‘The greatest gift we can give to others is our understanding and compassion, transcending the boundaries of appearance and culture.’
– Mahatma Gandhi
As a child growing up beginning in the late 1950s in my village — Kampung Ta-ee in Serian District — my world was a realm of wonder and curiosity. Amidst my memories from that time, one event stands out vividly — the day I encountered the first white man I had ever seen, Father Clayton from England, the priest in charge of our parish.
It was a sun-drenched day, and the air was filled with the symphony of laughter and playful shrieks as children frolicked near the mission football field. I found myself irresistibly drawn to the mysteries that lay beyond the familiar boundaries of our house, a mere 100 meters away. Propelled by an insatiable curiosity, my tiny legs carried me forward.
As I approached the village’s football field, a surge of excitement engulfed me at the sight of the school building and the nearby church. These were places veiled from my view, as I was too small to venture far alone. My heart raced with anticipation, and in my eagerness, I failed to watch my step. My foot caught on a protruding stone, causing me to stumble and fall. The gravel mercilessly bit into my tender knee, drawing blood. The pain, a fleeting sting of reality, prompted tears that blurred my vision.
Little did I know; Father Clayton happened to be gazing out of his window at that precise moment. Hastily, he made his way towards me, offering a glimmer of hope and relief. However, as soon as I laid eyes on his bearded face, fear seized me, intensifying my cries.
Whispers had circulated throughout the village about a foreigner, a man hailing from distant England. And now, standing before me in all his towering stature, he embodied the embodiment of those tales. He was the first white man I had ever laid eyes upon. My heart danced with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.
His frame was lofty and statuesque. While the colour of his eyes escapes my memory, I distinctly recall the thick brown beard, streaked with grey, adorning his face. A peculiar contraption perched upon his nose (later identified as spectacles) lent him an aura of power and wisdom. His arms and hands were robust and hairy, his legs thickly covered in hair. The unruliness of his uncombed hair formed a wild mane, and his visage seemed to bear the marks of a tapestry woven by a life rich with experiences.
Every fibre of my being trembled as his eyes, concealed behind spectacles, met mine. They were windows to an unknown world, deep pools of wisdom and compassion that beckoned me closer. Wrinkles etched into his weathered skin spoke of countless stories imprinted upon his soul, like ancient hieroglyphs whispering secrets of distant lands.
Startled and vulnerable, I found myself frozen in the presence of this enigmatic figure. With gentle yet calloused hands, he reached out to cradle my wounded knee, bridging the divide between his world and mine.
Father Clayton swiftly scooped me up into his arms, carrying me to his house. He gently placed me on a wooden chair and set about boiling water on a kerosene stove. Confusion swirled within me as I remained uncertain about what would unfold next.
As the water reached its boiling point, my young mind conjured wild imaginings, fearing that I might become a part of this boiling process. My cries intensified, their echoes reverberating through the house and reaching Father Clayton’s ears. He emerged from another room, speaking in a language previously unknown to me.
Fear and fascination collided within me as I observed his actions, uncertain of the intentions behind this foreign act of kindness.
Using the hot water, he tenderly cleansed the scrape on my knee, meticulously ensuring it was free from dirt. Then, he applied medicine and carefully covered the wound with a bandage.
As his soothing hands brushed away the tears and caressed my scraped knee, a magical transformation began to unfold. In the warmth of his touch, I felt a connection that transcended language and appearance, an unspoken bond that defied the boundaries of our differences.
Once his task was complete, Father Clayton lifted me into his arms once more and carried me back to the spot where I had injured myself. With a reassuring sweep of his hand, he encouraged me to return home. Though I couldn’t comprehend his words, I understood his intention, and a profound sense of gratitude welled up within me.
Years later, when I reminisced about that fleeting moment during my high school days, I realised that the priest had become more than a mere stranger. He had transformed into a symbol of compassion, a bridge between cultures, and a catalyst for understanding. Our encounter left an indelible mark on my young heart, forever altering my perception of the world.
I never had the privilege of truly knowing Father Clayton, for by the time I stepped foot into the realm of primary school, he had relinquished his role as the guiding light of our parish. I pondered the reasons behind his absence, envisioning him gallantly traversing the globe on a sacred odyssey of divine service. Being of English origin, it was only logical to assume that he had been swept away by the currents of pastoral redeployment, traversing continents and crossing borders in a series of transnational deployments and international transfers.
As I delved deeper into the annals of priestly history, a fascinating phenomenon came to light. In the days of yore, when priests from Western lands were assigned to churches in the farthest corners of third-world nations, their duties transcended the confines of the sacred sanctuary.
Their sacred calling encompassed a myriad of responsibilities, each a thread woven into the tapestry of their noble vocation. Leading the congregation in reverent worship, they conducted religious services and breathed life into the timeless rituals. The holy sacraments flowed from their hands, baptisms and weddings alike, accompanied by sermons that stirred the souls of the faithful.
Yet, their duties extended far beyond the altar’s hallowed confines. With hearts brimming with compassion, they embraced the mantle of pastoral care and support, tending to the spiritual needs of the flock. They became beacons of enlightenment, imparting knowledge and wisdom through the mantle of teaching and education. Their souls intertwined with the very fabric of the community, nurturing its growth and development. Missionaries were ambassadors of faith who ventured into uncharted territories, carrying the torch of divine love.
Even to this day, as the years have elapsed and my memories have faded into echoes of time, I carry with me the lessons I learned from Father Clayton. His kindness taught me that beneath the surface of our differences, we share a common humanity. It is a lesson that has guided me throughout my life, inspiring me to approach others with empathy and understanding, regardless of their background or appearance.
Father Clayton, the first white man I ever encountered, will forever hold a special place in my heart. His presence in my life served as a gentle reminder that the world is vast and diverse, filled with people who may look different but share the same capacity for love, compassion, and connection.
‘Kindness knows no language, for it speaks directly to the heart.’
– Unknown
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
