by Ray Norman
Earlier that evening the agents who had been sent to the area of the attack had located the site, noting the fresh tire tracks, the assailant’s and my footprints, and pieces of shattered window glass in the sand. After following the assailant’s retreating footprints into the sand dunes, they came across a discarded blue robe and a white turban lying in the sand. (All of the men brought in for the lineup were wearing blue robes as we had described, and it was not until after we had rejected the suspects that I was informed the assailant had, in fact, abandoned his robe and obviously slipped back into town clothed in whatever he had been wearing underneath it.) The investigating agents also came across a small plastic bag containing a tattered paperback book, Petals of Blood, a well-known novel by an African author (Ngugi Wa Thiongo) that provides a bitter critique of the social injustices and economic inequality in post-independence Africa. The novel belonged to one of Nouakchott’s small struggling libraries, and after tracing the novel back there the next day, the police learned it had been checked out by Ali Ould Sidi. The agents knew they had their man, who was already familiar to the police, but his whereabouts were unknown.
Since Hannah and I had arrived at the small clinic, Myles Harrison and several other World Vision staff had worked frantically to arrange an emergency evacuation plane. Hannah still had a dangerous wound, which could potentially cause hemorrhaging in her lungs due to the internal bruising from the bullet’s impact. The medevac plane would be brought in from Dakar. We would be taken to Dakar for a checkup, then placed on the next commercial flight to Paris. We knew we would depart sometime that night.
Amrita had gone to our house and packed clothes for both of us in a small case. When she had arrived at the house late that evening, she found an anxious Aboubacar still there, waiting for us to come home for the dinner he had prepared. Because of the tense and uncertain circumstances, Amrita simply told him we would not be coming home that evening.
Shortly after midnight the medevac plane arrived at Nouakchott’s small airport. Hannah was taken from the clinic on a stretcher that was placed in the waiting vehicle. I insisted on walking alongside her as they carried her out. An exhausted Dr. Sheikh had stayed by Hannah’s side the entire time and now accompanied us, along with a few World Vision staff, to the waiting plane. A few minutes later we were driving across the runway tarmac to the small, double-prop Air Senegal plane.
Dr. Sheikh spoke briefly with the medical assistant who had flown up on the plane and checked Hannah’s intravenous fluid supply one last time while I passed on a few instructions to Myles, who would now be in charge of World Vision’s operations in Mauritania. All of us were bleary-eyed and tired. We said our good-byes in the crisp night air and, though exhausted, Hannah graced everyone with one more of her glowing smiles.
I took a deep breath and looked up briefly. It was a breathtakingly beautiful night; the sky was crystal clear, and the heavens were lit with the sparkling beauty of a million stars. I loved this land. There was so much beauty here, and I wondered longingly if I would ever be able to return. In a few moments our little plane lifted off the desert floor into that beautiful night sky. Was this the end of a journey? Was it the beginning of a new one? I pondered these questions, but only for moment. With Hannah resting by my side, we soon drifted into some much-needed sleep.
5
SOUL TRAUMA
Have I not wept for those in trouble?
Has not my soul grieved for the poor?
Yet when I hoped for good, evil came;
when I looked for light, then came darkness.
(JOB 30:25–26)
I WAS STARTLED BACK INTO CONSCIOUSNESS BY THE JARRING BUMP of the small plane as it landed in Dakar in the early hours of Thursday morning. Hannah stirred briefly as the plane’s brakes squealed on the tarmac. It was still an hour before daylight as the plane taxied and bumped its way toward a waiting ambulance on the far side of the empty airport. As I peered out the small window, I noticed the plane was taking a shortcut across a grassy area, rather than staying on the tarmac. Instantly I heard the Senegalese pilot scold his copilot, who had apparently landed the plane, for taking shortcuts while taxiing. The copilot, obviously embarrassed and irritated, mumbled that there was “no activity on the runways at this hour, so why not cut corners? Besides we are trying to get this patient to the ambulance as quickly as we can, aren’t we?” The senior pilot then told his assistant that he was being impudent, and we taxied the rest of the way with a rather sullen silence filling the cabin.
