Yesterday, I had my very first real integration activity on the other side of the world, here in Laos. The young students from the French department came to pick me up from my place of assignment, each on their scooter. My favorite, Seethrong, drove me to my dorm room, number 201, so I could change into sportswear.

Nostalgia. On the synthetic turf near the university stadium, I experienced a sweet ache from the memories of my childhood football days. Like my older brothers, I dreamed of becoming a professional footballer. Football was a forbidden activity, and thus done in secret. We were only allowed to go to school. Parental protectionism?

Today, families pray that their children are accepted into football academies. Because a footballer with a promising career is automatically a billionaire. When professional football becomes a dying activity, how many parents will still have the courage to send their children to football schools? And if football were to become monastic, would parents still be as motivated for their children?

This morning on Barça TV, I realized that major football clubs recruit children from the age of 9 and begin training them. Some even start younger. And I remember those years, between twelve and fourteen, when people would come from all over to watch us play. One day, an enthusiastic spectator pointed at me and said, “That’s the next Roger Milla.” I was a striker back then. My classmates believed so much in my talent that they always nominated me for competitions, especially the Top Cup.

My dream painfully shattered in 10th grade due to knee pain. Both of my knees swelled and prevented me from running. Any impact caused unbearable pain. Unable to play anymore, out of fear of injury, I took refuge in roller skating. At university, there was hardly any time for games; social activities filled all our free space.

Then came romantic relationships, travels, work for survival, my third passion—music—and eventually the need to move abroad. Thirty years of life walking in place. The future is won in the 20–30 age range. If you succeed during that interval, chances are you’ll make your mark on humanity through your intelligence, gifts, talents, or experience. In my 30 years on earth, I feel like I’ve wasted fifteen years of work.

Here, all the young people ride scooters. I’m afraid of motorcycles. I can barely handle the steering wheel of a car. I’m 30, have no girlfriend, and I’m not salaried. I’m just a volunteer. The desire to become a father has gripped me. I want to feel like a father starting at 30, to have children. The mistakes I made—perhaps, through my presence—my children won’t fall into the trap of ignorance that many Africans suffer from.

Here, everyone looks at me like a bouquet of flowers. They love dark skin. Yesterday in a bar, I was treated like a celebrity. All eyes were on me, even though I was wearing shorts. Let me tell you the names of my friends. They said they are now part of my family: Seethrong, Boan, Phone, Sogsung, Sogban, Johnson, Xai, and Thasaphonh. We were all sitting around a table. They invited me to play. They came to get me, all smiling, and invited me to drink—everything on their bill.

Africa deserves to be recolonized—a mental recolonization, without weapons, without media, without vested interests. Most Laotians are Buddhists. They don’t believe in a Creator God. Yet their sense of love, hospitality, and respect for others is unmatched. Even within puritan Christian communities in Africa or Europe, such virtue is hardly observed. What if God revealed Himself to each people according to their culture and time? Is it truly necessary to spread a religion at all costs?

Dong-Dok, 08.03.2017

Yesterday, I was welcomed like a prince at an American school that only teaches English to young Laotians. After touring a dozen classrooms, I was exhausted. The initiative came from a student of that school who had seen a picture of me on Facebook posing with his older brother at a zoo.

An image holds immeasurable power. What a shame to see how humanity disregards it! Later, with his friends, they invited me to dinner, even at the cost of skipping their classes. Their names are Lee, Da, Ton, and Mong.

Here, in this country, happiness lies elsewhere. Happiness is found in everything that is simple. That’s what industrialized countries have lost. They have lost happiness. With these young people, we took photos. In one classroom, I felt a wave of energy. The communion with the monks was synergistic. And the students didn’t hesitate to ask to take pictures with me—in groups, in pairs, or individually.

I saw in this youth the geniuses of tomorrow. I also saw the poverty that comes from not knowing others. If God created many languages, it was so that man would learn them. But instead of learning them, man rejects his earthly mission: to learn, to master, to transform. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of what awaits me tomorrow. I couldn’t take it—I was exhausted. One hour of interrupted speaking felt like an entire day of nonstop talking. While some classes were shy, in most of them the students bombarded me with questions.

Africa is poorly known. The only positive image people have of Africa is of footballers and illegal immigrants who scam left and right. Tomorrow, I will be a speaker. For now, I am here…

This text is an excerpt from the book “EASTERN CLOCK” written by Jean-Paul Marie (Pastor Samuel Binyou).

We invite you to read the next article, “THE WELL OF RACHEL.”

HOSPITALITY. HOSPITALITY. HOSPITALITY. HOSPITALITY.