When I first arrived in Chile as a seminarian, I was fresh from four months at the Maryknoll language school in Bolivia. There, I not only immersed myself in Spanish grammar and pronunciation but also witnessed the aftermath of one of the bloodiest military coups in Bolivia’s history. It was a harsh introduction to the realities of political upheaval in South America, a reality that followed me to Chile.
It was 1980, seven years after Chile’s own coup d’état. The country was still deeply scarred. Streets were subdued, people wary of strangers, their spirits dampened by fear. Yet, in the parish of San Gabriel in Santiago, where I joined three Columban priests, there was a light. The parish was alive with energy, hope, and faith, an antidote to the trauma that loomed beyond its walls.
Our mission was simple yet profound: to walk with the people in their struggles, as Jesus walked with the marginalized of His time. The neighbourhood surrounding the parish was a working-class area, built on land once occupied by squatters who had claimed it decades earlier. Their boldness in those days had led to permanent homes and communities. But under the oppressive military regime of the 1980s, such acts of defiance were no longer possible.
One cold, rainy evening, I accompanied one of the priests to a nearby encampment of squatters. The scene was heartbreaking. Families lived in makeshift tents of plastic and cardboard, huddled together on muddy ground. Children coughed in the damp air, and parents worked tirelessly to keep small fires alive. Despite their dire circumstances, they welcomed us with warmth, offering mugs of tea from battered metal cups.
As we crouched on wooden boxes, sipping tea and listening, they shared their stories. Many of these families were allegados - young couples and children living with relatives in overcrowded homes, unable to afford a space of their own. Their dream of independence was stifled by poverty, worsened by a dictatorship that seemed indifferent to their plight.
For these families, squatting on unused land was an act of desperation. In the past, such land seizures had been a path to a better future. But under a regime obsessed with control, even this avenue was blocked. The stories they told were not just about the struggle for housing - they were about survival, resilience, and the courage to hope when all seemed lost.
In those moments, I began to understand the mission of Jesus Christ in a new way. It wasn’t about bringing answers or solutions. It was about presence - being there, listening, and standing in solidarity with those the world often forgets.
As we sat with these families, it was clear that Christ was already present among them. Their dignity, their hospitality, their strength in adversity - all of it spoke of God’s Spirit at work. Our role was not to lead but to accompany, to bear witness to their lives and join them on their journey.
Over time, I learned more about the challenges they faced. Many families lived in tension-filled homes, where lack of space and privacy bred conflict. Others endured the humiliation of poverty in a country rich in natural resources like copper, but whose wealth never seemed to reach the workers.
Yet, despite their struggles, these communities displayed remarkable resilience. They organized themselves, supported one another, and sought justice, embodying the Gospel message of hope and transformation. As missioners, we became companions in their fight for dignity, reflecting together on faith and its meaning in their lives.
Years later, Chile began to heal. The dictatorship fell, democracy returned, and issues like economic inequality and justice for victims of the regime came to the forefront. Progress was slow, but the seeds of hope planted in those muddy encampments began to grow.
Reflecting on those early days in Chile, I am struck by the lessons I learned. Mission is not about fixing or teaching - it is about walking alongside, sharing in the joys and sorrows of those we serve. It is about finding Christ in the most unexpected places: in the faces of struggling families, in the warmth of a shared cup of tea, and in the quiet resilience of a community refusing to give up.
Those battered mugs of tea, offered with such generosity, remain a symbol of hope for me. They remind me that even in the darkest times, the light of Christ shines brightly, calling us to draw near, listen, and believe in the transformative power of love and solidarity.
Columban Fr Robert Mosher lived for many years in Chile, and later in El Paso, Texas, before arriving at his present assignment in Bristol, Rhode Island, USA.
Listen to "Reflection - Mugs of hope"
Related links
- Read more from The Far East - January/February 2025