Hannah was carefully loaded into the ambulance, and after a quick check of our passports, we were weaving our way through the empty streets of Dakar toward one of the city’s main hospitals.
We soon found ourselves resting in a set of twin beds in a small, sunlit room in the emergency wing of the Senegalese facility. Hannah’s vital signs were checked one last time by the medic who had accompanied us from Nouakchott, who then turned us over to the friendly nursing staff. After new IVs were in place, we dozed for an hour or two, somewhat fitfully with the strange environment and hospital noises.
Shortly after 7:00 A.M., we were awakened by the arrival of two smiling, familiar faces—Sally and Silvie, South African and Beninese friends who staffed the Human Resources unit at World Vision’s West Africa regional office in Dakar. These two ladies had tirelessly labored through much of the preceding night to arrange the medevac flight to Nouakchott and our eventual medical evacuation to France later that day. They were in our room on official business, but you would have thought they were visiting one of their own daughters in the critical care unit. From that early morning hour until our continuing flight that evening, they were constantly by Hannah’s side, encouraging her, laughing with her, bringing her food and snacks, and lavishing on her the love and attention she so much needed. While the women tended to Hannah, I had a long and encouraging phone conversation with my colleague and friend Daniel Ole Shani, who was a Kenyan national and World Vision’s director for West Africa as well as the person to whom I reported directly.
About an hour later two doctors, one French and the other Senegalese, came in to examine us, with most of the focus on Hannah’s wounds. After more X-rays and a thorough examination, they felt Hannah was not in immediate danger, but they were concerned that she could still experience hemorrhaging in her lungs as a result of the bullet’s impact. They recommended further evacuation to the Necker Children’s Hospital in Paris, where she could not only be monitored closely until she was out of danger but also have her chest wound properly seen to by a skilled surgeon.
I too had both an entry and exit wound in the bicep of my right arm. The doctors removed some of the torn tissue, cleaned the wounds, and applied new bandages and an arm sling. They also recommended that I undergo further examination in Paris to ensure there was no nerve damage.
Earlier Hannah had been given a thorough bed bath by the kind Senegalese nurses; but having declined the offer for the same, I still had a fair amount of sand and dried blood on me from the evening before and was in desperate need of a bath. After sharing a breakfast with Hannah that was brought by Sally and Silvie, I realized I was also in need of a toilet. So I began looking for the men’s room.
Unfortunately, when I found the facilities that were shared by other wards in the hospital, they were clogged, full, and literally running over—a big contrast to the relatively clean emergency wing where we had been admitted. I realized that I was going to have to go elsewhere if I were to bathe, much less relieve myself in a way that preserved some measure of my dignity.
The doctors and hospital staff had told me that for my own safety and due to issues of liability, I was strictly forbidden to leave the hospital premises. I immediately conspired with Sally and Silvie to park their World Vision vehicle near our wing of the hospital. They would then divert the attention of the hospital staff while I took my bag of clothes prepared by Amrita the night before and slipped out in search of bath and comfort. I had already phoned my World Vision co
lleague Estelle Kouyate (my former finance director in Mauritania) and her husband, Souleymane, about my needs and my plan. They lived in Dakar, about fifteen minutes away.
My plan worked flawlessly, and in a short time I pulled up to their house, where they warmly greeted me with a towel, a fresh bar of soap, and best of all, a stiff cup of hot, French coffee! I took a long, glorious shower (all the while keeping my throbbing, bandaged arm out of water’s way). Afterward, I felt like I had a new lease on life and could face most anything. Since I could not be gone long for fear of being caught by hospital staff, I said good-bye to Estelle and Souleymane and made a stop at the World Vision office. I met briefly with Dan Ole Shani and had an encouraging moment of prayer, then quickly slipped back to the hospital. Before entering I called Sally to divert the nurses’ attention once again while I slipped unnoticed back into the room with Hannah.
