There is one mess, one dining area and one TV room. Yet there is a silent dividing line that shouts that all people on board are not equal. The stylish, soft, white upholstered chairs are for the officers' mess, with hard, rickety plastic chairs for normal seamen. The soft chairs are in front of the screen. The hard chairs are like wall flowers along the edges. Chairs arranged according to value... unambiguously also an indication of your value on board.
Let me explain. An ordinary seaman earns mostly a minimum wage, barely covering the breadline. Rand for rand the difference between a Captain's salary and that of an ordinary seaman is as far apart as the East is from the West. That is one aspect, but what is worse is that the men are often treated accordingly too. It is as if they are the dreck without any value and are simply on board to serve others.
Loffie, of course, is invited to sit on the white comfortable chairs, but he walks on. He purposefully walks to the rickety chairs and sits down next to a man that is probably not noticed very often. He asks his name and listens to his story. With empathy he shares the Word that cannot distinguish, on any level, who or what you are. In the context of the Cross, the chair you sit on remains irrelevant.
During his daily work Loffie meets the world. He meets men from the poorest parts of India and the Philippines, but also from Bangladesh, Thailand en Myanmar. Over the past years the sea also brought more men from Russia and the Ukraine - caught in the grip of war, afraid to go home. Today there is a new stream of men from Eastern Europe - all ordinary seamen from Croatia, Bulgaria ... most of them driven by need.
They sign contracts for nine months. It means nine months away from their children. Nine months without the voice of a dad, making the voice a mere memory. Poverty forces them to the seas, but it leaves a gap that can only be filled by God.
This is exactly where remarkable things happen.
Every new nationality is accompanied by another language, a new language and every new language opens the door for the Word. The love and mercy of the Man of the Cross is whispered in passages where it had never been heard before. Chinese literature is distributed. Prayers are mouthed silently. Hearts are opened and become receptive.
Thank you for being part of this and for your financial support. Thank you for helping us carry this silent, but deep work. Please pray for the 'ordinaries' of the seas. Pray that they will experience the bigger Truth than the chair on which you have to sit - that a chair does not make the man. Also remember Loffie and each of our Chaplains in your prayers, pray that they will continue to sit where others do not want to sit - until every man knows: He is seen and he is loved. God's love and mercy is for him too.
The oceans now carry more than freight. It carries tension, whispers of war and the faint thunder of insecurity that cuts even through steel and waves.
Miguel,a main chef from the Philippines stands in the kitchen. His grip is strong when he shakes your hand, but his eyes have a far-off view - secretly he is looking beyond the ship, beyond the horizon, he is looking home where his wife and children are waiting. The radio talks about attacks around Iran, of ships sailing a route without economic viability, rather on risk. In his hand he holds a CSO Bible in his own language. It is not only paper - it is an anchor. As the world around him shouts louder and louder, he reads with Danie, about tenderness and love that remains soft. He holds it like someone that understands how fragile everything is.
At the next ship, a young engineer from India remains seated after the meal. He is alone at the table. The plates have been removed, but the tension remains. Every shifting the engine room now feels closer to danger. Every change in direction leads to an urgent question - shall we be safe? He picks up a Bible, seemingly insecure whether it is allowed of not. When he talks to Danie it is soft, insecure. And yet, when he finally walks away, he is holding the Bible close to his chest. It explains his gratitude for the moment of peace that he found at that table.
On another deck, Oleksandr from the Ukraine is standing, staring at the mist hanging ominously over the harbour this morning. His own country has been broken by war already and now the shadows are following him across the seas. The Middle East is on fire and even here, far from everything, he clearly feels the glow of the fire. He is holding a Bible, not with big words or prayers. He is only holding it - like someone needing to find the light, without knowing where it will come from.
As Danie visits ship after ship, the mist does not lift dramatically. The world does not change suddenly. But, here something else is definitely happening. Hands are extended without agenda. Bibles are being opened like windows. Here, the love of Christ is spread, not with loud noise, only spread in small, quiet deeds.
The world is dividing, but here connections are found. Where war brings about fear, here you find empathy and softness. It is not because the sea is calm, only because the Living Hope helps to throw out anchor. For a moment, a mere moment, there is the solid knowledge that this Light is stronger than the dark.
Thank you so much to our friends and donors for making this happen. It helps to shine the Light. The Light helps in a world that needs it so very urgently.
The Strait of Hormuz breathes with difficulty, like a wounded animal that instinctively knows that there is danger hiding in the dark. An invisible line between fear and peace spans the river. The pitch dark night is full of eyes staring knowingly and afraid at the horizon. The flickering lights that brighten up the area are not stars or festive lights. They represent death and destruction!
At dawn the Strait lies like an open wound. The loss of life on board the Safesea Vishnu was torn apart by an Iranian attack. The wreck, now a landmark, signifies the first shots fired in a senseless war. It is a senseless war that stole innocent lives. Now it is but one of more than twenty trade vessels that were hit within days within the deadly theatre of the war. The Zefyros, is another victim. It drifts nearby. What had been a proud ship was reduced to a handicapped piece of scrap that was hit by a missile.
On board each ship everyone is only too aware of the dozens of Iranian sea mines lying in wait, silent and cruel, just below the surface. Each mine represents an invisible death sentence. The men and women on board are no longer merely doing a job, they are gambling with their lives each day.
