Dangerous Love

by Ray Norman

  In my interactions with people in the communities where we worked, opinions differed about America’s actions in Afghanistan. Some people supported it while others strongly disagreed, but most simply kept their thoughts to themselves and went about their daily affairs. A more revealing reaction I encountered from time to time was a sense of insecurity and genuine fear regarding America’s actions. On several occasions (especially during personal conversations with community friends and usually when talking with village women and mothers) I was asked, “Do you think Bush (or the Americans) will bomb us next, once they are finished with Afghanistan?” Many sincerely thought that President Bush was on a global vendetta to punish all Muslim countries for the acts of 9/11, and such questions were painful and heart-rending for me to hear. There was also a fair amount of rhetoric coming through United States media channels—poorly written articles or poorly articulated discussions on radio or television, in which Muslims and Islam were referred to, in whole, as a global threat or “the enemy,” without distinguishing the radical fringe that was responsible for the recent acts of terrorism.

  Another question that was confidentially posed to me on occasion was, “Why do Americans hate us [Muslims] so much? Do they not understand that we are not all the same nor do we hold to the same ideologies? Why is this so hard for well-educated Americans to understand?” I could not really speak for my fellow Americans. I felt disheartened by things I had heard, even in the Christian media. So many Muslims around the world were traumatized, hurting, confused, and vulnerable as a consequence of all that was happening and being said around the world. If there was ever a time for the church, especially in America, to reach out with understanding and loving compassion, it was now. But such insight and wisdom on behalf of most of our churches back home was not to be. And I, for one, sincerely believe the church missed out on one of its greatest opportunities in recent history to touch the Muslim world in a significant way.

  And then there is the issue of poverty in the Muslim world, which many Americans do not seem to understand. For many of us living and working in majority Muslim countries, the events of 9/11 were shocking and heart-rending, but not entirely surprising. My World Vision colleagues and I were well aware that we live in a world of increasing economic, cultural, and political disparities. The gulf between the rich and poor is greater than ever before in human history, and most Muslims in the world today are poor.

  Hélène and I first experienced the breadth of these disparities in our years in Niger, and most notably during the drought and famine of 1985. Niger is a harsh and challenging country in all respects (physically, socially, and spiritually), and today this largely Muslim nation remains one of the poorest countries in the world according to United Nation figures. It was in Niger that we encountered poverty as we had never before seen it. We learned the sobering truth that poverty is not just a distant problem, a systemic issue of a few dysfunctional states, or the result of a major environmental disaster or a lazy, unmotivated population.

  In its purest form poverty has a face and a name—such as Salamatou, our crippled neighbor, who was reduced to begging after losing her husband and who never knew from one day to the next where she would find tomorrow’s meal for her three small children; or Miriam, a fourteen-year-old Touareg girl who weighed less than sixty pounds and was brought to our home at six o’clock one morning by her father because he knew nowhere else to turn as she lay dying in his arms from malnutrition and dysentery; or Mohammed, a farmer with whom I worked, who would gaze out over his drought-ravaged crops knowing that several in his family would not survive through the next season; or the displaced Bouzou women camped in the dunes near our home who, because they were too malnourished to produce their own milk, would dig up handfuls of clay from our driveway, mix the clay with water, and feed it to their babies to quell their crying through the false sense of a full stomach. These were our friends and neighbors, those whom we wanted to serve and bring hope. But how do you have fellowship with and enter into the lives of those who live on less than a dollar a day? Their hope extended only to the next day, to perhaps the next meal or handout; our hopes extended into the years and decades ahead, college for the kids, retirement, and certainly to the hamburger or pizza we would eat when we next journeyed into the city.

  These were painfully hard times for us as we struggled to understand how to demonstrate Christ’s love across gaping boundaries of faith and heartbreaking circumstances. But we also found ourselves with a much deeper understanding of the desperation that so easily incubates under such circumstances—desperation driven by the desire of the human spirit for justice and a life safe from the constant onslaught of hopelessness and fear.

  On top of widespread poverty, many Muslims live in strife- and crisis-ridden regions of the world, and today some 70 percent of the world’s refugees are Muslim. The circumstances of war and poverty are difficult for those of us raised in the security and comfort of Western nations to fully grasp. If you happen to be caught in the cycle of poverty, it robs you of dignity and erodes your self-image and self-respect. These issues not only exacerbate the world’s cultural and ideological divides, they breed desperate and radical acts. For many in the Muslim world, it is gnawing, relentless hopelessness, not simply ideology, that drives them into the arms of the radical fringe.

  About a week after the initial invasion of Afghanistan by the United States, things began to noticeably settle down again. We still operated under tight security measures but increasingly felt that much of it was encumbering and unnecessary. Our Mauritanian friends assured us that the disturbance was typical in times of political upheaval but that the dissident voices had largely had their say and would quickly return to their normal lives. For more than a month we had lived rather restricted lives, and many of us, both expatriate and Mauritanian, were ready to resume our more normal routines.

