By Joseph Tek Choon Yee

They say university is where minds are stretched, faith is tested and nasi lemak becomes a food group. For me, it was also where God became personal not through lightning or visions, but through the hum of ceiling fans and the strumming of guitars in a small lecture room at Bangi.

Room 506, FSKK: The Chapel That Wasn’t

It began in Room 506 of the Faculty of Social Sciences and Humanities (FSKK), where members of the Catholic Students Society (CSS) of Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia met every Friday evening. We arrived armed not with laptops or laser pointers, but with notebooks (the real ones), guitars, and hearts in need of grace.

In the 1980s, “technology” meant a coinbox phone, a fountain pen, and a calculator the size of a sandwich. There were no handphones, no laptops, and certainly no PowerPoint. The word cloud referred to something that threatened to rain on your field trip, not somewhere to store your assignments.

To call home, we queued at the hostel coinbox clutching coins, praying the line wouldn’t cut off before Mum answered, “Hello, siapa ni?” Computers were hulking machines with dot-matrix printers that screamed like cicadas in distress. Notes were handwritten, transparencies were state-of-the-art, and correction Tipp-Ex fluid was our ‘Holy Spirit’ of second chances. Yet somehow, without Wi-Fi or WhatsApp, everything still worked – perhaps because friendship in Christ never needed a signal bar to connect.

Room 506 wasn’t much to look at: whitewashed walls, squeaky centralised air-conditioning, and fluorescent lights that buzzed like over-enthusiastic bees. But for many of us far from home, it was sanctuary.

There we were, students from every state and background in Malaysia, drawn not by intellect or ambition, but by a shared hunger for meaning. We prayed, sang, shared and sometimes laughed until tears rolled. Someone would offer a reflection, another a heartbreak; someone would whisper, “Let’s pray over him,” and you’d feel something stir, not emotion, but presence.

It was there that I first understood what Church in campus really meant. Not a building, not a Sunday obligation, but a living fellowship, fragile yet faithful, imperfect yet inspiring.

The Fellowship That Formed Us

Our CSSUKM community was small (<100) but spirited. We didn’t have microphones or budgets, but we had hearts that beat in rhythm with hope.

There were the Sabahans on guitars, turning every hymn into a campfire anthem; the sisters-in-Christ, whose radiant smiles and stares could outshine the fluorescent bulbs; and committee team members who took meeting minutes as though they were chronicling the Acts of the Apostles. We were a motley bunch: engineers of laughter, theologians of instant noodles, and missionaries of midnight reflection.

Campus life in those days was tightly regulated – “disciplined,” as the authorities called it – and intellectual pride often shadowed spiritual thirst. Yet in that modest classroom we found space to breathe, to be, and to believe. Through CSS I discovered something that textbooks never taught: faith grows best in friendship.

When one stumbled, others helped him up. When one doubted, another lent her belief. We learnt to pray with and for one another. And in those moments – sitting shoulder to shoulder after long days of lectures – we tasted what the early Christians must have felt: the quiet power of unity in the Spirit.

Retreats, Realisations & Renewal

Once or twice a year we escaped for our beloved CSS camps and retreats – to Cameron Highlands, Batu Arang, Port Dickson, Cheras or Penang. We returned mosquito-bitten but soul-refreshed. Those weekends were equal parts reflection and ridiculousness: praise and worship punctuated by burnt sausages and theological debates over Milo.

I still remember one retreat night vividly – the bonfire flickering, the smell of damp socks and mosquito coils, a guitar softly strumming “Be Not Afraid.” We were asked to share our deepest fear.

When my turn came, I said quietly, “That my life won’t make a difference.”

The facilitator, a man with more wisdom than sleep, leaned over and said, “Maybe it’s not about making a difference, Joe. It’s about being faithful where you are.”

At that moment, I was struggling. I had just missed the quota to pursue medicine after my first year in Sains Hayat, edged out by a few cleverer classmates. So, I stayed on – and ended up doing Botany.

Yes, Botany! That word that made relatives nod politely and say, “Oh… plants, ah?” while mentally recalculating my prospects. My friends proudly declared Engineering, Law or Business. I mumbled “Botany,” and could almost hear the unspoken “Sayang seribu kali sayang.”

But I stayed. I chose green over greed, leaves over legal briefs. I fell in love with plants – with the scent of rain on field trips, the wonder of photosynthesis, the quiet miracle of growth unseen. Perhaps that’s what faith is too: silent, steady, transforming light into life.

By graduation, I had earned the department’s first First-Class Honours. It wasn’t the course I had wanted, but it was the one God had written for me. Looking back, I see now that God doesn’t always open doors; sometimes He reroutes us to better fields.

That night by the bonfire planted a truth that has never left me: faithfulness often precedes greatness. Years later, trudging through the plantations of Sabah – under rain, heat and deadlines – that same lesson echoed: stay faithful in the small things, and God will handle the rest.

Since then, I’ve learnt to walk the extra mile, not to prove myself, but because gratitude compels it. Once you’ve seen how God can turn a missed quota into a meaningful calling, you stop chasing titles and start cultivating trust.

Intercampus Networking and Chaplaincy

There were intercampus gatherings too – CSSUKM in Bangi and CSSUPM in Serdang were practically next-door neighbours, separated only by jungle and youthful energy. Friendships sprouted like morning glory; we exchanged ideas, laughter and sometimes, borrowed guitars.

Those meet-ups were more than socials. They were mini-Pentecosts – bursts of faith and fellowship that reminded us Catholic life didn’t end at our campus gates. We learnt the universality of the Church before we could spell ecumenism.

Guiding us were the chaplains and the Archdiocesan Campus Ministry team – shepherds who walked quietly beside us, never imposing, always inviting. Their presence was vital. Campus life is that strange in-between phase – too old to be spoon-fed, too young to be sure. Faith can flicker under the pressure of deadlines, homesickness and identity crises.