Fear moves fast. It runs through passages, climbs walls, pierces steel and enters the depths of your body. It is loud, it shouts urgently: Survive! Protect! Escape!
Peace moves with a slower tread. It is an expensive commodity. It exists in spite of fear. It makes you deeply aware that fear can let you live, but not have your life.
The sea holds onto everything - the fire, the smoke, the prayers that not many say out loud. The sea does not choose sides.
Yet — amid the alarms and the shadows something small is happening. There is a hand finding another hand. There is an eye that says, ‘I see you’. There is a voice that is softer than the chaos. That is where peace is born. Peace is not the absence of danger, it is more the presence of Someone much bigger.
The thousands whose paths are being rerouted around the southern tip of Africa, those that visit our harbours, carry the same fear and seek the same peace. That is why the CSO is there on the quay each and every day, despite the chaos and upside down world. We visit ships, we talk in the captain’s office. The longing for peace is unmistakeable. We place a hand on a shoulder, listen attentively and talk softer than the chaos. Why? Because our hope is in the One that gives that peace, the peace that transcends all understanding. We have the privilege of being the voice of peace to men and women working at sea, being the voice of peace in a world filled with absolute fear.
When the Easter Bells peal, we shall remind each person of His victory over the gruesome events of the Cross. We shall remind everyone that the Cross brought about a new dispensation - one of love, hope and peace. With a financial contribution you can help us to take the peace of the Man of the Cross to hearts that are drowning in fear. Please consider it, also in prayer, to support us.
Statistics are facts. It is good that is counted: so much of this and so much of that. For example, there are many statistics about the war that is currently raging in the Middle East. So many days, so much damage, so many casualties.
There are also statistics about shipping - especially with the Strait of Hormuz. According to official news reports, up to 20,000 seafarers are currently trapped on ships in the Persian Gulf. Until recently, 18 ships had already been shot at and many deaths were reported. The Saesa Vishnu was attacked and 38 crew members were rescued from the ship.
Large shipping companies have stopped shipping traffic in the area. This also applies to ships transporting critical products such as oil tankers and container ships.
These are statistics. The statistics are likely to increase in the future.
But behind the statistics there are seafarers. Men who are trapped with limited supplies and internet connection. Sailors living in fear and mortal danger. Minimal communication with loved ones at home with no idea what the next hour will bring.
Behind the statistics are the emotions of sailors. This is the core of the crisis. Not the number of this and the number of that. Raw emotions that cannot be soothed by the whistling of bombs and missiles.
These are our people. CSO's people. Some of those sailors may have already crossed CSO's path. Sometime in the future when everything returns to normal, some of those traumatized sailors may cross CSO's path. Then they need us.
It is only prayer and the Word of the Lord that can make a difference. Let us join hands and fold our hands in prayer for the sailors affected by the war. Add them to your prayer groups. Let us all pray together because the prayer of a believer has a powerful effect (James 5:16). These men desperately need our hand-holding prayers.
The young cadet smiles widely. Nico, our Chaplain in Durban, stands on deck of a majestic cargo ship. Next to him is a young man, his eyes wandering in the direction of the ocean, as if he is standing on deck here and now, but also as if he is at home already. There is fatigue in his shoulders, showing months of stress, waiting and longing. At the same time there is a new light - a wide smile - showing the inner conviction of someone that now lives for more than only himself. He smiles as if he knows, secretly, that the world became bigger and smaller in a single breath. He became a father only yesterday.
He has not had the opportunity to hold his son yet, but suddenly he is aware of the enormous weight of being a father. He proudly shows the pictures on his phone. He jokes about his unbelievable wife and says it is the most beautiful little boy that had ever been born. He talks quietly about the baptism that awaits them and about a home full of faith. They will call him Joshua. The end of March lies like a life-buoy on the horizon. It marks the end of a contract and the beginning of a family. If he could only hold him for a moment before then and introduce himself - he explains with a smile but a tear in his eye. Nico and the young man pray together, in gratitude.
On the opposite quay Chris visits ships too. At the top of the step ladder he meets a security guard that he has known for years. His body language is different. His shoulders are down, tense, his eyes are restless, his body speaks of mistrust that stays with him like a shadow.
Chris greets quietly and merely asks, "How are you?"
The question hangs between them for a moment, like a rope that does not know whether it is fixed or not.
Then it breaks. "My mother," he says. Then nothing. He only breathes heavily. Eventually, as if it required all the courage in the world, "She is dead". She was not ill. She was not old. She was murdered. The weight of the single word hangs heavily and dark in the air. Chris knows that there are no easy answers or explanations in such a case. These would be like carrying water to the ocean. It is a senseless task. He only needs to be there. He only has to place his hand on a shoulder. He has to tell him that God knows about his pain, that God knows for certain. So they stand, a step between the quay and the deck. They are somewhere between the past and now. They are between pain and hope. A Chaplain and a son without his mother. They pray together urgently.
The same day. The same harbour. Two stories, one of life and of loss. One of hope being born and one of hope that has died. At the CSO we stand exactly there - on the quay when joy is running over and when hearts are breaking. If we did not do it, no one else will do it for the men working at sea.
Won't you consider, pray and think again about supporting us financially? We want to be on the quay rain or shine, for each man working at sea, to help them being aware, all the time, that God is Great!