After lunch I dozed a bit while Sally and Silvie braided Hannah’s hair and painted her nails. I was deeply grateful for the doting attention they had given Hannah throughout the day, keeping her focus off of her present (and painful) circumstances.
The highlight of that afternoon was when my son, Nathaniel, appeared at the clinic. The evening before, Dan Ole Shani had gone to Nathaniel’s school and had told him of the events that had occurred, including the plans for our medevac to Dakar. Nathaniel was shocked, but he knew Dan as a caring leader and a good friend of the family, and he trusted his assessment of the situation. He went back to his room and had a good cry. But knowing that the worst was over and that we were now in good hands, he quickly rebounded. As soon as Nathaniel’s classes were over in the early afternoon of the next day, a World Vision driver brought him to the clinic.
We had a wonderful visit, and Hannah was clearly delighted to have some time with her older brother. Nathaniel queried us about details of the incident and spoke many kind and reassuring words to Hannah. After he saw we were in good hands and out of harm’s way, he also seemed satisfied with staying on in Dakar at his school while we traveled to Paris for further treatment. Later in the afternoon, after saying good-bye to Nathaniel, we began to ready ourselves for the trip to the airport.
Hannah was to be accompanied by two medical doctors, loaded in a stretcher, and eventually placed in a cordoned-off section of a commercial Air France flight to Paris. We put our few belongings in a small case and were driven out to the airport early that evening. There was some sort of misunderstanding with airport officials when we got there, and I was told I would have to leave Hannah and her escort of two doctors and go through immigration and customs formalities.
While they understood that I was Hannah’s father, it was evident they did not understand that I was also wounded. It just looked like I happened to have my arm in a sling. I think they honestly thought I was trying to get a free ride around immigration formalities. I was too emotionally and physically exhausted to fight the airport bureaucracy, so I stepped out of the vehicle with our one suitcase and gingerly made my way to the bustling departure area. Besides, for Hannah’s sake, I did not want to make a scene or slow the process for her. The airport was packed and hot, and after a long wait in the ticket line, I finally got my bag checked and a boarding pass. I was exhausted, and it had been nearly an hour since I had seen Hannah. I was concerned for her well-being among strangers and hoped she would not get too anxious with my prolonged absence. As I made my way through crowded security checks and into the departure lounge, I was frequently jostled and bumped by those around me. Twice I had direct hits to my already throbbing arm. While standing in the pressing crowd just before boarding, I felt my arm begin to bleed once again from being hit and pressed against one too many times, and I was concerned that the blood would begin showing through my shirt sleeve and cause alarm among passengers and airline personnel before I could slip onto the plane.
I finally boarded, made my way to the back of the large 747, and found Hannah in her stretcher in a curtained section with her two assisting doctors. I needn’t have worried about Hannah. Both flight attendants and her doctors were doting over her, and she was enjoying every minute of it! When the flight attendants realized who I was, they were surprised that I had bothered to go through airport formalities and had not just accompanied my daughter! I just shook my head and dropped exhausted into a seat across the aisle from Hannah.
On the long flight from Dakar to Paris, I finally had a few free moments of relative solitude to catch a genuinely restful nap or two but, more importantly, to collect my thoughts on all that had transpired in the last thirty hours. My thoughts were initially drawn toward Hannah. I feared for her and the long-term effects of the trauma she had experienced. Would this scar her for life? Would she spend the rest of her life always fearful of what might be around the next corner? My concerns were much the same as my thoughts turned to Hélène and Nathaniel. Eventually I thought of myself, and I began trying to unpack the tangled knot of worries and feelings in my own heart. As I sifted through these, mentally trying to separate the different threads and determine which were attached to my head and which to my heart, my thoughts drifted back to the moments during and immediately after the shooting.
