Prisoners of Hope

Home > Other > Prisoners of Hope > Page 2
Prisoners of Hope Page 2

by Dayna Curry


  On one occasion our driver’s antics almost proved catastrophic. We were racing down the road, dodging potholes and bumping over rocks, when we came to a bridge. Our water bottles, frozen solid when we departed, were now fully thawed. Sweat dribbled down my forehead. As we started across the bridge, we found ourselves approaching a ten-foot crater at the center of the overpass, the work of a recent explosion. Seeing we had one option if we hoped to get to Kabul, our fearless driver pressed ahead uninhibited by the sight. From my vantage, the view was anything but comforting. Looking out the windows on either side of the van, I noticed we were only a hairs-breadth away from the twenty-five-foot drop to a rock-hard riverbed. A flock of spotted goats grazed on the few strands of grass below.

  Our automotive dance with destiny on the Kabul road unfolded against an acoustic backdrop of blaring Hindi music, which our driver would cut off abruptly once we started running into Taliban checkpoints on the Afghan side of the border. All nonreligious music was banned in Afghanistan under the Taliban, as attested to by the Taliban checkpoint poles wrapped with layer upon layer of tape—the innards of countless audio- and videocassettes (also banned)—as a caution to wayward travelers.

  As we approached each checkpoint, our driver would yank the Hindi cassette out of the tape player and hide it; on occasion he simply lowered the volume and waved at the Taliban guard as we passed by. Like many Afghans, our driver played a constant game of chance with his Taliban overseers. Better to live freely some of the time and risk getting caught, he figured, than to live in fear and misery all of the time trying to keep the increasingly stringent law of the land.

  All along the roadside on the way to Kabul, we noticed oblong mounds of rocks and dirt. Marked by headstones and footstones, the mounds were graves or shrines where loved ones would come to pray for the dead. The bodies of the deceased were positioned above the ground, not underneath, with their faces toward Mecca, the Muslim holy city. Long branches adorned with colorful pieces of torn fabric staked many of the mounds. With every flap, these pennants are thought to release a prayer toward heaven.

  Somewhere outside Jalalabad, the halfway point on our journey, we encountered a massive cloud of dust whirling down the highway and swallowing everything in its path. Within moments we lost sight of the monstrous mountain range in the distance. I thought perhaps we could outrun the cloud, but it fast overtook us. Our driver braked to a dead stop, and everything outside of our windows disappeared. We rolled up the windows, but dust poured into the van, caking our scalps, coating our luggage. Dust stuck to our sweaty faces, and grains of sand and dirt even got wedged in between our teeth. But the storm passed almost as quickly as it came: Within five minutes we were on our way; and I learned never to wear nice clothing on the road to Kabul.

  Several hours into our trip, we kindly asked our driver to make a pit stop. Finding appropriate bathroom facilities on the Kabul road required some ingenuity. The occasional teahouses did not provide bathrooms, meaning we had to venture behind large rocks or down the mountainside near the river. The presence of thousands of land mines made creating a suitable toilet a dangerous business, and we had to be careful not to stray too far from the road. Mines of another kind, piles of dried-up feces left by earlier travelers, were strewn across the landscape. As women, we did what we could to ensure privacy by shrouding one another with our head scarves.

  We kept our money out as we traveled, because we never knew when we would drive by a child or elderly man crouched in the road shoveling gravel and dirt into potholes. People of all ages engaged in this activity, and the shovelers were covered in dust stirred up by passing vehicles. Often, the shovelers worked miles from the nearest village in scorching heat and without water. We would observe them jump up and begin to work when they saw our vehicle approaching. As we passed, we would throw Afghani bills out the windows. Usually, the road menders made only about thirty cents a day; but their services actually benefited travelers. On occasion we noticed some of their more sophisticated handiwork: newly mended barricades between the road and the river.