  One of the blessings we had during this time, when our movement outside of the home was so restricted, was our house-helper, Aboubacar—a Muslim man from Guinea, a kind and gentle soul who had assisted us for several years with housekeeping and cooking. He was faithfully with us each day, bringing food from the market, preparing wonderful meals, and offering bits of local news that helped us keep tabs on the political and social climate in town. Aboubacar was from the Fula (or Peul) ethnic group—a Muslim people steeped in their faith, with a long tradition of pastoralism in West Africa, herding cattle, goats, and sheep. Shortly after he came to work for us, we learned he cared deeply for his wife and young children. He was sensitive and tenderhearted, and he soon developed a clear affection for each of us, but especially Hannah. We also learned that he eschewed anything that smacked of violence or strife. He would often get quietly distressed when anyone in the house raised his or her voice in a dispute, or even when the discipline of our children resulted in tears (of children or parents).

  In a country where it was not particularly common for people to have a soft spot for animals, his tenderness was also extended to the plethora of pets that made their way through our home: dog, cat, rabbit, monkey, and seven hedgehogs. He did not particularly like monkeys in general (he called them a devious and rascally lot), but because he knew of our children’s affections for the mischievous monkey that romped around our yard, he eventually developed an affection for the animal, much to our surprise. One day while he was dusting the living room, he stopped me as I passed through and inquired, “Monsieur, may I ask you a rather personal question?”

  Somewhat surprised, I replied, “Why certainly, Aboubacar. What is it?”

  He turned and hesitantly picked up a framed picture that had always held a prominent place on the cabinet—a picture of Jesus tenderly holding a lamb, part of his face affectionately buried in its fleece. “Since I have been in your house, I have noticed this picture every time I clean the front room. Who is this man?”

  I thought about the question carefully for a moment and gently asked, “What is it about him that intrigues you?”

/>   “Well, Monsieur, I was wondering why you have a picture of a man who is obviously so kind to his sheep. Do you mind telling me who this man is and why he has these wounds on his hands?”

  I took a deep breath and explained that this was an artist’s depiction of Isa al-Masih (Jesus the Messiah), the incarnation of a loving God, that he referred to himself as the Good Shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep, and that since my family and I were followers of Jesus, we placed this picture in our home to remind us that he is a kind and gentle shepherd to those who follow him. As I made this explanation Aboubacar was staring intently at the picture, and I saw his eyes twinkle with understanding and evident admiration for a fellow shepherd.

  He quietly thanked me, saying, “Now I understand.”

  Followers of Islam know “about God,” and they know of his will as revealed through Mohammed and the precepts of Islam. But God (or Allah) in his essence does not come down among men. In Christ, God has come down to redeem and restore us, and through the incarnation we have the supreme joy and privilege of knowing God in his essence. I hoped that in some small way my words had conveyed such to Aboubacar. In the months that followed, as I passed by the living room when Aboubacar was cleaning, I would often see him gently lift that picture and thoughtfully gaze at it for a few moments before carefully replacing it. And in our conversations that followed, he was clearly pleased to know that the Jesus we followed was gentle and kind.

  Hélène had been pursuing a diploma in music theory by correspondence with the Open University in the United Kingdom—one of the many ways she kept her mind active in this remote outpost. On October 14 she had to fly to Paris to sit for an exam, leaving Hannah and me alone. After the exam she was going to go to her parents’ home in Calais, France, to spend a few days before returning. She made all the practical arrangements with Aboubacar for our comfort and nourishment during her planned absence. He fixed Hélène a delicious meal before wishing Madame, as he called her, a safe journey and a quick return. And he assured her he would take good care of Monsieur and la petite, as he affectionately referred to Hannah. We then headed out to Nouakchott’s small airport on the edge of town, and it was about 9:00 in the evening when Hélène checked in for her 11:00 P.M. flight.

  Since we had an hour or more to wait, we sat in the small departure area and chatted. I remember well how nice it was to have this time alone together, temporarily removed from the concerns of family or work. We soon found ourselves reflecting over the past hectic weeks since the twin towers of the World Trade Center had fallen and so many lives had been tragically lost some six thousand miles away.

  We also anticipated the future, but this is where we differed. I believed there was every indication that things would continue to return to normal—and every practical signal we had, from local government sources to security references abroad, indicated this. But Hélène is more intuitive about things. She listened, then turned to me and simply said, “Ray, I just don’t have a good feeling about leaving you and Hannah here.” I gently scoffed at her feelings and suggested she was simply uptight about the flight. (She has spent most of her life flying but has never liked it!) She persisted and repeated her foreboding all the more emphatically. I did not want us to say good-bye on such a negative note, so I begged her to allow herself to have a much-deserved break from the desert, think about herself, and not worry about us. “What’s more, we have Aboubacar to take care of us!” I could see that she was still struggling to take my lighthearted and typically male words to heart, especially when she felt so deeply about what she sensed. Loving wife that she is, she snuck a kiss on my cheek in a place that discourages such public acts of affection, gave me a quick, tight hug around the waist, and walked across the tarmac to the waiting plane.