My first thoughts were of deep gratitude to God for sparing our lives in a situation that could have turned out much worse. For a few moments that are now frozen in my mind, I was certain my life had come to an end and that my daughter’s life was also over. I understood with renewed awe that “the angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them” (Ps. 34:7), and that eternity had clearly intersected with time as I knew it in those brief yet intense moments near the beach. I was grateful I would still be able to be a father to my family and to continue seeking God’s will in the wonderful adventure of life.
But as I sat in the darkened cabin of the plane, alone with my thoughts, I felt something more tangibly human tugging at my feelings. I struggled at first to sort this out. Then slowly the strong emotions I had felt just after the assault came tumbling back to my consciousness. The strongest emotion was the feeling of having been deeply hurt. Why had this man—a North African Arab, one of the people we had come to this land to love and serve—walked out of the dunes and, without any expression of reason or purpose, deliberately and intentionally tried to end our lives? What was more confusing to me as I tried to unpack my jumbled emotions was that it was not anger or outrage that I felt—feelings everyone around me in the past thirty hours had either been experiencing themselves or had been telling me I should feel.
Many foreigners will hardly give the time of day to a local stranger who interrupts their pressing plans and schedules as they rush about their hurried lives in a foreign land. But I had stopped—in the middle of my haste to spend some much-needed time with my daughter and get away from the stress that relentlessly pulled at me in my normal routine back in Nouakchott—to engage, be polite, and even express an interest in this man, his plans, and the events of his day. Why had my considerate actions not provoked even a modicum of curiosity about the reasons behind them?
My tired mind and emotions were stretching reason, but I found myself wondering why the man did not give me the opportunity to reveal my heart, to tell him of my love and affection for his people. Why didn’t I have the chance to share with him even a portion of the journey of my own heart? Of how God had peeled off layers of assumptions and prejudice and given me the opportunity to gain a small glimpse of the world as perhaps he saw it—a world where real hope is just a fleeting dream, a place of injustices and flagrant unfairness, a harsh world where fate has placed so many honest and good people in nearly intractable places of suffering, pain, and hardship? Hadn’t he seen this through the way I engaged him when he first greeted me?
I began to see that my pain was rooted in not having been understood. In taking the time to engage this stranger for a few moments amidst the sand dunes of the Sahara, I had chosen to make myself vulnerable to him—a decision entirely my own. But the choice was his either to accept or re
ject my simple act of kindness.
Over the years Hélène and I had experienced the fear of risking vulnerability, and I think for the most part we had managed to overcome it. But I was now discovering that the consequences of taking such a risk could be disturbingly painful, more painful than my physical wounds. As the need for sleep began to contend for my consciousness, I dozed off with the forming memory that even when the man first took aim at me, I had still held out hope he would understand that I was a friend, someone who cared; it was not until he actually pulled the trigger that I fully understood my act of kindness meant nothing to him.
Sometime later I awoke with a slightly clearer head. Hannah was sleeping soundly across the aisle, and I was grateful once again for the insular feel of the darkness in the airline’s cabin and the low hum of the jets as we crossed the vast Sahara. My thoughts slowly returned to where I had left off, still replaying the surreal events of the day before and trying to better understand the interplay between my head and heart.
As I pondered all this I began to see how this single choice to act kindly toward a stranger ran parallel to the larger story and choices that Hélène and I had made with our lives—our choice to praise him among the nations, to sing of him among the peoples (Ps. 57:9) wherever he led us; our choice to come to this place and daily make ourselves vulnerable, even at the risk of rejection; our choice of hope that some measure of our actions would reflect, even in a small way, the love and acceptance of the One who had forever placed himself in a place of vulnerability.
We had chosen to make ourselves vulnerable to this land and to its people. But in that moment in the Saharan dunes, in spite of my sincere actions, my vulnerability had been rejected and taken advantage of, and my daughter and I had paid dearly. This choice to love, and the inherent risks involved, had been clearly articulated by C. S. Lewis in The Four Loves:
