by Ray Norman
On many occasions in years past, Hélène had demonstrated unusual courage, but when she decided we should go back to Mauritania, for me it was the most courageous and selfless act I had ever seen her undertake. And I was deeply grateful, more than I had ever been, to have her as my wife and companion on this amazing adventure of life.
7
FINDING HEALING IN A HARSH LAND
He will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
(ISAIAH 58:11)
WHEN OUR AIR MAURITANIE FLIGHT ARRIVED IN NOUAKCHOTT, THE sun had already set over the wide horizon of the Atlantic Ocean that always glimmered under the sun or the night sky just on the outskirts of the town. Earlier in the day we had said our good-byes to Nathaniel and to our wonderful, supportive colleagues at the World Vision office in Dakar. When we stepped off the plane, I had a lump in my throat as I breathed deeply of the crisp, night air of the desert once again.
The instant my feet stepped onto Mauritanian soil, I whispered an offering of profound gratitude to my heavenly Father for bringing us home again. We were quickly ushered through immigration formalities and experienced a warm and tearful welcome from a handful of our leadership team who had been waiting for us. In a few moments we stepped out of the terminal and headed toward the waiting vehicle.
It was cool and dark, but the night also had a foggy appearance from the seasonal blowing of dust and sand off the desert landscape. As our eyes adjusted to the darkness, four large Mauritanian men, dressed in their blue, traditional robes and turbans, suddenly appeared striding determinedly toward us through the darkness. Hannah grabbed my hand at this unexpected sight, and for a moment images of the similarly clad assailant who had also approached us the last day we were in Mauritania raced through each of our minds. Instantly, with all of my frazzled yet protective instincts once again provoked, I took a step out in front of Hannah and Hélène to ascertain these men’s intentions. But before I could adequately react, one of the turban-clad men reached down and swept Hannah off her feet into his arms and held her close while the others quickly gathered around. Hannah was saucer-eyed and stunned but said nothing in that second.
Then, just as the one now holding Hannah in his arms began to speak, I noticed the twinkling and teary eyes appearing through the slits of their turbans. “Hannah! Welcome home! Welcome home! We thank you from our hearts for having the courage to come home again to Mauritania!”
To our utter astonishment we realized these were members of our World Vision field staff, men who had made the long journey from their scattered places of work to come to the airport to welcome us home that evening! As I stood there in the darkness, watching these men of the desert, men of Muslim faith, holding my daughter tenderly and lavishing her with gentle kisses and hugs, I began to see in a powerful way the first glimpses of how God, in his infinite and immeasurable way, intended to bring his healing and restoration to my daughter. Soon their affections were poured out on Hélène and me as well; and for a few precious moments we basked in the loving, healing warmth of our Muslim friends, who loved us as their own.
As our vehicle pulled away from the small airport, I thought of our years in the Sultanate of Oman, where we had first encountered the important lesson of receiving from those we had come to serve. We had arrived from Africa believing we were seasoned workers, with six challenging years of experience in a Muslim country already under our belts. But Oman has a far more strict interpretation of Islam than that found in many parts of West Africa, and our first months were replete with new experiences.
On some weekends we were invited to spend the day with newfound Omani friends in their homes. Often, and in keeping with local propriety, Hélène would immediately be led off to the women’s quarters upon our arrival and I would be entertained in the men’s sitting room, with only the young children free to roam between the two worlds. Hélène and I would not set eyes on one another until our departure in the evening.
We soon realized we were out of our depth in Oman, facing an entirely new language, new culture and norms, and an unfamiliar form of Islam. I did well at my job as a professor at the national university, but our early attempts at developing meaningful relationships with Omanis floundered, generally because of our own shortcomings. In the isolation and loneliness of our first months, a caring Omani family reached out and adopted us into their family—having us over for meals, taking us on outings, arranging for our children to play together with theirs, and dropping food off at our home. We were grateful for their kindness; their care and concern touched us deeply in a time of need. But my feelings were conflicted, and my pride was knocked down a notch or two. We were on the receiving end in this situation, but weren’t we supposed to be the ones with the answers, the spiritual insight, and the offer of hope? So began the painful process of learning how to be transparent, vulnerable, and needy among those we wanted to help. It was there in Oman that we learned the importance of being willing to be helped and loved by those we came to love and serve.
Shortly after Hannah, Hélène, and I left the airport, we were swerving through the erratic traffic and potholed streets of Nouakchott. The sights and smells of the sand and dust, mixed with the chaos of animals (camels, goats, and sheep), pedestrians, street hawkers, and night stands—sensations that in times past may have overwhelmed (or even repulsed) us—permeated our senses with waves of welcomed familiarity. We were home! If you had heard us, you would have thought we had been gone for a year or more. A few minutes later we were pulling into our familiar side street, unpaved and full of sandy patches that often required an aggressive spinning and slipping of wheels to escape from them.
