July 30, 1968
The Uturu Catholic Mission for Children
On July 30, 1968,
New York Times war correspondent, Mr. Lloyd Garrison, visited the Catholic
Mission for Children in Uturu, Biafra and filed this report reproduced
unabridged:
 |
| Mr. Lloyd Garrison, Journalist, Former Foreign Correspondent for The New York Times |
{An atmosphere of
death and despair hangs over this hilltop Roman Catholic seminary in
secessionist Biafra, now an emergency hospital for more than 300 starving
children. It is a hospital in name only. The children, all skin and bones, lie
on straw mats on the floors of the dormitories and class rooms. There is no
resident doctor and virtually no medicine. Even the aspirin has run out. Two Biafran
nurses and three Marist brothers work round the clock in the race against
death. The strain has taken its tool. The Marist brothers, Scottish, Irish and
American, on the verge of physical and spiritual breakdown.
At the foot of
the hill, a new grave is dug every morning and is not filled over until
nightfall. Vultures circle overhead, lured by the scent of death. The children are
buried as soon as they die, wrapped in their straw mats. There is no time for casket-making.
There is no time for funerals. A few prayers are murmured at graveside as the
child is lowered gently. Then it's back to work again.
Brother Aloysius,
the Irishman, takes 10 minutes off at noon for a smoke and tea break in the
mission house. He is a tall, wiry man of 41 with a craggy face deeply lined
with fatigue. He sits hunched over in his chair, head in his hands, close to
tears. “I don't know, I don't know,” he whispers. “I'm fast losing faith in
humanity. I don't know how the Lord can permit this.” He stumps out his cigarette
and the monologue continues. “It's one thing to be killed by machine guns. But
how can the world allow one country to starve out another? Whether you die by
the bullet or from hunger, it's still the same thing: genocide.”
Brother Aloysius
is angry at Britain for giving Nigeria arms. He is angry at the United States
for backing British policy. He is vitriolic over the refusal of Nigeria’s Head
of Government, Maj. Gen. Yakubu Gowon, to allow relief flights to fly direct to
Biafra with aid, a stand taken on the ground that direct flights would
compromise Nigerian claims to sovereignty over this former Eastern Region, which
seceded May 31, 1967. Civil war broke out the following July.
“I wish I could
fly,” Brother Aloysius continues. “I’d get a Red Cross plane and fill it up
with food and fly it to Biafra in broad daylight. I’d defy Gowon to shoot me
down.” The American, Brother James, enters quietly and slumps down in a chair. “Can
you image?” Brother Aloysius goes on. “In this district alone, we could fill 20
hospitals with starving children. Out in the villages, they’re dying by the
scores. Even here, we’ve buried 32 in the last 11 days.” “Thirty three,” says
Brother James. “Who was it?” “Johnny, the little one we had on intravenous. We just
buried him.” Both men fall silent.
From the distance
comes the rumble of artillery. Biafra’s northern front is only eight miles
away. Are they worried about the coming of the Nigerians? No, not for
ourselves,” answers Brother James. “They normally don’t kill a man of the
cloth. Not if he’s a white man. But we fear for the rest.” “It would be one
thing,” Brother Aloysius adds, “if we were merely overrun and they let us get
on with the job of saving the children.” But when they took Abakaliki, they put
the 11 white fathers there on house arrest. In the hospital outside Enugu, they
shot all 14 Biafran nurses who stayed behind, then went down the wards, killing
the patients as well. It was the same thing at Port Harcourt.” Silence again.
Then Brother
Aloysius rises, says good-bye and pauses at the door.
“I’m sorry to
have rambled on like this,” he says. “We’re all run down, you know. We’re on
our last legs. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid what you see is a very embittered,
disillusioned old man.” (New York Times)
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