Dangerous Love

by Ray Norman

  It was not long before I began to realize that the stress of our return was taking its greatest toll on Hélène. I had heard that often it is not always the immediate victims of a trauma who struggle the longest with recovery, but frequently it is the secondary victims—the immediate relative or closest friends of the victim—who suffer the most prolonged effects.

  Hannah and I received robust attention from many kind and well-meaning people, both in our native countries and in Mauritania. I was daily surrounded by a caring cadre of co-workers at the office, and Hannah was warmly welcomed back to her school community by thoughtful teachers and classmates who had continued to faithfully provide her with daily support and encouragement. But after seeing Hannah and me off each morning, Hélène was often left at home alone with her thoughts and tumbled feelings of pain, confusion, and fear for hours on end. There were no social venues, Starbucks, air-conditioned shopping centers, or weekly church events where she could find needed diversion from her thoughts or encounter friends and a support network.

  For Hélène, an expatriate homemaker consecrated to her family’s needs, even in the best of times Nouakchott life could dish out agonizing and relentless periods of aloneness (and ensuing desperation). Equally painful, though unintentional, were the contacts she had with those she often looked to for encouragement and spiritual support. The occasional letter, phone call, or infrequent encounter with a small handful of expatriate friends often involved queries about Hannah’s well-being or my own, followed by brief words of acclaim or a pat on the back for how brave or courageous Hélène was for coping with everything. But rarely did anyone venture to probe further, not realizing that she too suffered painful wounds less visible than Hannah’s or mine. Hélène and I both found it surprising that many of our closest Christian friends simply could not venture to these troubled places of our hearts with us, while others just seemed to assume that we were strong and coping well. Granted, many looked to us for leadership and strength during these difficult days, and we did our best to provide this as our own strength allowed. But I think they admired our outward comportment, which often blinded them to the possibility of any inner turmoil that we might be facing in our own private lives.

  My concern for Hélène grew as the days back in Mauritania progressed, and I often found myself rapping on heaven’s gates on behalf of my wife and soul mate for a desperately needed encounter with God’s healing touch in those bruised areas of her heart and soul that seemed to ache relentlessly during the long days and nights following our return to the desert.

  At the same time I wrestled almost daily with my own human reasoning. Barring one of those seemingly too-rare, direct, supernatural encounters with the Holy Spirit, how, in this remote outpost, could God orchestrate his resources to meet this need of Hélène’s? I had often witnessed God’s miraculous touch. Time and again Hélène and I had experienced firsthand remarkable encounters with the Holy Spirit that unquestionably transcended our natural experience in powerful ways. But these were days when it often seemed our emotional and spiritual reserves would not get us through to the next day; and if Hélène crumbled, so would I. And crumbling on my heels would be Hannah and perhaps even World Vision’s work in this land. At least, this was the sequence of events that beleaguered my mind. Hélène, perhaps more than anything else, needed a word, a sign—from someone other than her struggling husband—that someone in her lonely world understood and cared, and that God had not abandoned her in this seemingly inhospitable land.

  It was a hectic, late afternoon some weeks after our return, and I was working with Amrita to get through the long list of waiting tasks that still needed tending to before I could get home to my family when our program director from Arafat came into Amrita’s adjacent office and knocked on my door. Arafat was one of the squatter communities on the outskirts of town, where we had worked for a number of years among the endless flood of people who came to Nouakchott from all corners of the country hoping to find a better life.

  During the day most of the men and older boys would leave Arafat to seek work or just beg in the more commercial districts of the town, leaving the women and children—drawn from different communities across Mauritania’s vast landscape and planted in this unfamiliar and destitute shantytown—with no familiar neighbors or common social fabric. Much of our work was among these women. World Vision’s hope was to develop the fabric of a functioning and supportive, if not vibrant, community. We did this by focusing on health, nutrition, elementary education, adult literacy, and microfinance, all with the goal of equipping and empowering these poor but highly motivated women to take control of their own futures and those of their growing families through the pursuit of their own unique aspirations.

  Most of these women were members of a number of small cooperatives through which they were organized and trained by World Vision staff to manage small loans for income-generating activities. This income then provided a moderate but dependable source of cash income most often used for school materials or medical help for their young and vulnerable children. Many of these women also had one or more children who were part of our child sponsorship program. For most of them their experience with World Vision’s projects had been a transformative one—not only did it bring a sense of cohesion and community building within their disparate neighborhoods, it instilled in them a sense of self-worth, value, and hope for the future.

  It was unusual to see the program director from Arafat at this late hour of the afternoon, and without having made an appointment. But he was a wonderful colleague, and I greeted him warmly, asking what had brought him by. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a rather crumpled letter handwritten in Arabic and addressed to my wife. He explained that it had been delivered to him by some of the leaders of the women’s groups he worked with in Arafat, and that the letter was an invitation to my wife indicating they would like to host her in the community two days hence.

