian Assistance. We both still remember the passionate ring of his voice as he described the visionary four-week training program in detail. With the collaboration of leading experts in the complex interdisciplinary field, it was the first comprehensive program of its kind. And of course, we felt immediately drawn to it even though we had never been exposed to that world.
“We’ve got young professionals from UNICEF, Red Cross, MSF, World Food Program,” he said, his eyes glistening as he listed the various humanitarian NGOs. “But it’s always good to have an interesting mix. Let me think about it. As writers, you may be fine additions…”
Later that evening, we pondered on all that Kevin had told us, and became convinced that we had to try our utmost to join such a program. We felt so strongly that, whether we would ever become professional humanitarian assistants in the field or not, this kind of training would deepen our awareness about the realities of the world. We reflected on all the implications and hoped that the doctor would accept us—which eventually he did.
In the deep of winter, we found ourselves on the shores of Lake Geneva in the Chateau de Bossey, encircled by Alpine peaks. Plunged into the intensive four-week retreat led by the extraordinary former British Army officer, Larry Hollingworth, we met our colleagues: men and women who had spent most of their living hours in the world’s hotspots, those war, murder, and famine-torn boils on our civilization which seemed to be ever more numerous and haunting.
Like pious medieval clergy attending a synod in Rome, these humanitarian relief workers walked among the ancient oaks of the estate, with unease in front of the beauty. Before their eyes was the peaceful lake. In their minds, were the refugee camps of Bosnia, Macedonia, Rwanda, and Sudan; the devastation of Honduras, Somalia, and Sierra Leone; the minefields of Cambodia, the civil war in Sri Lanka. Their eyes carried the look of those who had been drawn to the most intractable problems of human suffering.
With these men and women we broke bread. Each day opened to a new reality as we sat next to each other, listening to experts unravel the intricacies of humanitarian assistance. From the diplomatic art of communication in conflict resolution to surviving hostage situations, from camp management to treating trauma, all was presented before us through personal experiences and examples. We heard stories of destruction and mayhem, and walked through labyrinths of anarchy. Yet, from that darkness, rays of light shone with compassion and hope. In those shared moments, a collective awareness grew. We learned to see, feel, and understand today and tomorrow’s wounded world.
A month later, in Italy, quite unexpectedly, another story reached out and grabbed us. In Naples—the city of Idanna’s grandmother—we stumbled upon a mysterious, haunting painting by Caravaggio. Inside a small, empty, silent church, The Seven Acts of Mercy, was lit only by a soft glow from the skylight of the cupola.
As we stood, admiring the huge altarpiece, a man came forward, Angelo, the guardian of this treasure. He told us with intense words of when – and how – this painting had struck his eyes and heart. Unexpectedly, he opened a new window for us onto the power of art to enlighten and elevate.
Escaping a death sentence in Rome, Caravaggio arrived in Naples as a fugitive, and created this painting. He offered a fresh take on the timeless works of mercy—feeding the hungry, giving water to the thirsty, sheltering the homeless, visiting the prisoner, clothing the naked, healing the sick, and burying the dead.
In his radical vision, this genius of art broke with tradition, using Neapolitans fresh off the streets as his models, placing them in scenes that defied the religious art of his age.
As Ingrid Rowland wrote recently in the New York Review of Books: “When Caravaggio shows a humble disciple or an innkeeper, he shows them as full human beings. When he shows suffering, he stands his ground rather than shrinking back.”
In a city that survives on a knife-edge between cruelty and grace, these works of mercy resonate with universal meaning, as relevant today as when the artist brushed his oils onto the canvas four centuries ago.
The same passion that we felt in Bossey with our colleagues and teachers of the IDHA, we found echoing in that Caravaggio masterpiece and in the heart of Naples.
All sacred traditions speak to compassion and human solidarity, which remain the cornerstone of every faith. Their voices echo across great distances and time, chanting the same refrain.
Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe them, and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
—Isaiah LVIII, 7
The Prophet said: “The captive is your brother . . . Since he is at your mercy,
ensure that he is fed and clothed as well as you are.”
