In Memoriam: a man of God
The Jesuit
Integer vitae scelerisque purus—Horace [1]
The quote above was inscribed in a book given for my 18th birthday in the second year of junior college by my classmate who went on to be Father Aloysious Mowe, SJ (Society of Jesus). He passed on in February this year. Outside family, he was the most unique person I have known. The words preceding the quote in the Folio Society edition of Thomas Bewick’s My Life are “In appreciation of a rare, fine sensitivity of feeling…”. I learned a little Latin on my own those days and gave a rough translation of the words of Horace in the epigraph—“the pure and upright man”—to my father who had seen the book: he replied, “You should make sure you live up to it.”
Aloysious, a year older, had placed a high bar for me; over the years as I pondered upon the inscription, I realised that all the words reflected the person who wrote them as proven through his service to refugees and others in the years to come[2].
In 1981, Aloysious and I were two of three young men in a class with 16 young women at Hwa Chong Junior College (an analogue in a way to Eton or Harrow, and even harder to get into today). I mention the status of the college because we were not as academically inclined then as our classmates though we were part of a scholarship group meant to go on to teach English, and would be sent to top universities if we qualified. Another class in our Humanities group within the small Arts Faculty were students meant to be groomed as top government scholars and, indeed, most of them did qualify for Oxford and Cambridge; some including our seniors in the programme, later did occupy top civil service posts.
But Aloysious, a Malaysian by nationality and Eurasian by ethnicity, was an ASEAN scholar and though funded by the Singapore government evaded being bonded to it as he joined the Jesuits soon after; they took care of the many years of higher education ahead. We became good friends and the friendship lasted quite some time (we lost touch but connected again briefly) because of shared interests in language, literature, philosophical and religious ideas, and spirituality; but what strengthened it was an appreciation of humour in all its forms. He seemed to have an exceptional intuitive grasp of witticisms beyond anyone I knew, and possessed a manner of someone out of Evelyn Waugh. His apparent irreverence despite seriousness in his faith led him once to tell me not to take him too seriously.
Much later on, whenever he was making a clever point, I would inform him that I was not convinced as he was being Jesuitical; nor was I impressed by casuistry or sophistry. And he would always laugh.
We had our differences, but humour and ultimately spirituality provided a point of convergence. He once wrote our friendship lasted not because of similarities but despite differences; I quoted that back to him years later when we met, he rolled his eyes and sighed: “Not that again.”
Once our class tutor made us write what we thought about one another, so we had to do brief profiles of each classmate. The purpose was to see the good in people around us. Aloysious sat nearby and when I completed writing about him, “I just finished the paragraph on you.”
He looked up, “I’m just finishing on you.” He looked back at his paper and asked, “How do you spell ‘obnoxious’?”.
I looked at my paper, looked at him, and spelt the word. We both laughed.
I spent 8 days in a one-room attap hut on stilts while I was in Cebu, nestled among the hills of Banawa, some 30 minutes away from Cebu City. The time was one of solitude, to pray and reflect, discerning in my own poor way the ‘movements’ of God’s spirit within me. The last two months have been graced—an equilibrium and equanimity of spirit has been granted me in a way that has not been experienced in a long time.—Aloysious, 9 June 1986, Philippines.
Indeed, I was sorry to learn what finally happened to him, yet at the same time recalled the remarkable letters he wrote. We had corresponded for a number of years and it is hard to imagine today that prior to the Internet we all wrote letters with pen and paper. The anticipation of a reply from a foreign land, or better—an unexpected missive from a friend, was a highlight. It was a blessing to have had a pace slower than today (though it did not often seem that way) for there was a quality in thought and interaction with people that has well-nigh been eradicated by constant communication, the need for immediate response, and the advent of mind-numbing mobile phones.
I lie awake at night with a thousand different thoughts and narratives running through my head. I seem to be marking the passing of ten years in the Jesuits by having one personal crisis after another. Chastity has loomed large in my consciousness this past year…but, more importantly, the possession of people: Their affections, their time, their good opinion…How does one love the other and not be in love (the latter is always selfish, always centred on the self)? I still spend my time haggling over whether I will give everything over to God.—Aloysious, 20 July 1993, St Ignatius’, London.
Fortunately, I have most, if not all, of our correspondence though my replies were poor in comparison as I often wrote hurriedly and rarely at length. His letters for the most, were carefully written by someone who had near mastery of the epistolary craft. They were in many instances written almost as a form of meditation. There is a richness in them that made me think in later years: that must be what it was like for those who received letters from Marcel Proust. And there was something of the past about Aloysious, from the quasi-medieval-like font of his handwriting to the personality that settled on him well of being a savant, erudite, and the only person I knew that was genuinely a scholar in the original sense—as opposed to those who receive scholarships or teach at universities.
Under direction of the Jesuits, he went on to study at Xavier University-Ateneo de Cagayan, Philippines; studied Arabic and Islam at Al-Azhar University in Cairo; furthered studies in England, and completed his doctoral work in Oriental Studies at Campion Hall, Oxford.
Soon after hearing of his passing, I looked at some of his letters again and knew that I should place them online at some point so that they will not be consigned to oblivion with me.
One of the memorable times we met was at Oxford. I visited the UK for the first time when accompanying my sister, brother-in-law and beloved first niece who was born in Singapore but would live in England. She was the eldest grandchild of my parents. From the suburbs of London, I went to stay for a few days with a family friend and former colleague of my dad’s from years ago, in broadcasting.
Richard Wade was a character in his own right. Lear-like in profile (white hair and beard to boot); an inveterate smoker curiously distinguished by the yellowish-brown tobacco stains around the beard at his mouth; a considerable conversationalist. He lived with his wife Bel in Watlington, Oxfordshire. More on him another time. One of his neighbours was Jeremy Irons. Richard picked me up, and his welcome after we arrived at his home that afternoon was to open the bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin I brought him, “This is what you’re having for tea, not that other stuff.” Those were days when I indulged.
A couple of days later, Richard dropped me where I could take the bus to Oxford. On arrival, I met Aloysious and he took me to Campion. After introducing me to some of his colleagues, we had lunch there, and he also introduced me to some of the staff at the dining hall. We next went to the Bodleian and I helped him with some books he wanted to return. We then adjourned to what was then The Crypt, as recommended by my father and Richard, where I ordered some wine. Soon after I called Richard and asked if Aloysious could come over for dinner to which he replied, “If there’s some trouble in South America there’s an ex-Jesuit behind it, but let’s have him here anyway.” He told me Aloysius would have to stay over as it would be inconvenient for him to return late in the night.
Both Richard and Bel liked talking to him but loved listening to him even more. Quite the raconteur, he was the only person I knew whom I could listen to for hours. And we stayed up late talking, sipping cognac by the fire, as Richard finished another packet of Silk Cuts (I brought him a carton which elicited a ‘Bless you’ from him). It was a different era. Subsequently, Aloysious invited them for a couple of formal dinners at Campion to repay the hospitality. He had my room, and I was put up in the camper van near the house. Richard had a lovely Tudor house with all the proper renovation. When I left his home soon after, Richard said with a wink he now had a positive opinion of the Jesuits.
I’ve been told to go to Dublin immediately after my exams for a month-long period of reflection and prayer as preparation for ordination. I shall probably try to go back to the Middle East at the end of July to get my Arabic back into fighting shape….I seem to remember your stint in the navy is almost over…how’s the writing going? I’ve decided that my ongoing autobiography, and now in its fifth volume, is probably unpublishable, until after my death—it names names….two articles need to be read tonight before I turn in: “Middle Knowledge and the Problem of Evil” and “The Trinity as Modes of Divine Self-Revelation in the theology of Karl Barth.” I won’t need to count sheep tonight.—Aloysious, 17 January, 1994, St Ignatius’, London.
Despite a tone in his writing reminiscent of Saki, Aloysious shared genuine spiritual struggles as he continued to serve Divine Will. Some of the excerpts of his letters here testify to this. Some I refrain from quoting until it is time for the letters to be up. He also went on to teach Islamic history and Arabic at Oxford, and lectured in Islamic law at Georgetown University in Washington DC. When based in Australia, he promoted inter-religious dialogue with Islam in Sydney. Inordinately articulate, it was no surprise he became Director of Jesuit Refugee Service, Australia, and by the time of his stroke in 2020 was Director of Advocacy and Communications at the International Office of Jesuit Refugee Service in Rome.
In the end he [Aloysious] became one with the refugees: displaced, terminally ill, stricken, with no way out. “I don’t know what happened,” he said to me. “I can’t sleep. I’m bored as hell.”
“Do you feel you are in the hands of God?” I asked. He nodded.
“Are you happy to be in the hands of God?”
“Not always,” he replied, with the beginning of a smile, “What to do?”—Homily by Father Steve Sinn, SJ; delivered at Aloysious’ memorial mass, 4th March 2024, Sydney, 'God in exile was waiting there for me'
There is one moment that will always be remembered. The final year in junior college. The annual inter-faculty sports day. We had made it to the finals of the 4 x 100m relay for men. I was the last runner for our team, we took our positions on the track. Chariots of Fire was the big film that year and a favourite. In replication of a scene from it, Aloysious walked up and handed me a sheet of paper which the umpire allowed. I read it, and when he turned around after walking off the track, nodded to him; he smiled. I re-folded it quickly and held it in my hand. Within moments the race began.
We were off to a good start; with the second runner we were leading; when James (the other guy from my class) took over the lead increased. It was like a choreographed scene from a movie, the cheering was tremendous.
Then he dropped the baton.
There was a gasp and near silence. He stopped, turned around picked it up, and carried on running; the cheering started. By the time he reached me it did not look good; I grasped the baton with my right hand and with the crushed paper in my left, took off as best I could. The gap was too great. Everyone had passed the finish line, and a little later I crossed it too.
After the race, classmates and even a teacher came up to give words of support and encouragement but it seemed back then to have a placebo effect. Aloysious walked over looking earnest. I was handing the paper back to him as I said, “We came in last.”
He stopped me and said to keep it; it was for me; he asked me to read it again. Over the years I have read that chapter and those verses from Isaiah many times, and each time gain insight.
He said with a smile, “You kept running.”
I will not forget.
Ad majórem Dei glóriam [3]
Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding.
He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.
Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall:
But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.—Isaiah 40, 28-31.
End notes:
[1]. Horace, BkI: XXII Singing of Lalage (Integer Vitae)—
The man who is pure of life, and free of sin,
has no need, dear Fuscus, for Moorish javelins,
nor a bow and a quiver, fully loaded
with poisoned arrows…
[2]. More on Aloysious:
'God in exile was waiting there for me'
Avid promoter of interreligious dialogue passes away
Memorial Mass – Fr Aloysious Mowe SJ
[3]. The motto of the Jesuits: "For the greater glory of God."
© 2024 Sanjay Perera. All rights reserved.