  As the plane lifted off into the night sky, I felt grateful that she could have a break from the stressful times and from the loneliness she often felt in Mauritania. But as the last blinking light of the plane merged with the glimmering stars on that clear, desert night, I was already feeling the pangs of being left alone in the desert.

  3

  A TENUOUS CALM

  Do not be afraid. . . . For I will pour water on the

  thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground.

  (ISAIAH 44:2–3)

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17, DAWNED BRIGHT AND RELATIVELY dust-free. It was going to be one of those nice, clear autumn days in the western Sahara when the temperature is relatively mild, never climbing beyond the high nineties. I was looking forward to this day. After a morning of work at the office, I was scheduled to spend the afternoon visiting some of our project sites in the squatter communities that surround the town. I viewed office work as a somewhat tedious but necessary part of my responsibilities: negotiating our many collaborative initiatives by phone or electronic correspondence with our World Vision support offices in the United States, Canada, Europe, and Australia; reviewing budgets and internal audit reports; preparing formal correspondence with government and other partner entities; crafting grant proposals; studying field reports; and seeing to personnel matters—just to name a few of the seemingly endless tasks that usually awaited me each morning in the office.

  It was always a relief to get out of the office and away from the administrative tedium to spend time in community neighborhoods, listening to people’s stories of concern and hope and learning to better see the world through their eyes. In spite of a heavy administrative load, I tried to carve out regular time for these visits. It was a needed reminder of why we were in Mauritania, sobering on one hand when confronted with the conditions and needs but always uplifting to encounter the vision and enthusiasm of our field staff and the community leaders we worked alongside.

  As a result of the difficult times we had endured in recent weeks and the precautionary measures we were under, opportunities to spend time with our communities had been limited. But tensions seemed to be lifting, life was slowly returning to normal, and I was anxious to get back to more regular visits beyond the security and comfort of our office compound.

  I shuffled to the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee, a little lonely since Hélène was not there to share our morning ritual. I thought how blessed my family was in spite of all the challenges we had faced recently. Hélène was pursuing her love of art and music; Nathaniel was in a good school in Dakar, Senegal, making friends and quickly growing out of boyhood; and Hannah was crazy about her little school in Nouakchott, which was nestled next door to the American embassy complex.

  Besides, I always enjoyed having a few days alone with one of the children. Multitasking has never been one of my favorite duties we are called to in this life, and I was thoroughly enjoying having a few days to focus all my attention while at home on Hannah. On the surface Hannah was a quiet, somewhat shy ten-year-old. She was also active, healthy, and sported an unusually dark tan from her days frolicking on the endless Saharan beaches just outside of town. Hannah was nobody’s fool. She was perceptive and had an unusual ability to see through most people. She also carried a spark in her eyes, had a mind of her own, and could be as hardheaded as her father. We were a good match and enjoyed lively discussions over dinner about bugs, dolls, when homework was going to get done, or how we were going to divvy up housecleaning chores until Mom came home.

  With these things tumbling around in my mind and knowing that I would not be spending the entire day behind the desk, I was in a particularly upbeat mood as I finished my morning coffee and a time of Scripture reading and reflection. I moved on to Hannah’s room to pull open the curtains and coax her into a new day with a light tickle. This was one of those wonderful seasons in her life when she was in love with school. After she was out of bed, there was no lack of motivation to get ready for another fun day. We had our breakfast together, offered a prayer for Mom and Nathaniel, and chatted briefly about our plans for the day ahead. As soon as we had dressed and collected her knapsack and my briefcase, we were out the door.

  As I turned off the main
thoroughfare onto the side street that led to Hannah’s school, we passed a military tank and the armed guards stationed in front of the school and the adjacent American embassy, security precautions offered by the Mauritanian government since the events of 9/11 some five weeks earlier. The instant I pulled the Land Cruiser to a stop in front of the school’s shady, gated entrance, Hannah was already leaning over to offer me her usual parting kiss and was bounding out the door before I could wish her a good day. I watched her with an admiring heart as she skipped through the gate in her navy-and-white school uniform with the requisite water jug and knapsack clumsily dangling from her shoulders. After she was safely inside the gate, I drove toward my office, which was only five blocks away. When I passed through our ground floor entrance, I went through my usual ritual of hastily tossing to our receptionist and any other waiting guests greetings of “As-salaam alaikoum!” (Peace be upon you) and “Bonjour!” before I turned to spring up the stairs of our old building to my second-floor office. Since the steps were uneven and all of them too short, I always took them two or three at a time. This daily exercise baffled our Mauritanian staff who are conditioned by a heritage rich in expectations of propriety and decorum for any type of leader. In my usual haste I would, on occasion, miss a step and stumble briefly while those below tried to stifle chuckles about their American boss who was always in a hurry. I have little doubt they placed bets each day on whether I would make a fool of myself during my entry, but this day I took the entire staircase (two at a time) in stride. When I reached the top I mentally patted myself on the back, thinking it was a good start to what would surely be a good day.