  Mauritanian society tends to be very hierarchical, and it was unusual for community members to organize anything outside of the structure system of local government or even the World Vision project. This seemed to be an initiative conceived, orchestrated, and implemented by community women themselves. I took the letter home that evening and explained its unusual contents to Hélène as she turned the somewhat crumpled and dirty note over in her hand. Not knowing how she would react, I was a little surprised when she replied, “Sure! I’d like to go see what this is all about. I’m intrigued, especially since it is an invitation from a group of extraordinary women.” The next morning I called the program director and told him that Hélène had said she would be happy to accept the invitation.

  On the appointed afternoon a World Vision driver from the Arafat project came to the house and drove Hélène out to the sprawling settlement of displaced humanity called Arafat. They wound through sandy passageways, dodging people and animals as well as heaps of garbage and the occasional open sewage ditch. A little later the driver pulled into a sandy, open area between hovels where a large, traditional Mauritanian tent had been erected for the occasion—although Hélène was still unsure as to what the occasion was all about.

  As she stepped from the comfort of the air-conditioned vehicle into the hot sunshine, she was instantly surrounded by a large contingent of local women singing, clapping, ululating, and otherwise warmly welcoming her to their community as their malafas billowed in the gusts of hot, dusty wind. (A malafa is a hand-dyed, full-body wrap that also covers the head and provides Muslim women in the western Sahara with a colorful and expressive way of maintaining expected norms of modesty.)

  Though desperately poor, with many clothed in little more than rags, these joyful ladies had come dressed in their finest apparel and wearing smiles that were as wide as the nearby desert horizon. Two of the women led Hélène into the tent and seated her in a place of honor on a carpet among the assembled women. Lengthy, traditional greetings and noisy formal exchanges ensued, to which Hélène genially respo
nded. The greetings were soon followed by a round of short speeches by several community leaders, in which they explained to Hélène World Vision’s involvement in their neighborhoods and how these community-building and income-generating initiatives were transforming their community and the individual lives of countless women and young children.

  Sitting there in the pressing crowd, along with the dust, heat, and flies, Hélène was touched and captivated by stories of courage and hope told by women who counted their blessings for having at least a dollar a day to provide sustenance and help to their families. In the midst of the commotion, Hélène’s thoughts drifted back to the events of recent weeks and momentarily collided with the pain she had been carrying. But as she looked into the smiling, weathered, and care-worn faces that surrounded her, she realized that the challenges and fears she faced were truly insignificant in comparison to those of any one of the many women in whose company she sat on that hot afternoon.

  It was not until after these short discourses, and some more singing and dancing by these ladies, that the real purpose of Hélène’s invitation to this event started to become clear. One of the ladies stood up, quieted the crowd, and turned to Hélène. Speaking in Hassaniya, the local Arabic dialect, with her words translated into French by an interpreter, she solemnly went straight to the point: “Madame, we have all heard of the terrible events which occurred here in Mauritania in which your husband and daughter nearly lost their lives. We, each one, thank God for the amazing way in which he protected them. We are also aware of you and your family’s courageous act of choosing to return to our country. And we thank God for this as well.”

  After each statement, there were resounding affirmations from the crowd of women.

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “The truth has been spoken!”

  “Wallahi!” (I swear by God!)

  The speaker continued, “But we invited you here because we too are women. We too are mothers and wives. And while we know the bullets that were fired hit your husband and daughter, we also understand the wounds of a mother’s heart, and the wounds of a wife’s heart. We know that although the bullets did not hit you, your own wounds must run deep. We want you to know we understand this, because we too are women. And we want you to know that we are here to walk with you, to support and encourage you in this experience in which you too must have suffered deeply. So please know, Madame Norman, that we have brought you here among us to let you know that you are not alone on this journey. We are here with you.”

  Hélène sat there quietly in that crowd of women as these profound words of comfort, healing, and love began to trickle down into the depths of her aching heart. And then, before the words had fully sunk in, someone stepped out of the crowd, stood Hélène to her feet, and began wrapping her in a beautifully crafted Mauritanian malafa. Then others came forward, some placing gold-colored bracelets on her wrists, others placing rings on her fingers, while yet others placed necklaces around her neck. When Hélène saw how these women were giving out of their own need and poverty, far beyond their means, and for the sake of her healing and restoration, the protective carapace, which the weeks of loneliness and worry had erected around her heart, began to melt away.

  Under their Islamic veils of propriety, as well as the opaque veils of poverty and destitution, these were everyday women living out unique qualities endowed by their Creator. This selfless act of compassionate love that readily flowed across the usually insurmountable divides of culture, economic class, and religious belief was, to Hélène at least, a brilliant and shining example of a people reflecting the divine image—the imago Dei—in which they were created: desperately poor Muslim women richly endowed with the capacity to love.