—Mohammad (570–632), Hadith
Every religion has the wholesome core of love, compassion and good will. The
outer shell differs, but give importance to the inner essence and there will be non quarrel.
Don’t condemn anything, give importance to the essence of every
religion and there will be real peace and harmony.”
—Ashoka (third century BC)
Tzu-kung asked: “Is there a single word which can be a guide to conduct
throughout one’s life?” The master said, “It is perhaps the word shu. Do not
impose on others what you do not desire for yourself.
—Confucius (551–479 BC), The Annalects XV, 24
I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink.
I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me.
I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.
—Matthew 25:35–37
In August 1999, three months later, in the northern Australian coastal city of Darwin, we boarded a UN plane headed to Dili in East Timor as part of UNAMET. It was our first humanitarian assistance mission. The Timorese had been called to vote on a Referendum on Indonesia’s rule of their country, after 26 years of occupation following the departure of the Portuguese colonial power.
From Dili, we were transferred by helicopter to the in the remote mountain region of Same, under the looming peaks of Mount Kablaki.
Next morning, our work with East Timorese village-volunteers began. Together, we had to prepare, register, and instruct the inhabitants for the historic vote. We made our way down a forest road lined with white flowering Arabica coffee plantations that thrived in the tropic highlands. In a dirt-floor schoolhouse with flimsy walls of bamboo strips, we met our team. With cheerful humility, those young men and women knew what was at stake.
By day, lines of people flocked down the dirt paths to register at our simple schoolhouse—aged farmers, wives and husbands, illiterate mountain men, even a lame grandmother carried in on a stretcher by her sons. By night, pro-government militias launched their campaign of terror, inspired by their Indonesian military sponsors. Crackling gunshots broke the silence. We awoke in cold sweat. Across the valley, strange cries could be heard. With each new dawn, more frightened villagers filled our house, huddling in corners seeking safe haven. As soon as the sun rose, they all quietly folded the blankets and began their day. We could smell everywhere the scent of uncertainty and fear.
After two long weeks, the fateful August 30th arrived. In pre-dawn darkness, Idanna and I rose quietly and crept out over sleeping bodies. When our jeep approached the schoolhouse, we saw a mass of shadows. Before us was a black sea of faces. Silhouettes of hundreds. Despite all the threats and intimidation, they had braved the night. For the first time in their lives, they were about to vote and, on a world stage, they would choose their future. A powerful sense of human solidarity filled the air.
In total silence, we walked through the crowd and passed shadowed figures. From the schoolhouse window, we then watched how, out of respect, the sea of humanity parted for the elders. All around the perimeter of the land, we spotted Indonesian soldiers, their guns pointed towards the crowd.
All of a sudden, we recalled Caravaggio’s painting: a man placed a blanket on the shoulders of an elder. A water jug was passed to a thirsty mouth. Bread was offered. A sick woman was sustained and helped into our polling station by two adolescent boys. And, on that day, we knew that even the dead would be honored. The spirits of their ancestors seemed to be present among the multitude of people in line.
By noon, the blazing tropic sun pounded down. The line still stretched for almost a mile. There were no arguments. No raised voices. All took place quietly and orderly. No one walked away before voting. By five in the afternoon, the line still continued to advance.
At dusk, it was over. The ballot boxes were sealed by the observers, then loaded into trucks and driven to the airstrip and lifted onto the waiting UN helicopter. The blades swirled, kicking up dust as the chopper slowly rose in the twilight sky and flew off to Dili for the official count.
As night fell, everyone sensed the outcome–a landslide for independence. Smiles swept the tiny town. The melodic sounds from a wedding celebration were heard from a hilltop for miles, adding to the general euphoria. Sitting in our house, we listened mesmerized with our hosts to that amazing traditional music.
But then, the unspeakable happened. Suddenly, the festivities went dead as gunfire crackled in the encircling hills.
A young man barged through the door. His face was covered in sweat.