  Camel caravans were a familiar sight as we made our way toward Kabul. The shepherds leading the caravans were Kuchi people, nomadic Pashtuns, dressed in bright, colorful clothing that stood out against the drab browns and grays of the Afghan landscape. The shepherds carried long switches tied with strips of fabric, and the lethargic camels carried loads of overstuffed burlap bags. A strikingly beautiful people with dark hair, olive skin, and light-colored eyes, the Kuchi nomads travel in groups in search of fields where they can pasture their underfed flocks. Years of war, drought, and famine have taken their toll on the Kuchis.

  Our eyes were allowed a reprieve from dust and desert about two hours outside of Kabul at Sirobi, a town situated in a valley on a gorgeous, crystal-clear lake surrounded by trees and lush vegetation. From the mountain passes approaching the town, the view was breathtaking. I wondered, Is this still Afghanistan?

  The land became dry again and mountainous as we approached the Kabul Gorge. Here the road ran high above the Kabul River, which has nearly dried up in recent years owing to the drought. Our driver resumed his wild, mountain-road maneuvering until we got to the other side of the gorge. At last, Kabul—a broad, dusty stretch of earthen, flat-topped houses—fanned out across the valley below.

  My own personal road to Kabul often has seemed just as exhilarating, just as spectacular, and at times just as treacherous and heartbreaking as the actual road. I have often told people, “It took me years to get to Kabul.” It did—four years, in fact. There were days after my arrest and imprisonment by the Taliban in August 2001 when I wept specifically because I had waited so long to get to Kabul, only to be jailed four and a half months later with a potential death sentence hanging over my head and a global catastrophe erupting outside our prison walls.

  For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to adventure and risk. I grew up in upper-middle-class America, and my early-childhood years were rich with opportunity. I was free from the fear of needing or wanting anything. My parents loved me, provided for me, instilled in me a concrete sense of right and wrong, and created chances for me to grow and explore. I looked at the world and dreamed of its possibilities, and I desired to experience as much of life as I could. From the age of eight, I was determined to grow up and become an astronaut.

  By the time I was twelve I had lived in three foreign countries and visited eleven others. My friends were kids from all over the globe—Egypt, Kenya, India, Holland, and Italy. I learned to value people who were not like me, and I discovered that the world extended beyond my own concerns and ambitions. I also learned that most people did not live with the same luxuries to which I was accustomed. Most people lived more simply, with only the basics—if they were fortunate enough to have those. Somewhere in my heart a compassion for the less fortunate was being developed.

  As a high school student living in northern Virginia, I was driven and purposeful. Even at that young age, I wanted to be successful and make a difference in society. I defined myself largely by my physical appearance, my performance in school, and my circle of friends. To others I seemed to have my life together, but I struggled tremendously with insecurity, fear of failure, and fear of rejection. I wondered where I fit. What was my place in the world?

  During this critically formative season, my family also struggled. My parents separated and my life drastically changed. My behavior changed—my decisions became knee-jerk reactions to the chaos around me. My mom and one of my sisters moved to a different state. I rebelled against my parents, breaking all of their rules.

  Still, somehow I knew the choices I made at that time could affect my future and my destiny. Deep inside I wanted to do the right things. In high school I chose to stay out of the party scene and got involved with extracurricular activities—student government, the school newspaper, cross-country, and track and field. I threw myself into my activities. I worked hard, believing that if I could be successful, then somehow I w
ould be able to find a way out of the emotional challenges I faced. But hard as I tried, the striving didn’t gain me the kind of success I had in mind.

  Even though I worked harder than just about anyone I knew, I ultimately couldn’t measure up to the standard I had set for myself. Others around me seemed more talented and capable, and I became frustrated when their talent beat out my hard work. One year I ran the mile relay in the district championship for track and field. We ended up winning the district title that year, which opened the door for our team to go on to the regional tournament. But my coach decided not to run me again. Instead he put in another sprinter who was faster than me. I was devastated. It didn’t seem to matter that I had trained so hard and won the event at the district tournament. The other girl beat me out of a spot because of her talent. I felt like a failure. Would I ever measure up? Was hard work enough, or would I always be second best?

