At 76 years old, I am on my first extended stay in Cameroon, in the city of Douala. I experienced the Easter rites with the parish community of Saint Jude the Apostle, once on the outskirts, but now overtaken by continuous new construction.

I was somewhat familiar, having lived there for a long time, with the populations of eastern Democratic Republic of the Congo. So the comparison comes naturally. The first thing that immediately stands out is that eastern Congo is at war and under foreign occupation; Cameroon, after the days of strong repression following the unrest after last October’s elections, now lives a return to normality, at least on the surface, while each person focuses on their most immediate concern: securing a minimum livelihood through work. In Congo there is war; in Douala and its surroundings there is not. This means one can sleep, make plans, go to school, and there are no intentional or accidental gunshots to avoid. And the difference is great!

In both Congo and Cameroon, people have an easy and warm smile, a sense of dance that seems to be breathed in from the womb, the ability to praise and give thanks, hospitality, and generosity.

Here I never hear the word “benefactor”: the growth of the Church, even structurally, comes from the commitment of each person, individuals and groups alike… If a child dares to ask for a candy, an adult corrects them. Only extreme poverty might lead someone to knock on a door. The parish Caritas itself is the fruit of local commitment.

On March 24, together with some parishes in the area, we celebrated the Day of the Martyrs. Among the figures remembered were Cameroonian and African witnesses of the faith, as well as journalists and politicians passionate about truth and justice, some of whom have even been killed recently in the country. I see a mother’s eyes shine with pride as she carries the photo of one of them to the foot of the altar.

The time given directly to God in celebrations is never too much. The day before yesterday, on Good Friday, people walked through the neighborhoods from 11 in the morning; at 2 p.m., one of the different groups that make up the community staged the death of the king in the church courtyard. Finally, the Good Friday liturgy took place. It was almost 7 p.m. when people began their journey home, proud of having endured the rain and mud during the Way of the Cross. Time is given to God in abundance.

During the Easter Vigil, about ninety young people received the sacraments of Christian initiation. Today, Easter Sunday, the church was not large enough to welcome all the faithful, despite four Masses in addition to the Vigil. Everyone was dressed in their best clothes, with joy on their faces. While elsewhere Easter is prepared at the table or through outings, here the joy lies in celebrating.

Yet I am drawn to the modest, sometimes faded clothing of those in more humble conditions—sometimes elderly, sometimes accompanied by a child with a disability. I notice with joy that some of these young people are integrated into liturgical services, which they carry out with pride.

I do not notice any social hesitation in expressing faith—whether among men, youth, women, or children.

How all of this transforms life is something I, too, am trying to understand. Certainly, it gives life a more solid and stable foundation of joy, resilience, courage, and openness in relationships.

The parish is made up of about ten living ecclesial communities that meet weekly in homes. The one I have begun to attend is perhaps the smallest: a man or his wife participates, along with their three daughters and five or six children preparing for the sacraments. Who knows if, after receiving them on the night of Easter, they will continue attending. But the community is there…

Last week, with Lucia, we went to visit a community of the Sisters of Mother Teresa, who welcome the most abandoned people in the city. Each of them has a painful story, but what one sees and breathes upon entering is joy—the smile that shines first of all on the faces of the sisters, who lovingly welcome people sometimes literally found among the garbage.

Their witness touches me and gives me peace: to change the world, it is not necessary to judge left and right—it is enough to begin with ourselves.

I continue to look for signs, and I see them springing up everywhere—in my community and in so many who have shaped their lives not around self-interest, but around service, especially to the smallest.