Climb lower: Church's mission of hope to forgotten villages in northern Thailand
By Kamolthip Vongleethanaporn, LiCAS News
What would you do if there were no hospitals nearby?
Imagine a remote mountain village, where homes are scattered along a ridge, isolated from the rest of the world. No paved roads. No electricity. Not even a small store to buy basic necessities. And most importantly—no hospitals.
One night, a child’s cries pierce the cold air, raw with pain and hunger. The villagers hear it. They understand the suffering behind those sobs. But there is nothing they can do. They wait for sunrise, hoping—just hoping—that by morning, someone might come to help.
This is not a story of material poverty, but of something far more cruel—the absence of opportunity. No access to medical care. No chance for a better life. No safety net when things go wrong.
But there are some who choose to walk into these forgotten places—to bring hope where there was none.
A journey of hope
Half a century ago, a Catholic bishop named Lucien Lacoste, from the Bétharram congregation, asked a young Thai priest, Father Niphot Thienvihan, a local diocesan priest, to travel with him and other Bétharram priests deep into the mountains of northern Thailand. Their destination was Mae Sariang, at the time a village so remote that few city dwellers had ever heard its name.
The journey was grueling. The dirt paths wound endlessly through hills and valleys, leading to villages where people lived simple lives, growing their own food, raising their families with quiet resilience. The priests did not come as tourists or missionaries looking to spread their faith. They came as healers, as friends, as lifelines for those with nowhere else to turn.
And one night, in a village called Mae Pang, the silence was broken again by a child’s cries.
The sound of hunger
The next morning, Father Pietro, another Bétharram priest, turned to Father Niphot.
“Did you hear the child crying last night?” he asked.
“Yes,” Father Niphot replied.
“Do you know why he was crying?”
Father Pietro paused, his face heavy with sorrow.
“He was crying because he was hungry. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday.”
Father Niphot fell silent. The weight of those words settled deep in his chest. In a world where some throw away food without a second thought, here was a child—starving, not because of war, not because of disaster, but because there simply wasn’t enough to go around.
Poverty here was not merely about money. It was about an absence of choice. No stores. No food supplies. No outside aid. Just a family hoping their child could sleep through hunger.
A race against time
The next day, they continued their journey to Mae La Noi, another remote village. There, a desperate man approached them.
He had traveled miles on foot, carrying only hope and his 12-year-old niece, who was suffering from severe stomach pain.
Father Pietro, who had spent years living among the villagers, understood immediately.
“She has parasites,” he said.
The solution was simple—a trip to the nearest hospital, 40 kilometers away. But for this family, 40 kilometers might as well have been a thousand. They had no means to get there.
Father Niphot did not hesitate. He got on his motorbike, the child clinging to him, her mother riding behind. It was a long, bumpy ride down steep trails. When they finally reached the hospital, the doctors gave her medicine. Within hours, she was no longer in pain.
She did not need surgery. She did not need expensive treatment. She simply needed someone to get her to a doctor.
For Father Niphot and his fellow priests, this was not an extraordinary act. This was their everyday reality—endless miles, endless need, and the unwavering belief that even a single act of kindness could change a life.
The question that changed everything
In November 1970, Bishop Lacoste invited Father Niphot to embark on another journey, from Doi Mae Tho to Doi Chang. The trail was steep, treacherous, and exhausting. Bishop Lacoste was over 60, but he pushed forward, falling at times, only to be helped up by his companions.
They could not rest. Too many people still needed them.
At the peak of the mountain, they finally stopped to eat. The bishop broke off a piece of sticky rice and handed it to Father Niphot. Then he asked a question that would define the rest of the young priest’s life.
“Niphot… do you think any Thai person would be foolish enough to take on this kind of work?”
Father Niphot did not answer right away. His younger brother had just passed away, and his family wanted him to return home. It would have been easy to walk away from this life—this life of sacrifice, exhaustion, and struggle.
But after a long silence, he gave his answer.
“I can’t tell you now,” he said. “But I will answer with my life.”
The path we choose
The journey of Bishop Lacoste, Father Pietro, and Father Niphot was never just about walking up and down mountains. It was about something deeper—the journey of compassion. The courage to care. The willingness to give.
They were not just priests. They were fathers to the forgotten, doctors to the sick, and bridges between hope and despair.
To them, climbing mountains was never about reaching the top. It was about reaching out—to the people waiting at the other end.
Because sometimes, the greatest thing we can do is not to rise higher, but to kneel down and lift someone else up.
Are we ready to walk this path of kindness?
From original Thai text by Kamoltip Vongleethanaporn
English text by June Nattha Nuchsuwan
Edited by Peter Rachada Monthienvienchai
Produced by June Nattha Nuchsuwan
This article was originally published on https://www.licas.news/. All rights reserved. Unauthorized republication by third parties is not permitted.
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