Aboubacar, our faithful house-helper, had been forewarned by Amrita that we were to return that evening. It was already nearly 9:00 P.M., but Aboubacar, who had obviously sacrificed his own evening with his wife and children, greeted us warmly as we stumbled through the door with our meager baggage. Also awaiting us was a freshly cleaned house and a feast—tchep bou dien, my favorite African dish of fresh sea fish, a medley of local vegetables, and cracked rice, prepared only as Aboubacar could.
He was delighted to see us all, but his first concern was clearly Hannah, and as he greeted her in his warm and gentle way, I could see he was fighting to hold back his tears. Those who had escorted us home from the airport quickly said their good-byes and left us to our much-needed time to settle back into our own home. Once we were alone—just us and Aboubacar—it soon became clear that he was like a reservoir ready to burst. He needed to talk and unload from the burden of worry and concern he had been carrying all alone these past weeks.
We learned that on the day of the shooting, Aboubacar had remained at the house to prepare dinner for Hannah and me when we returned from the beach. Normally we would have come back around 6:30 P.M. or shortly thereafter. By 9:00 P.M., when we had not returned or made so much as a telephone call to the house, he was worried. We had an ongoing agreement with him that, regardless of our coming and going, he should always feel free to head home to his family before too late in the evening, even if we had not yet showed up for dinner. But that night he had chosen to stay out of concern for us, and it was not until 10:00 P.M., when Amrita came by to pack some of our clothes, that he had learned we would not be coming home that evening. Because of the tenuous security circumstances, Amrita did not feel she could give him any further information. Shortly after arriving at his home, he heard the news from neighbors that an expatriate and his daughter had been shot late that afternoon.
Early the next morning, after finding no one at our home except the day guard, who had been assigned to our home since 9/11, Aboubacar walked the ten blocks to my office to try to learn more from Amrita. But because of the tense and uncertain situation, she still felt she could not give him details and simply explained that we would not be home for a few days.
In the weeks that followed, Aboubacar made regular trips to our office only to be turned away with little
or no information as to our welfare or the likelihood of our return. Amrita did not contact him until the day before our arrival to ask him to clean the house and prepare some food for the next evening. And it was not until we walked through the door that he had any understanding of the extent of our wounds or the details of the events.
As we shared our respective experiences, it soon proved too much for him and he broke into tears—the only time I ever saw him weep. The evident love and concern of this Muslim man touched our tired hearts. Later that evening, after Hannah was happily settled in her own bedroom, Hélène and I pondered and replayed in our minds these remarkable welcomes as we too drifted off into much-needed sleep.
The next morning I awoke feeling refreshed after a night in my own bed and home, filled with a deep sense of contentment in being where I knew I belonged. But I had no illusions about the task that loomed before me—surely an arduous route that would be fraught with risks and unknown obstacles. True to my expectations, our return to Mauritania was followed by an intensive and stressful period of assessing security, dialoging with government officials, and trying to answer countless questions for which we did not have the answers: the implications of our return, the future of World Vision’s program, and the future well-being of the children and poor communities to whom we had made commitments. These children and their communities were the very reason for our presence in Mauritania. Over the last couple of weeks, I had already heard that many were deeply concerned, certainly for the well-being of my family, but also for the continued partnership with World Vision that for many had become a major focus of hope. And I knew that one of the first tasks most deserving of my energy was visiting as many of these communities as I possibly could.
Then there was the welfare of our expatriate and national staff. While all of our staff had been deeply disturbed by the events, a number of our expatriate staff were still concerned about their safety. I knew I needed to be there to walk through this process with them. On the evening of the shooting, one of our senior expatriate staff members had gone directly to the American embassy and taken refuge there for at least twenty-four hours, so great was his fear for his own life.
Our national staff also worried for themselves and their families, as World Vision was their life and livelihood. Should the assault on our lives serve as a catalyst for increased public sentiment against both Christians and westerners, the staff could be at risk. I knew that in some measure their sense of safety and security was bound up in our own. If our staff could see God’s faithfulness reflected in our own willingness and ability to follow his chosen path to restoration, then they would surely be strengthened in the process.
But on a deeper and more personal level, the tension that tugged most relentlessly on my heartstrings was the welfare and healing of Hannah and Hélène. If they could not find peace, our days in Mauritania would surely be numbered.
As a family, while we knew God had led us to return, we still faced a great deal of inner turmoil. Hannah was clearly fearful for my safety whenever I was out of her sight. Every time I headed out the door, she would ask where I was going, who I would be seeing, and when she could expect me back home. Hélène was also anxious, especially for my safety, since I spent much of my days in very public venues. And we both were often awake at night agonizing (frequently with free-flowing tears) over the question of why God had allowed all of this to transpire.
During those days there was never any doubt in our minds and hearts that we were also engaged in a spiritual combat that tested the limits of our ability to resist attacks of fear and accusation from Satan and to continually place our trust fully in the One who promised to be “an ever-present help in trouble” (Ps. 46:1).