That’s why chaplaincy matters. They were the steady hands on our shoulders, reminding us that faith isn’t an extracurricular activity; it’s a compass. They offered direction when we were lost, friendship when we were lonely, and patience when we were impossible.

And in a climate where religious sensitivities occasionally simmered beneath the surface, their quiet guidance taught us to live our faith not with fear, but with respect, humility and joy.

By Joseph Masilamany

In the Borneo states of Sabah and Sarawak in Malaysia, the rumah panjai (a traditional indigenous longhouse) is more than a cultural artifact. It is a functioning social system, an architecture of life that binds leadership, responsibility, and community into a continuous lived reality.

As the Catholic Church in Malaysia continues its global journey toward synodality, this indigenous structure offers something increasingly rare in ecclesial discourse: a model in which participation is not periodic or procedural but embedded in daily existence.

At a time when synodality risks being reduced to meetings, documents, and consultation cycles, the longhouse presents a contrasting logic. It is not an idea of community. It is community: spatial, visible, and unavoidable.

Leadership rooted in proximity

At the center of the longhouse system is the tuai rumah (longhouse chieftain), whose authority rests less on formal hierarchy than on lived credibility. He arbitrates disputes, safeguards customary law (adat), coordinates decisions, and represents the community externally.

His defining feature is proximity. The tuai rumah lives among the people, often in a centrally located bilik (family unit), embedded within communal life. Authority is not buffered by distance; it is constantly tested in real time.

Charles Bertille, former executive secretary of the Catholic Bishops’ Conference of Malaysia, Singapore, and Brunei, who has conducted doctoral research among Catholic communities in Penang, Sabah, and Sarawak, observes that decision-making in such settings “evolves through wide consultation, informal dialogue, and gradual consensus-building. Leadership is not a static office, but a relational reality sustained by trust.”

He notes that longhouse life has sharpened his understanding of synodality. “The cultural image of the longhouse embodying synodal practices has shaped my research interest,” he says.

In contrast, Catholic structures often experience authority at a distance. Parishioners may know their priests, yet rarely feel structurally involved in decision-making.

“Participation is invited, but not structurally embedded,” Bertille notes. “That creates listening without shared responsibility.”

The longhouse offers a different premise: authority cannot function apart from proximity.

The architecture of shared life

The strength of the longhouse lies in its spatial logic. It is not just a dwelling but a map of relationships.

Each family occupies a bilik, a private space that affirms dignity and autonomy while not encouraging isolation. Every bilik opens into shared life through the tempuan, a narrow passage linking private and communal domains.

This threshold is more than architectural. It is social. It is where private life meets collective responsibility.

In ecclesial terms, this is where formation often weakens. Confined to classrooms or catechetical instruction, formation rarely inhabits the lived space where belief becomes participation. The tempuan suggests formation must be continuous, relational, and embedded.

Beyond it lies the ruai (communal veranda), the spine of longhouse life. Here, the community becomes visible to itself through conversation, labor, ritual, and memory.

In the ruai, the longhouse’s communal corridor, randau unfolds: informal, unscripted conversations that often stretch late into the night. Here, disputes are aired, decisions take shape, and grievances are worked through in the open. It is also the setting for weddings, funerals, and communal celebrations. Notably, nothing is written down; there are no minutes, no paper trail only a shared memory that holds the community to its word.

There are no formal invitations. The space exists because life is shared.

This unsettles structured ecclesial models of synodality, which often depend on assemblies and formal consultations. The ruai suggests something more demanding: discernment as a continuous relationship rather than a periodic process.

“In the longhouse, dialogue is not organised, it is lived,” Bertille says. “Decisions emerge from everyday interaction. Yet there are also mandated structures for conflict resolution and communal governance. It is a centuries-old system.”

Synodality as lived responsibility

Responsibility in the longhouse is both visible and distributed.

Each family maintains the section of the ruai in front of its bilik, creating a shared system of stewardship. Neglect is immediately visible.

Accountability is social rather than bureaucratic. There are no audits, only presence. This produces a moral ecology where responsibility is constant, not episodic.

In many parish contexts, responsibility is concentrated in a small group, while broader participation remains limited. Synodality becomes structurally uneven. The longhouse exposes this imbalance: without shared responsibility, communal life weakens.

The outward edge: the tanju

Beyond the ruai lies the tanju, an open platform used for drying crops and ritual activity. It faces outward toward the environment.

Symbolically, it represents openness. The longhouse does not turn inward; it remains engaged with the world.

For the Church, this outward dimension is essential. Synodality cannot remain internal. It must extend into social engagement, justice, and public witness.

“A synodal Church cannot remain inward-looking,” Bertille says. “Listening must translate into action beyond the community. Practised with humility, the synodal style enables the Church to be a prophetic voice in today’s world … like a standard lifted among the nations (Is 11:12)”.

The tanju insists that communion must extend outward or risk becoming self-referential.

The limits of romanticisation

The longhouse should not be idealised. Its cohesion is sustained by necessity, proximity, and shared survival. Participation is not optional.

Modern Catholic communities operate in a different reality: urban, mobile, and individualised. The conditions that sustain the ruai cannot simply be replicated.

This raises a difficult question: can synodality thrive without a culture that demands participation?

Parallel experiments in community

Some evangelical communities in Asia have developed partial answers through small-group systems, decentralised leadership, and reproducible discipleship models. These function as contemporary echoes of the ruai, spaces of continuous dialogue and accountability.

Leadership is multiplied, not concentrated. Participation is expected, not optional.

The Catholic Church, by contrast, remains more centralised. It consults widely but governs from the center. Participation is invited, but not always embedded.

The tension is not administrative alone. It is cultural.

From consultation to culture

The longhouse suggests a shift: community is not sustained by declarations, but by design, by the architecture of relationships.

If taken seriously, the implications are significant. Authority must become more embedded. Lay participation must move from advisory to essential. Dialogue must become habitual rather than episodic. Governance must be lived daily.

Synodality, in this sense, becomes not an initiative but a way of inhabiting community.

“The challenge is not conceptual,” Bertille says. “It is cultural. Synodality requires a way of living, not just a way of meeting or administrative reform.”

Conclusion: A question of habitation

Sarawak’s longhouses have sustained this model for generations not through theory, but practice. Their strength lies in the integration of space, relationship, and responsibility.

For the Catholic Church, the challenge is not replication but recognition: that communion is sustained not only by structure, but by participation.

Bertille concludes with a sharper provocation: “The question is no longer whether the Church can organise synodality more effectively. It is whether we are willing to learn from our own peripheries where God speaks and where indigenous peoples have long lived forms of synodality.”

The final question is simple but demanding: will the Church learn not only to speak synodality but also to inhabit it? – UCA News

By Joseph Tek Choon Yee

From a seed to a sanctuary: How the Brothers of St Gabriel landed in Sabah

History often begins not with trumpets, but with small nudges. In 1986, three Gabrielite Brothers, Br Mark Tee, Br Francis Xavier Gasper and Br Francis Chua, flew into Kota Kinabalu at the polite but persistent invitation of the Light of Jesus Covenant Community. Their “mission trip” looked deceptively simple: a few conversations, cultural immersions, language trials, and youth encounters. Yet, like good missionaries, they were really prospectors, not of gold, but of hope. What they found in Sabah was fertile soil for Montfort’s charism, even if it came wrapped in local dialects and the spirited challenges of East Malaysian youth.

They had a powerful ally too: then–State Minister of Finance, Tan Sri Bernard Giluk Dompok, who rendered his support. It was as though Providence had quietly stitched politics and prophecy together, and a Montfortian seed was planted in Borneo.

Fast forward to 1999. Br Dominic Yeo-Koh, then Provincial Superior, sent two pioneers; Br Edward Rayappan and Br Gasper, to actually get things moving. Where did this bold venture begin? Not in a grand campus with manicured lawns, but in a rented house on Jalan Sang Kancil. Yes, the house was literally on “Mouse Deer Road”, proof that God has a sense of humour when setting the stage for history.

With two staff and 15 young men, Montfort Sabah was born on Jun 20, 1999. Br Edward became the first Director, aided by Br Gasper and Br Francis Chua. Their tool of choice was not strategy documents but a carpentry workshop cobbled together to meet urgent needs. In Montfortian fashion, they built with their hands even as they built with their hearts.

Soon, workshops for mechanics and welders joined the carpentry shed. English and computer lessons crept in. Accreditation under Malaysia’s Sijil Kemahiran Malaysia (SKM) added legitimacy. And by 2001, even a Girls’ Programme was launched with 12 female trainees housed in Kg Sugud under the watchful care of Sr Mary Agnes and the Infant Jesus Sisters. Though this noble venture was suspended in 2011 due to manpower shortages, its revival remains on the horizon like an unfinished chapter waiting for ink.

Yet, growth had its growing pains. The Donggongon campus soon hit maximum capacity at 65 trainees, proof that the harvest was plentiful but the space was not. So, in 2004, bold steps were taken: to build a bigger sanctuary of hope in Kinarut, Papar.

The leap of faith: Building Kinarut

No bank would grant them a loan (charity is not exactly collateral). But Brothers and board members refused to be daunted. Fundraising dinners were cooked up, benefactors were wooed and even international appeals went out. Datuk Seri Panglima Victor Paul personally financed the chapel, gifting the Diocese with a house of prayer. Against all odds, RM12 million was raised, brick by brick, ringgit by ringgit, proving that faith plus persistence is stronger than any balance sheet.

By 2008, carpentry, welding and auto-mechanics workshops marched out of Donggongon into their new Kinarut home. Later came refrigeration and air-conditioning training, and eventually, an administrative building and hall. From 15 trainees in a rented house, MYTC now trained up to 160 at its peak.

The Brothers knew that education isn’t confined to workshops. Under Bro Francis Chua, rural hostels sprouted: San Damiano Boys’ Hostel in Kiulu (2010) and St Mary’s Youth Hostel in Sandakan (2013). These became lifelines for rural teens whose daily walk to school could rival a marathon. Here, “education” meant not just job skills, but the simple dignity of being able to complete secondary school without dropping out.

But times change. Vocations dwindled; Brothers aged. In 2019, the Montfort Brothers of St Gabriel restructured into the District of South East Asia. MYTC itself made a bold transition: handing the Director’s role to a layperson, Frederick Mah Hon Phing. This was not decline but evolution, a recognition that Montfort’s mission belongs not only to cassocks and collars, but to anyone willing to carry its fire. Under Frederick, the Oil Palm Plantation Conductorship course was born, echoing Sabah’s largest agriculture industry. An alumni association followed in 2021, ensuring that Montfortians never really “graduate”, they simply move from classroom to life.

Then came Covid-19. Fundraising collapsed, enrolments dwindled, and workshops fell silent. For a vocational centre built on hand tools and hands-on training, this was existential. But Montfort has always specialised in turning setbacks into stepping stones. Programmes were streamlined, carpentry and refrigeration merged into Facilities Maintenance, and slowly, life returned.

Today, over a thousand youths have passed through MYTC’s doors, transformed from vulnerable beginnings into confident, employable adults. Employers commend their skills; communities praise their character; and above all, many of these young men carry a renewed sense of dignity and hope.

Let’s set the record straight!

MYTC in Kinarut is not a “naughty corner” for wayward teens. Too often, people mistake it as a place to discipline rebellious youth. In truth, MYTC is a fully fledged Technical and Vocational Education and Training (TVET) institution with a much bigger mission.

Here, underprivileged and marginalised young people, many from rural areas, single-parent households, or struggling families, are given something they would otherwise be denied: a real chance. Over a two-year residential programme, trainees don’t just pick up skills in mechanics, welding, facility maintenance or plantation; they gain confidence, character and community.

MYTC isn’t about “fixing” behaviour. It’s about unlocking potential. It invests in the future. It’s about opening doors that poverty or circumstance may have closed, and equipping youth with the tools, both technical and personal, to build a brighter, more dignified future.

Looking ahead

MYTC is not finished yet. Annual fundraising staples like the Open House Bazaar and Montfort Charity Golf Tournament keep the mission alive, proof that even a golf swing can become an act of mercy if the proceeds go to the right place. The revival of the Girls’ Programme is firmly on the agenda, with plans for a dedicated hostel.

From a rented house on Jalan Sang Kancil to a 10-acre campus in Kinarut; from 15 boys to over 1,000 trained youth; from three visiting Brothers in 1986 to lay leaders today, the story of Montfort Sabah is stitched with one golden thread: the spirit of St Louis-Marie de Montfort.

Three centuries ago, Montfort preached that the poor deserved dignity, education and love. In Sabah, that same spirit took flesh through car carburetors, carpentry benches, welding torches and oil palm drones. What began as a scouting trip has become a sanctuary of hope.

And the BSG, together with their lay collaborators, have proven once again that the best missions are not imposed from above, but grown patiently from the ground up.

If St Montfort could glimpse Sabah today, he might chuckle to see how his “seed” has grown into a vibrant TVET campus, welding sparks flying, oil palm modules humming, and even golf tournaments teeing up funds for the mission. With a twinkle in his eye, he’d likely say: “Yes, this is what I dreamed of: education with hands, with heart, and with hope.”

Today, there are two Sabahans who have answered the BSG call: Br Thomas Paul and Br James Anting, living witnesses that Montfort’s spirit continues to take root on local soil.

Perhaps that same spirit is now whispering to you: to walk beside young people, to shape lives through education and to be a companion in their journey toward dignity and hope.

If you sense that stirring, pause and discern. Listen with the ears of the heart. For a vocation is not a career choice but a response to God’s gentle invitation. Take courage: St Montfort is surely interceding for you from heaven, praying that you may have the clarity to see, the freedom to choose, and the faith to embrace the mission with the Brothers of St Gabriel, a mission of education, compassion and hope.

By Cathleen Kaveny

The challenges the church faces in dealing with social media influencers are not new. In fact, the Gospels suggest they extend back before the roots of Christianity. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus condemns religious figures who “on the outside look righteous to others, but inside … are full of hypocrisy and lawlessness” (Matthew 23:27-28).

The problem of social media is not merely religious but human, and because it is a human problem, the church, as an “expert in humanity,” has ways of understanding and addressing it even as we acknowledge that the digital age provides a new context for the problem’s expression. Some people are pessimistic about our ability to respond effectively. But I am not one of them, because our moral and spiritual tradition leaves us far from powerless in the face of perennial temptations to sin and wrongdoing, no matter the cultural form they take.

In the Gospel texts, Jesus condemns religious leaders for being “hypocrites.” But what exactly is a hypocrite? According to a leading Greek dictionary, Liddell and Scott, the core meaning of the Greek word is “pretense.” The hypocrite is fundamentally an actor, putting on a show for other people. They focus on how they appear to other people, not who they actually are.

You might ask: “Why is this a problem? Why shouldn’t I put on my best face for the digital world? Why shouldn’t I strive to be a religious role model? And why shouldn’t I play up the good side of things, after all, there is so much disrespect for traditional families and people of faith, why shouldn’t I emphasize the positive and attractive aspects of my way of life? Evangelization means ‘giving the Good News.’ I’m just sharing the Good News of my life totally due to God’s blessings, of course.”

Continue reading in NCR Online 

By Bomki Mathew

Pope Leo’s visit to Africa has placed Cameroon in the spotlight. Many have wondered why he chose Cameroon at this particular moment. For some observers, the visit risks being interpreted as conferring legitimacy on a government which, in their view, did not genuinely win the Oct 2025 presidential election.

The violence that erupted after the Constitutional Council proclaimed the results is eloquent proof that many Cameroonians did not believe in the credibility of the outcome. The aftermath was marked by frustration, despair and helplessness. For many citizens, the future looked bleak. Yet in his address to Cameroonian authorities, Pope Leo made clear the purpose of his visit: he came “as a shepherd and as a servant of dialogue, fraternity and peace.”

Those words help explain why Cameroon could not be ignored.

Multiparty politics without democratic change

Despite the return of multiparty politics in 1990, Cameroon has never experienced a change of government. The Cameroon National Union, which later became the Cameroon People’s Democratic Movement (CPDM), has remained in power to this day.

The mere existence of multiple parties does not automatically guarantee democracy. Without strong and independent institutions, elections become empty exercises. This recalls the memorable words of former US President Barack Obama in Ghana in 2009: Africa does not need strongmen; it needs strong institutions.

That observation remains painfully relevant in Cameroon. Since the reintroduction of multiparty elections, presidential polls have been held regularly, but opposition parties have repeatedly challenged the results. Many citizens see the electoral commission and related institutions as lacking independence because those who serve in them are appointed by the incumbent government.

Thus, while elections are organized, many Cameroonians regard them as simulacra of democracy rather than authentic expressions of the people’s will.

The first multiparty presidential election of Oct 1992 was already deeply controversial. The main opposition rejected the results, yet the ruling party was declared victorious. Subsequent elections in 1997, 2004, 2011 and 2018 followed a similar pattern, with the ruling party retaining power each time and opposition parties crying foul.

A cursory review of these contests suggests that they have too often been governed by the law of force rather than the force of law.

Why the 2025 election stirred hope

The presidential election of Oct 12, 2025, generated an unprecedented level of public interest. Why did this election matter so much?

For many Cameroonians, it was a kairos moment, a decisive opportunity for national renewal after 43 years of President Paul Biya’s rule. Across the country, many citizens saw the vote as a chance to register their disapproval of a political system they believe has failed them.

The youth, in particular, are desperate for change. Many feel excluded from the affairs of state. They believe the machinery of government has been captured by a small elite more concerned with preserving privilege than promoting the common good.

Cameroon has gradually drifted toward gerontocracy, with aging leadership increasingly unable to meet the demands of the 21st century. Many believe that because of President Biya’s advanced age, real authority no longer lies clearly in elected office but in unelected circles around the presidency.

This perception has deepened public frustration.

Years of poor governance have also produced visible consequences: chronic corruption, failing infrastructure, declining educational standards, a weakened justice system, inadequate healthcare, poor roads, insecurity, prolonged electricity shortages, lack of potable water, and entrenched tribalism in both social and political life.

At the same time, unemployment remains high while the cost of living continues to rise. For many families, daily survival has become harder. Such conditions naturally fuel anger and disillusionment.

A flawed electoral process

Even before ballots were cast, confidence in the 2025 election had already been shaken.

There were complaints that the electoral register was not published in time, contrary to electoral rules. Many registered voters reportedly struggled to obtain their voter cards. Such irregularities cast doubt on the transparency and fairness of the process.

The exclusion of opposition figure Maurice Kamto further damaged public trust. For many Cameroonians, barring a leading challenger suggested that the regime was unwilling to risk genuine competition.

This decision plunged many citizens into despair. They feared another seven-year mandate for a political order they believed had exhausted itself.

The rise of Issa Tchiroma

Then came an unexpected development.

Issa Tchiroma, a prominent ally of President Biya, resigned from government and declared his candidacy. At first, many doubted his sincerity. Yet during the campaign, he appeared to persuade a significant number of voters with promises of reform, reconciliation and a fresh political direction.

He pledged to heal national divisions and, above all, to end the war in Anglophone Cameroon.

For many citizens hungry for change, Tchiroma became an alternative voice of hope. Some who voted for him may not have admired him personally, but saw in him a democratic means of sanctioning four decades of stagnation.

An old African proverb says: “A drowning person will clutch at a straw.”

That proverb captures the mood of many voters.

Images circulated on social media from polling stations appeared to indicate strong support for Tchiroma. Yet under Cameroonian law, only the Constitutional Council could proclaim the final results, which it did more than two weeks later.

In the 21st century, when many countries can produce election results within hours, such delays naturally breed suspicion.

The Anglophone war as a decisive issue

No issue weighed more heavily on the conscience of the nation than the war in Cameroon’s North-West and South-West regions.

Many Cameroonians are weary of this conflict, which is widely seen as the bitter fruit of bad governance, arrogance and longstanding marginalization. For years, families have been torn apart, innocent lives destroyed, homes burned, and communities displaced.

The economy of Anglophone Cameroon has been gravely damaged. Education has suffered immensely, with schools closed or functioning only intermittently for years. An entire generation has paid the price.

Yet many citizens believe the government has not shown sufficient willingness to engage sincerely with the grievances at the root of the crisis. Numerous initiatives — local church appeals, mediation proposals, and international efforts — have failed to secure lasting peace.

By contrast, Tchiroma’s promise to pursue dialogue, release political detainees, and open discussion on a political arrangement acceptable to both Anglophone and Francophone Cameroonians struck a chord in many hearts.

This likely explains why he attracted significant support in those regions.

Why the pope came now

Cameroon today stands at a crossroads of its history.

The disputed election, post-election violence, economic hardship, youth despair, institutional distrust, and the unresolved Anglophone conflict together form a national crisis. In such a moment, Pope Leo’s visit takes on deeper significance.

He did not come as a politician. He did not come as an electoral referee. He came as a moral voice.

He came because politics alone has not healed Cameroon’s wounds. He came because a suffering people need hope. He came because dialogue has been postponed for too long. He came because peace cannot wait indefinitely.

In Bamenda, one of the cities most marked by conflict, Pope Leo issued a strong and prophetic appeal:

“This is the moment to change, to transform the story of this country. The time has come, today and not tomorrow, now and not in the future, to restore the mosaic of unity by bringing together the diversity and riches of the country and the continent. In this way, it will be possible to create a society in which peace and reconciliation reign.”

Those words should trouble the comfortable and console the afflicted.

Cameroon’s unfinished future

What, then, does the future hold for Cameroon?

No one can say with certainty. But one truth is clear: no nation can indefinitely suppress the aspirations of its people. Citizens may be denied many instruments of power, but they still possess conscience, memory and hope.

The October 2025 election revealed a population yearning for renewal. The unrest that followed revealed a nation dangerously wounded. Pope Leo’s visit revealed that Cameroon’s crisis is not merely political — it is moral.

The hope of many Cameroonians is that his message will move those in authority to govern for the common good, respect the dignity of all citizens, and pursue justice with sincerity.

Cameroon still has the resources, talent and spiritual strength to rebuild itself. But that future will require courage, humility and truth.

The time for change, as Pope Leo reminded the nation, is now. – UCA News

*The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official editorial position of UCA News.

By Ruben C. Mendoza

The Philippines faces an energy crisis brought about by the US-Israel war against Iran. The price of fuel has more than doubled, and with it, the inevitable increase in the prices of basic commodities, bringing more hardships to those who are already struggling in life.

The last time a similar crisis happened was when the COVID-19 pandemic hit the country, which effectively shut down the economy. What the pandemic showed was that there were no adequate safeguards in place to protect the vulnerable from such events.

This time around, in response to the rising fuel prices, the Philippine government has provided subsidies to public utility vehicles, but they are merely stopgap measures that are not enough.

It appears that we Filipinos haven’t learned at all from what we experienced during the pandemic. We haven’t really addressed the systemic injustices in our country, such as the unbridled neoliberal system of our economy.

The fact is that neoliberalism doesn’t serve the common good since it puts a premium on profit. Many capitalists are concerned about their employees only insofar as they contribute to their company’s profitability, but not whether they live decent human lives.

The concept of the common good is foreign to them, and the quality of life of their employees is not a factor in their business decisions. Many employers simply give the minimum wage required by law, even if they are capable of giving more, and even if they know that the minimum wage isn’t enough to adequately provide for one’s family.

Let us imagine a world in which the principles of the Catholic social tradition are taken seriously by those in power. It will be a world in which the political and economic system gives more emphasis on the dignity of human persons and their right to live decent human lives.

Such a system will promote and protect the rights of workers to a just wage, job security, and social welfare. If only workers receive a wage that is in keeping with their dignity, they will have more resources to provide for their needs and not be dependent on government handouts.

As the late Pope John Paul II argued, “in every case, a just wage is the concrete means of verifying the justice of the whole socioeconomic system and, in any case, of checking that it is functioning justly. It is not the only means of checking, but it is a particularly important one and, in a sense, the key means” (Laborem Exercens, 19).

He also stated in his encyclical Centesimus Annus, “It is a strict duty of justice and truth not to allow fundamental human needs to remain unsatisfied, and not to allow those burdened by such needs to perish. It is also necessary to help these needy people to acquire expertise, to enter the circle of exchange, and to develop their skills in order to make the best use of their capacities and resources. Even prior to the logic of a fair exchange of goods and the forms of justice appropriate to it, there exists something which is due to man because he is man, by reason of his lofty dignity. Inseparable from that required ‘something’ is the possibility to survive and, at the same time, to make an active contribution to the common good of humanity” (34).

Without question, there is a need for an economic model in which profit is not at the center of economic activity and in which the good of each and every person is prioritized. Such a system seeks the development of each person and the whole person (Pope Paul VI, Populorum Progressio,14).

The present context calls for the development of an economic model in which the poor are prioritized, consulted, and empowered. It is critical that they are not merely at the receiving end of decisions that others – the powerful and the privileged in society — make for them but that they are the “artisans of their destiny” (Pope Paul VI, Populorum Progressio, 65).

An ethical economy will be one in which the very condition that necessitates government subsidies and charity will be eradicated, and will have the common good as its goal. Such an economy will also have to deal with the issue of environmental justice and be respectful of the integrity of God’s creation.

The present fuel crisis ought to make us realize our country’s over-reliance on fossil fuels, which are not only environmentally hazardous but also leave the country at the mercy of market forces. We need to turn to renewable energy for our needs. This is in line with the challenge of Laudatio Si’ to develop sources of renewable energy (26).

Needless to say, a change in economic model demands political reform as well. It is conceivable that there will be resistance from those who benefit from the present system. There will be a push back from the economic and political elite if ever there are initiatives that threaten their privileges and power, even though those changes are necessary for the common good. Nevertheless, the work for social justice demands that the system be transformed — even if only one step at a time.

We, Filipinos, need to learn from previous crises if ever we are to build a just and fair society. We need leaders who will eschew partisan interests and who will tirelessly work for the upliftment of the needy and the marginalized. The task of social transformation is an uphill battle, but it is a necessary one if we are to mold a society according to the Kingdom that Jesus envisioned. – UCA News

*The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official editorial position of UCA News.

By Fr Ron Rolheiser, OMI

With the resurrection of Jesus, time started over. Simply put, up until Jesus rose from the dead all things that died stayed dead. After Jesus’ resurrection, nothing stays dead anymore. Time has begun anew.

Luke’s Gospel account of the resurrection begins with the words “on the morning of the first day”. This is a double reference. He is referring to Sunday, the first day of the week, but he is also referring to the first day of a new creation. With the resurrection, time has started over. In fact, the world measures time by that day. We are in the year 2026 since that morning when Jesus rose from the dead.

From the beginning of time until Jesus’ resurrection, everything mortal died and remained in death. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, in the story of Adam and Eve and their fall from grace, we are given to believe that originally humans were not intended to die. In this view, death entered the world through the sin of our first parents. Today, for sound theological and scientific reasons, the Adam and Eve story is considered, like the other “in the beginning” stories in Genesis, to be more metaphoric and archetypal than literal. To be human is to be mortal.

Irrespective as to whether you take the Adam and Eve story literally and see death because of their sin or not, the bottom line is the same: From our first parents onward, everything that died stayed dead.

That changed with the resurrection of Jesus. When God raised him from the dead, creation was changed at its very roots. Nature changed. A dead body was brought to new life. Impossible? Yes, except that time started over! There was a new first day, a new Genesis, a second time when we can say, “in the beginning”.

And nothing stays dead now because Jesus is the “first fruit” of this new creation. What happened to him now happens to us. We too will not stay dead but will rise to new life. Moreover, this isn’t just true for us as humans. It’s also true for the earth itself and everything on it. Jesus came to save the world, not just the people living in the world.

St Paul makes this clear in his Epistle to the Romans when he writes that all creation, physical creation, has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth and – it itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God. (Romans 8,21-23)

Our planet earth, like our human body, is also mortal. It is dying too. As we know, the sun will eventually burn out and that will spell the death of our planet. Our planet also needs to be resurrected, and scripture assures us that it will.

What all this means stretches our imagination beyond its limits. Does this mean that animals will also have eternal life? Will our beloved pets be with us in heaven? Will plants enter heaven? Will the whole cosmos and our planet earth be transformed and enter heaven?

The answer is yes, though how this will happen is beyond our imagination. Our human mind is too limited. This is impossible to imagine, except, except that God who is the Father of Jesus Christ is ineffable, beyond imagination, and can do the unimaginable, including transforming all things into new life.

The Gospel of John has a particularly poignant text which links the resurrection of Jesus to the original creation as described in Genesis. John tells us that in his first resurrection appearance to the apostles, Jesus finds them huddled in fear inside a room with the doors locked. The resurrected Jesus goes right through the locked doors, enters their midst, greets them, shows them his hands and his side, and then breathes on them. (John 20,21)

This breathing out by Jesus parallels what happened at the original creation when God breathed over the formless void, and light began to separate from darkness and creation began to take shape.

After the resurrection, Jesus breathes on his disciples and for the second time in history light begins to separate from darkness. The confusion, fear, timidity, and the weaknesses of the apostles, their “formless void”, their darkness, begins to separate from the new light brought by the resurrection, namely, the eternal light of charity, joy, peace, patience, goodness, the fruits of the Holy Spirit.

So, it’s appropriate to say that with the resurrection of Jesus, time started over. There was a new first day where light again separated from darkness. The resurrection of Jesus is the most radical thing that has occurred since God originally said, let there be light! nearly fourteen billion years ago. The earth itself and everything on it, humans, animals, plants, and minerals, and the earth itself, are now given life beyond death.

Until the resurrection of Jesus, all things that died stayed dead. This is no longer true. Time has started over.

Used with permission of the author, Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser. Currently, Father Rolheiser is currently serving as President of the Oblate School of Theology in San Antonio Texas. He can be contacted through his website, www.ronrolheiser.com. Follow on Facebook www.facebook.com/ronrolheiser.

By Daniel P Horan

In keeping with my intention to explore the continued relevance, inspiration and challenge of St Francis of Assisi to mark the 800th anniversary of his death, this week’s column is dedicated to a dimension of his legacy that is often overlooked or ignored. While it may sound surprising to some, Francis occasionally practiced what I have come to call “ecclesiastical disobedience,” which is the intentional refusal to obey instructions, rules or conventions from church authorities that conflict with his well-formed conscience.

The concept of ecclesiastical disobedience follows from the more widely known practice of “civil disobedience,” a term that was coined by Henry David Thoreau in an 1849 essay by the same name. The immediate context was his refusal to pay a state tax established to fund a war he viewed as unjust and to financially support the enforcement of fugitive slave laws.

In the decades since its coinage, the concept of civil disobedience has been invoked to describe a range of actions seeking social change in protest of unjust laws, customs or practices. Such has been the case in demonstrations and protests in support of the right of women to vote in the United States, the civil rights movements of the mid-20th century, and nonviolent protests of conflicts like the wars in Vietnam, Iraq and now Iran.

When the unjust circumstances that are protested through intentional disobedience are a matter of church rather than state, then we have an instance of ecclesiastical disobedience.

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By John Singarayar

There is a sound that belongs to childhood. You never think to notice it until it has gone: laughter spilling out of a schoolyard, the slap of a jump rope on a warm sidewalk, a parent’s voice through a lit doorway at dusk. Small sounds. Ordinary sounds. The kind that tells a child, without words, that the world is holding steady and there is still time to play before dark.

War does not gradually take that away. It takes it all at once, on a specific night, and nothing quite goes back to the way it was before.

I have thought about this a lot. Not because I have easy answers, I do not but because the question keeps pulling at me. How do we live in a world where some children fall asleep to cricket sounds and bedroom fans, while others press their hands over their ears and wait for the walls to stop shaking? How do we hold both of those realities in our heads at the same time and not feel the weight of that distance?

When a child grows up with conflict, something shifts in them that does not easily shift back. Not just emotionally, physically, neurologically, in ways science is still catching up to fully explain. It isn’t only buildings that war destroys. It is the invisible architecture of childhood.

The quiet assumption that the ground beneath your feet is solid. The unspoken belief that the adults around you are in control of something. War takes those beliefs and replaces them with a fear so persistent it eventually starts to feel like normal. And that might be the saddest part of all when terror becomes the baseline, when a child stops waiting for things to get better because they have forgotten that better was ever an option.

Pope Francis once said that no child in the world should grow up hearing the sound of war. It sounds almost too simple when you read it. Almost obvious. And yet here we are, years later, and the list of places where children are doing exactly that keeps growing.

We talk about war in the language of strategy and loss. Casualty figures. Refugee counts. Infrastructure assessments. These numbers matter. I am not suggesting we ignore them but they have a way of smoothing over what is hardest to measure. The interior damage.

The slow erosion of a child’s sense of safety that does not show up in any report. A child who hears shelling through the night does not shake it off by morning. The body keeps its own record.

Research confirms what trauma survivors have always known chronic fear rewires the developing brain, flooding it with stress hormones that reshape how a person perceives threat, processes emotion, trusts another human being.

Those changes don’t simply reverse when a ceasefire is announced. They travel forward into adulthood, into parenting, into the next generation. War has a longer half-life than most people realize.

And beyond the psychological, war dismantles the everyday rhythms that give childhood its structure and meaning. Schools close. Families fracture in ways that do not fully heal. A child who should be learning long division is instead memorizing which sounds mean shelter and which ones mean run. A teenager who wanted to become a doctor is suddenly navigating a border crossing with everything she owns in one bag. Education is not only about opportunity or employment, though it is that too. It is about a child being able to look ahead and see something there. War steals that vision. And whole generations end up defined more by what they survived than by what they were able to become.

Syria. Ukraine. Yemen. Gaza. Palestine. Iran. The names change. The politics differ. The histories are long and tangled and real. But the experience of a frightened child inside any of these places is, achingly, the same. A small boy in a basement with his knees pulled to his chest, waiting for the noise to stop. He did not start this. He cannot end it. He just has to get through the night, and then the next one, and hope that is enough.

Some people say conflict is simply part of human nature. Inevitable. Encoded in us. I used to find that argument harder to dismiss than I do now. Because the thing is, inevitability has been used to defend a lot of things we eventually decided were unacceptable. Child labor. Slavery. Practices we now look back on with genuine disbelief that they were ever defended at all.

We have changed course before when enough people decided a particular harm had gone on long enough. There is nothing stopping us from doing that again except will.

It is easy to feel helpless. Wars are driven by forces that seem impossibly remote from ordinary life. But the responsibility to protect children does not live only in government chambers and diplomatic summits. It lives in how we vote, what we fund, which stories we pay attention to and which ones we scroll past.

Public pressure is slow and unglamorous and more powerful than it looks. Safe corridors for evacuation, trauma-informed schools, real consequences for bombing hospitals. These are not fantasies. They exist, imperfectly, in places where people demanded them loudly enough and refused to stop.

The children caught in these wars are not only victims. Many of them show a kind of strength that honestly stops me cold.

They make friends across language barriers in refugee camps. They draw pictures of sunshine in the margins of damaged notebooks. They keep going in conditions that would break most adults, and they do it without being asked for gratitude or recognition. That matters. It is worth saying out loud. But it cannot become a reason to lower our standards for what we owe them. Resilience is not a substitute for safety. We should never need children to be extraordinary just to survive an ordinary week.

Childhood should be soft. Forgiving. Full of small forgettable moments that become everything when you look back, the smell of rain on a hot sidewalk, a story half-heard before sleep, the pure uncomplicated joy of running somewhere fast for no reason at all.

That is what war takes. Not just buildings. Not just years. That specific softness, that window of time when the world is supposed to feel safe enough to simply be a child in.

And we keep letting it happen. That part is on us. – UCA News

By Jenny Kraska

Lent invites us to listen more deeply. It is a season when the Church grows quieter, when alleluias fall silent and we are asked to attend to the low, persistent music of repentance and hope. Two unlikely companions can guide us in this Lenten listening: Antonio Vivaldi and Rosamund Young.

Vivaldi is often remembered for brilliance and motion — for the brightness of The Four Seasons, for violins that shimmer like sunlight on Venetian canals. Yet in his setting of the ancient hymn Stabat Mater, he gives us something altogether different: restraint, gravity, and a sorrow that does not shout. This work lingers in a minor key, moving slowly, almost circling its own grief. The music does not rush toward resolution. It remains.

“Stabat mater dolorosa/Juxta crucem lacrimosa…” — “The sorrowful Mother stood weeping beside the Cross.” The hymn contemplates Mary not as a distant icon, but as a mother who remains at the foot of her Son’s suffering. Vivaldi’s music mirrors this steadfastness. The repeated phrases, the deliberate pacing, the suspended harmonies — these create a soundscape of watchfulness. One has the impression of time stretched thin, as if heaven itself holds its breath.

Lent asks of us something similar: to stand still before the mystery of suffering. In a culture that flees discomfort and anesthetizes pain, the Church bids us to stay. Stay with Christ in the desert. Stay with Him in the Garden at Gethsemane, Stay at the Cross.

But how do we learn to stay?

Here, the quiet observations of Rosamund Young in The Wisdom of Sheep offer help. Writing from her family farm in Worcestershire, Young reflects on the distinct personalities and inner lives of the animals she tends. Sheep are not an indistinguishable mass, she insists. They recognize faces. They form friendships. They notice when something is wrong. They respond to gentleness — and to harshness — with memory.

Young’s patient attention to her animals reveals something about ourselves. We are often less attentive than the creatures we presume to manage. We rush past one another. We fail to notice subtle suffering. We forget that every person before us carries an interior world as complex as our own.

Lent is a school of attention. It trains the eyes and the heart.

Consider the image of sheep in Scripture. The Lord is my shepherd. We are His flock. The prophet Isaiah tells us, “We had all gone astray like sheep” (Is. 53:6). And yet Christ, the Good Shepherd, knows His sheep by name. The Gospels show Him moved with pity because the crowds are “like sheep without a shepherd.”

To watch sheep closely, as Young does, is to glimpse a parable. They are vulnerable, easily scattered, yet capable of recognition and loyalty. They flourish under steady care. They suffer under neglect. Is this also not true of each of us?

Mary, standing beneath the Cross, embodies that steady care. She does not fixate on the horror. She cannot halt the nails or silence the mockery. She remains. In her remaining, she becomes Mother not only of Jesus, but of us all. Her sorrow is not sentimental; it is attentive. She sees what is happening. She consents to stand within it.

Vivaldi’s Stabat Mater gives us the sound of that consent. Its austerity refuses easy consolation. There are no triumphant flourishes, no rushing toward Easter morning. Instead, there is a kind of holy endurance. The music teaches us to inhabit sorrow without despair, to allow lament to become prayer.

Young’s sheep teach a parallel lesson. When one sheep is ill or distressed, others often gather nearby. They do not possess theological language. They cannot explain suffering. But they draw close. Presence itself becomes response.

In Lent, we are called to something similar: to draw close — to Christ in the Eucharist, to the poor, to the wounded, to those whose grief we would rather avoid. Fasting sharpens our awareness of hunger; almsgiving attunes us to need; prayer stills the noise so that we may hear the quieter cries around us.

There is also a humbling in this season. Sheep do not pretend to be self-sufficient. They depend on the shepherd. Our Lenten disciplines remind us that we, too, are dependent upon grace, upon mercy, upon the love poured out from the Cross.

If we allow it, Lent reshapes our perception. We begin to see as Mary sees — not turning away from suffering, but holding it in the light of God’s fidelity. In our attentive standing — at the Cross, beside one another, under the gaze of the Good Shepherd — we discover that sorrow is not the final word. The Mother who stood weeping will also stand in hope. The minor key will give way to alleluia. The flock, once scattered, will be gathered again.

For now, Lent teaches us to remain. To listen. To watch. To love with a steadiness that does not flee the Cross. – Vatican News