  Meanwhile, hours had passed and I had had no word from Hélène. Although I knew a World Vision driver had taken her to a gathering organized by local women, I had no further details. I had been told Hélène would be returning in an hour or two. She had left in the early afternoon, and by 5:00 P.M. I was worried. All my attempts to reach anyone who knew of her whereabouts were fruitless. We had agreed the driver would bring Hélène back to my office where our car was parked, but with the end of the day our office was empty, leaving me alone with my worrying thoughts. I found myself pacing in the office, wondering how I had let her go off to such an unplanned and unstructured event without having better ascertained what was to be involved. I wondered if I had perhaps let my better judgment slip once again.

  Just as I was preparing to jump into the car and head out to the sprawling community of Arafat in search of her, I heard a vehicle pull up outside. In a few moments Hélène slipped through the door of my office dressed in a beautiful brown, gold, and white malafa, decked with multiple gold-colored necklaces, as well as bracelets and rings on each of her arms and fingers. I jumped up from my desk, took in her appearance, and unthinkingly blurted out, “What happened to you?” She stood for a moment, unresponsive. Then, with her shoulders shaking, tears began flowing down her face. I stood there in stunned silence, and between her sobs, she began to explain in halting words how the women of Arafat had provided for her, in her deepest time of need, what no friend or gathering among her many Christian acquaintances across three continents (Africa, Europe, or America) had been able, or had the insight, to provide. How, in the most unlikely of places, she had found common ground with those who suffer, and how God had touched her heart and demonstrated his promise of faithfulness in a remote land through “the least of these” (Matt. 25:40). Rarely have I ever stood in such wonder and amazement at the remarkable nature of God’s ways. Here before me was the tangible, vibrant answer to the cries of my own heart over the past weeks. But never in a thousand years could I have imagined that he would have answered in such a way. And I was once again reminded that not only are God’s ways so much higher than our own, but that what we are able to see and witness even in the most remarkable of times are truly but the “outer fringe of his works” (Job 26:14).

  I suppose someone could argue that since Hélène was connected with World Vision and the initiatives that were bringing so much help to their community, the motivation of these women may have been selfishly inspired by the desire for our work to continue in these tenuous times. Hélène was no stranger to this possibility. But to her, the magnificent gesture of love on that hot afternoon carried a much deeper message than simply, “Please stay and continue helping us.” Their message was one of genuine identity and heartfelt care shared among mothers, wives, and homemakers, each finding common ground in the struggles, fears, and challenges of life. More importantly, through the acts of these poor women, God touched my wife’s aching heart in a deep way. I saw my prayers for Hélène powerfully answered as she came away from that remarkable encounter in possession of a deep assurance from the Holy Spirit that she was not alone; she was not forgotten. God brought his healing touch to Hélène through generous acts of selfless, compassionate love by destitute Muslim women.

  8

  THE QUESTIONS

  Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone

  who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you

  have. But do this with gentleness and respect.

  (I PETER 3:I5)

  IN ADDITION TO THE STRESS OF CARVING OUT NEW AND DIFFERENT routines in a familiar setting, the difficult family adjustments, the plethora of well-wishers and comfort-seekers at our home and office, and the experience of incredible acts of kindness from our Mauritanian friends, the first few weeks after our arrival back in Mauritania were a blur of endless meetings with staff, government agents, and embassy officials. These consultations were largely to assess the security and risks, as well as the status of our program. Their purpose was also to help us set the course for the months ahead, as my hope and intent was to keep our programs going.

  But the issues were complex—with pressures, concerns, and questions coming from all sides. I did not want to be foolish and put people’s lives at unnecessary risk; but neither did I want
to hastily react to warnings from those who were well-meaning but possibly poorly informed, or base our decisions on fear rather than a sense of how God was leading. One thing was crystal clear: these circumstances had forced me to carefully reassess how seriously we took our commitment to walk with the poor. World Vision would generally not work in a community unless it was able to commit to a ten- to fifteen-year time frame, which is the time needed to effect change and sustainable results, and to establish healthy, robust, and safe communities where everyone, especially children, could thrive.

  But this was not a one-way street. Although the communities were the beneficiaries of our work, World Vision expected a significant commitment of will, resources, and shared responsibility from communities before committing to a long-term partnership. Granted, the assistance and benefits of World Vision’s child sponsorship and community engagement could be life changing; however, it required no small investment for the people and families of the communities where we worked.

  Now the tables were turned, and I felt the steady, inquisitive gaze of our local partner communities watching to see just how far our side of the commitment went when times were difficult, not just for them, but for World Vision and its staff. How quickly would we pack up and move away when the lives of our staff, as well as their families and children, were threatened and at risk?

  Myles Harrison, the program director for our urban projects and also our security officer, had served as my interim during our weeks away. He had carefully tracked the security situation during my absence and strongly supported continuing. He had spent hours on the phone with the security office at our international headquarters in California, briefing them on security-related matters. His assessment was a huge relief to me, as I valued his systematic and methodical approach to such matters. Most of our expatriate staff (Canadian, American, British, and Sierra Leonean) felt genuine concern and angst about issues of personal security, but all were supportive of doing what they could to keep our programs on track and moving forward.