I remember well one sleepless night when I was exhausted from feeling constantly tossed between contradicting waves of despair and hope. I longed for our hearts to find solid, immovable ground. Realizing that this probably was not going to happen before sunrise, I began to look back over the days since our return and remembered that, in spite of our weaknesses and the fact that we were often groping in the dark, we had each made progress in the right direction. It dawned on me that, although we had stumbled at times in our failure to trust God to both lead and protect, at least we had been stumbling forward in the direction our hearts pulled us. And in the bone-wearying days that followed, when insecurity and doubt seeped into my heart, I would assess the progress of the day by quietly asking, Have we at least stumbled forward, Lord? Time and again I would have the deep reassurance that in the midst of our own limitations and weakness, we managed to do just that.
Although there were many among our acquaintances and friends who struggled to understand the complexities of what we were going through, we found that in the most intense moments of crisis or fear, the Holy Spirit would remind us that there were many around the world, as well as those among our colleagues in World Vision, who were praying and interceding for us. Often these reminders came through a phone call, a hand-passed note, or the timely arrival of a letter or e-mail. The communications that encouraged us the most were not those telling us either how we should be reacting or responding, nor those that told us how courageous we were. Rather, it was those who seemed to quietly understand the depth and complexity of what we were facing, and who committed to stand with us faithfully in prayer for wisdom and spiritual combat against the forces of darkness that waged war against God’s purposes for us in this land and among the people we loved.
In the days following our return, there was a constant stream of visitors and well-wishers at the office and our home expressing their sorrow about what had happened and their delight in our decision to return. Often they would come in the late afternoon and early evening, so it was usually after 8:00 P.M. before our family could finally focus on each other’s needs. Most of the encounters with visitors were deeply touching, especially those that involved our Mauritanian friends. We had true friends in Mauritania.
Hannah was thrilled to be home and especially to be reunited with her small, international school community. In this season in her life, and in spite of all the harshness and even hostility that this remote corner of the western Sahara could at times toss out, this was her community, her world. When we returned to Mauritania, her classmates, teachers, and school staff reached out warmly to her, and she reveled in the familiarity and security of those who knew and loved her. Her schoolmates came from families among the various international and diplomatic organizations in Nouakchott as well as local families, living out their lives in this small desert outpost. Her teachers and schoolmates were white, black, and every shade in between. They were Muslims, Christians, and Hindus, representing a rich variety of cultures from every continent. Nathaniel had a similar environment at his boarding school in Senegal, and he was right where he wanted to be at this time among his peers and friends.
Hélène and I were always grateful when our children could attend schools that were richly diverse. We believe that as followers of Jesus we are to “celebrate the richness of diversity in human personality, culture, and contribution,” one of World Vision’s core values. We had always felt that cultural and ethnic differences are part of the variety and goodness of God’s established order. And when we found ourselves planted in communities thus endowed, we always rejoiced, not only for the opportunity to live out our faith in such a rich environment, but also for the wonderful opportunities it afforded our children.
Over the years I had noticed among the children at schools such as those Nathaniel and Hannah attended that there often seemed to be a robust exchange of ideas and a healthy dialogue of cultures—a dynamic that played itself out quite naturally and informally. It seemed to me that children, more so than adults, are able to engage in this way without the fear of losing their moorings within their own traditions and culture. Hélène and I had tried to instill in our own children the value and importance of effectively engaging across cultural divides. We had worked to develop in them, from a young age, the will
and competence to effectively negotiate multicultural terrain. We had always wanted them to have the necessary courage and cultural dexterity that is required to take steps from the comfort and security of their own customary environment. We wanted our children to be able to successfully relate and learn across cultures, to be intelligent readers of people not similar to their own, and to do so with humility and graciousness.
From our own experience, we knew that effective living and learning in a pluralistic society require effort and a measure of vulnerability; and that, at times, comes at a personal cost. But our experience had also taught us that such competence opens doors to remarkable opportunities and rewards—and we wanted this for our children. At this critical juncture in our children’s lives, both Nathaniel and Hannah were experiencing the rewards and support of these rich environments, and Hélène and I were deeply grateful.
Often, when I would get home from work, I would go to the kitchen and greet Aboubacar while he was making our dinner. We would usually ask about each other’s day, and we would have a light exchange, sometimes humorous, sometimes serious, depending on events that had transpired. It was not long after our return to Nouakchott that I noticed Aboubacar taking a great yet quiet interest in the way we were responding to people around us, especially to Mauritanians. He was obviously intrigued to know how, as a family, we were going to react to the horrific experiences of a few weeks earlier, and his intrigue only increased as he saw us each day struggling to find ways to reconcile the trauma in our own lives with our desire to demonstrate love and forgiveness. He certainly had a front-row seat to observe our raw humanity. He was there in our home when the stress of the weeks would build up and one or more of us would melt into tears. He saw the fear in Hannah’s and Hélène’s eyes when a stone was thrown at our window or a stranger would appear at our door. But he was also there as we met with our Mauritanian friends who came by the house to greet and console us, but who often came to be comforted themselves with our reassurances of continued love.