“The militias… check-points…” he cried out. “All roads out of town are blocked. No one can leave. We’re trapped.”
Cut-off from the wide world, we huddled with our friends in the dark, all pressed in front of the TV. Flickering images of rampaging militias in the capital city of Dili flashed before us. Fear suffocated the room, while across the island, Indonesian-paid gangs embarked in an orchestrated orgy of violence.
Next morning, a jeep pulled up with orders. “We evacuate in an hour.” Meanwhile, our Timorese friends were ready for their escape into the mountains. The smell of burning wood filled the air. Homes torched by the militias were going up in flames. Those who stayed behind would face long knives of vengeance. In the confusion, Emilio, our host handed me a faded sepia photograph. Idanna and I stared at the portrait of a tribal chief, in his traditional regalia, eyes frozen in time.
“My grandfather. Boaventura. He led our rebellion against the Portuguese eighty years ago. Keep it safely. Now, leave.” Grabbing our bags, Emilio rushed us off the porch, saying, “Don’t forget us…”
We arrived just as the white UN helicopter was swooping down to airlift us away. The dreaded Indonesian soldiers, Kopassus, could be seen at a certain distance. We were the last foreign witnesses to leave. Now they could act with impunity.
When we flew into Dili, the streets were deserted. Plumes of black smoke climbed high into the sky, covering the horizon in grey haze. The airport was in panic as we all rushed into the last C-47 transport plane. We sat with the last United Nations election monitors bound for Darwin. As we took off, Idanna looked out the window towards Mount Kablaki, where our friends of Same had fled into hiding.
A week later, when the smoke finally lifted, only ruins remained. The devastation was Biblical–scorched earth, rotting corpses, slaughtered livestock, all agricultural tools destroyed, rich lands rendered sterile. A quarter of the population had been herded across the border into West Timor while 80% of the buildings in East Timor. Indonesia’s leaders accused Western media of distorting the truth. But, the vote stood and now, East Timor was a free and independent state.
Today, the benighted city of Naples, much like East Timor fifteen years ago, and other conflict emergency zones across the globe, are presented as living hells. The Italian writer, Italo Calvino, offers us a different optic with which to view these worlds. He says we must, “learn to recognize who and what, in the middle of hell, is not hell and then make them endure, give them space.”
In Naples, Caravaggio was faced with a humanity he had never seen before–neither in the north where he was born and certainly not in Rome under the merciless Pontifical rule. But, yes within the incredible Neapolitan misery, famine, disease, and a huge gap between the rich and poor, he found extraordinary human warmth. The works of mercy were part of daily life. So he portrayed a dense group of simple people helping one another–sixteen characters from the popolo. They do not seem aware of doing good: that’s who they are. Caravaggio lifted these people from the profane to the sacred.
His vision is still radical.
Not much has changed in today’s Naples. The other face of this city is so miraculous and authentic, but rarely this is mentioned in the press, in books or films. Instead, one hears only the permanent echo of “mafia, garbage, violence, and poverty.” But, there is a light that illuminates the darkness.
The 400 year-old humanitarian institution called the Pio Monte della Misericordia—that commissioned Caravaggio’s painting—has never ceased its mission of solidarity, and still today reaches out with a helping hand to Neapolitans in need. And this is the spirit of the city that Caravaggio immortalized so vividly in his Seven Acts of Mercy.
James Joyce once wrote: “Enduring stories begin with the provincial and move to the universal. For myself, I always write about Dublin, because if I can get to the heart of Dublin I can get to the heart of all the cities of the world. In the particular is contained the universal.” Caravaggio has taken a crowded alley in Naples and raised it to the universal. From the mundane to the mythic. Naples is today’s Damascus, Calcutta, or even the Bronx.
And in the IDHA, this is what we experienced. In those intense, unforgettable four weeks, we were led into the neglected, passed-over parts of the world. We were made participants and made aware. It allowed us to see and touch what was essential. It was pivotal moment in or lives, a turning point. Thank you, Kevin, Larry, Brendan for this enduring gift!