  One of my closest friends in high school was a Christian, and she lived out her authentic faith in our friendship. She was a friend in good times and bad. She always seemed upbeat about life and at peace with herself, and I knew there had to be a reason for it. I had friends on the track team, too, who followed Jesus, and their faith seemed to give them the motivation and the strength to live honorable lives. Observing these friends, I became curious. When my close girlfriend invited me to church with her, I was open to going.

  One afternoon in biology class, my friend invited a handful of us to a concert at her church. It was November 13, 1992. Hundreds of youth packed the sanctuary that evening, and after the concert, a young man—perhaps in his mid-thirties—shared a story about a man I had heard of before but never thought much about. A man who was revolutionary for his day and time. A man with a message. The speaker explained that this man loved me, and that the love was not contingent on anything I could do. I could not earn the love. It was free; it was unconditional. The speaker told stories of this young revolutionary healing people’s bodies and hearts. The man the speaker described even had a plan for my life. That caught my attention. “This man’s name,” he said, “is Jesus.”

  Why have I never heard this message before? I wondered. I had gone to church. I celebrated Christmas and Easter. I knew that Jesus died on a cross and came back to life three days later. But this was different. This was relevant.

  After the speaker finished, he offered to pray with any of us who desired the love that Jesus offered. I thought to myself, If this Jesus guy is really who he says he is, and if his love is truly real, then of course I want it. I had strained to be satisfied with love from other people in my life but had come up feeling empty. I wanted something lasting and life-changing, something real. This message of love resonated in my soul. That evening as the speaker prayed aloud, I prayed along with him. I asked Jesus to give me his love and heal my broken heart. I told Jesus I would follow him if he would show me where to go.

  Almost immediately I felt different. I didn’t understand why. Once the event was over, I went up to the front of the church to talk with the speaker. “Sir,” I said, “I prayed that prayer and …” Unexpectedly, I began to bawl. I could not control myself. I was horrified, humiliated. All of my peers were watching me lose it. With a sympathetic smile, the man hugged me. He explained that I had received a new life and that Jesus was healing my heart. I returned home embarrassed by my behavior and uncertain of what my decision really meant.

  Gradually, I witnessed adjustments in my life. My attitudes were different. My desires and goals were changing. I became more interested in people around me, and I began to see in others the same pain I had carried for so long. I assumed that if Jesus was big enough to mend my heart, then he could do the same for my friends. Though people did not always understand or agree with my newly discovered faith, I did not mind. Jesus became my center. He became my vision and my purpose.

  When it came time to apply to college, I looked at universities that created an environment where faith was fostered. As a young adult, I also wanted to venture to a new place and start over. In 1995, I landed at Baylor University in Waco, Texas, a school with a Baptist affiliation. I had never even been to Texas, but then again, I always enjoyed the less-traveled route.

  I grew up at Baylor. For the first time I was independent and responsible for making my own decisions. A world of possibilities opened up for me. I worked all the way through college, part-time at the cafeteria and campus library. I became involved with campus ministry to college students and led Bible studies for freshman girls. Eventually, I co-led small fellowship groups that met in students’ homes. I spent time one-on-one with several young women and encouraged them to pursue a deep friendship with Christ and show the love of God to others.

  It took me some time to find the right church in Waco, though not for any lack of choices. In this Bible Belt city, there are houses of worship on seemingly every block. I tried several churches but found myself particularly drawn to a group of passionate students who attended one of the local Baptist churches, a congregation that later helped establish the nondenominational church I currently attend, Antioch Community Church. The people at the church fervently loved Jesus, and I wanted to love Jesus with my whole heart, too.

  Through my church’s teaching, I started to learn more about people from other cultures and nations. Poverty, disease, and famine plagued several of the countries we studied. As I read the Bible, I noticed that many scriptures addressed serving the poor. One particular passage caught my attention: “ ‘… He defended the cause of the poor and needy.… Is this not what it means to know me?’ declares the LORD” (Jeremiah 22:26, NIV). I came to realize that my love for God would be directly expressed through my service to the poor. Love had to be demonstrated—how could it be authentic otherwise? Further, I had been blessed with so much in life, I had a responsibility to give of myself to those with less. I considered this scripture: “ ‘And from everyone who has been given much shall much be required’ ” (Luke 12:48, NAS).

  Throughout my years at Baylor, I looked for ways to build friendships with the poor. I did not want to patronize people; I wanted to know them. I hung out with the homeless on Waco street corners and under the interstate bridge. At one point, I tried to rent an apartment in the inner-city projects to be closer to people in need so I could identify with their struggles.

  Eventually—and it did not take long—I began dreaming of serving the poor overseas and expressing the love of Jesus to those who had never heard about him. My heart burned to go abroad. I came to a point where all I could imagine was going to the ends of the earth to serve the poorest of the poor. Sometimes people suggested other noble things I could do with my life, but those prospects always seemed second best to my dream. The thought of not going abroad, or the thought of doing anything else with my life, broke my heart.

  My vision became so expansive that I decided I would quit school after my sophomore year to get training and move overseas. “What am I doing with these books when there are so many broken people in the world who never have experienced or heard about God’s love?”

  I came around to see the practical wisdom in completing my degree, which was in German and physical education; but my heart still ached to go. When the church announced it was opening up a short, exploratory trip to Afghanistan in the summer of 1998 for anyone who wanted to consider doing humanitarian aid work there long-term, I immediately signed up.

  As my vision about sharing God’s love with the poor overseas became clearer, I had begun to pray this way: “Lord, send me to the hardest place. Send me where others do not want to go—or are afraid to go.” I had never been satisfied with the status quo. I never desired to lead what might be considered a normal life. I dreamed about pursuing the unusual and extraordinary; I desired to live on the edge of impossibilities. Helen Keller once said, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

  Further, when I considered the people whose suffering I could help alleviate and the sense of satisfaction I would gain by living for a
purpose larger than myself, the sacrifice of my personal comfort and security seemed well worth the risk.

  Still, I was not confident I had much to offer a devastated nation like Afghanistan. I had no experience to qualify me—only average talents and abilities. In prayer I felt God ask me if I could do three things: Can you love your neighbor? Can you serve the poor? Can you weep as I weep for poor and broken people? I came to see that God did not need someone with extraordinary gifts and achievements. He just needed someone who could love, share her life, and feel for others as he did. God was looking for compassion, not commendations. He was looking for faithfulness, not fame. God assured me that if I would be committed to loving and serving with a soft heart, then even if my life seemed small in the eyes of the world, before God it would be great.

  Naturally, my parents were not keen on my taking even a short-term trip to Afghanistan. My protective father did not want his daughter to put herself in harm’s way and suggested I try some other country. Ironically, where my dad was concerned, the apple did not fall too far from the tree. My sense of adventure and desire to dream came from him. He left his family at a young age to travel and see the world. He served God and country as a U.S. Marine in Vietnam. My destiny was taking me somewhere slightly different, but just as my father did what he had to do, so I had to pursue what I knew I was made to do. In the end, my dad was supportive and gave me his blessing.

  Although the 1998 summer trip to Afghanistan was meant to be a kind of toe-in-the-water excursion, our small group from Waco stepped onto the Kabul stage during one of the most dramatic moments experienced by the capital’s foreign community during the Taliban’s rule. Taliban forces had captured Kabul in 1996. Birthed out of the Pashtun tribal areas in southern Afghanistan during the early 1990s, the Taliban—“religious students”—implemented strict Islamic law and brought some order to a chaotic, deeply fractured nation. But Afghanistan was hardly stable.

 

‹ Prev