Calm to Utter Panic in 3 Seconds

I sighed and settled back in my seat next to my 4-year old.  I pulled my veil closer around me, knowing I was about to have major carsickness - being veiled, in a hot vehicle, in Kabul traffic is not relaxing.   We were crossing town that afternoon in 2005 to join Dear Husband (DH) at the office and then on to the American Embassy to apply for Dear Son's (DS) new passport. In America, children are required to get a new one every five years, and DS birthday was coming soon.

It would be a longer journey in a hot van, since the police had just denied us access to the important government street which also acts as a major thoroughfare cutting through town. The police often blocked the street off to the general public for security reasons, but I was hoping that since we were in a humanitarian aid vehicle, and my driver, Musa, had a very official looking ID that we would be allowed through. 

The plain-clothed police looked at Musa's identification and waived him to go the direction of the rest of the public - through the Stationary Bazaar in Shar-e-nao and then over to Wazir.  I heard Musa say something to the police as he pulled forward to merge with traffic, and was astonished how much I didn't understand Pashto, being a Dari speaker myself.

I settled into my van seat, and held DS's hand as Musa moved the van forward.  Almost immediately, I heard a loud banging on the side of the van, and I began looking around.  I saw that same policeman right at the driver's window, screaming at Musa and beginning to hit him and pull him out of the van.  The van quickly became surrounded by people, banging on all sides of the van.  I looked to see where the closest shop was - perhaps DS and I could make a run for it out of the angry mob, but I could see it was too far, and I really couldn't carry such a big boy.

Realizing we were in grave danger, I let my chadar (scarf) fall back so my whole head could be seen - including my hair color, flashed my American Passport at the policeman and began screaming at him in English over the backrest of the driver's seat.  I called DH who, when he picked up, knowing it was me calling, could only hear screaming and noise, but I managed to yell at him that we were in danger and not to let off the phone.

The policeman had Musa half out the window by this time, but I also made such a noise that he looked up and took in the scene of a wild woman, half over the driver's seat with hair flying, screaming in English, shoving her passport in his face and cell phone up to her ear...and he let Musa go. 

Musa settled into his seat and merged with traffic.

I sat back, my insides trembling, and I could not hold back the tears - a natural physiological response to extreme adrenaline at the threat of danger.

I marveled at the 3 seconds it took to go from calm to raving maniac.  What happened?  

In those 3 seconds, I saw that I could not protect my child. Being a blond hair boy, there was no way to hide him, and he was now too big for me to carry that far or hide under my chadar. 

My tears weren't about me and the danger I may have been in, although I also saw how wise it would be for me to carry a blue chadari (blue burkha) for the future.  It was about my child, and my mother instincts. I did all of that out of instinct, but I knew in the end an angry mob could have destroyed us all.

Despite all my prayers
All my efforts
I am powerless, really, to protect my children, especially in a mob, but against anyone truly seeking to do evil.

Only God is the One who is powerful enough to protect us, and sometimes, in His sovereignty, he allows even the little lambs to suffer the consequences of evil.

And really, is it Him?

We choose evil.

We choose righteousness.

But my little boy didn't choose to be there that day, and he could have suffered greatly. As it was, this living in a militarized city, a war zone, was all a "normal" part of his early years - he didn't leave Afghanistan until he was 9.

For Musa? I was quite angry at him - clearly he had said something in Pashto to that police, something derogatory, some racial slur I wouldn't have understood even if I did know Pashto.  Musa is a Pashtun, and the policeman was probably Tajik.

I asked my DH, Musa's boss, to give him a mark on his record for putting a woman and child in danger, but he was still driving for us years later.

Looking back, I am in awe of the human body God made - how it can go from calm to total adrenaline flood in 3 seconds (or less). That day it took me over 2 hours to calm down and for my heart rate to slow, and the tears to stop.  It was worse than the robbery we had experienced when 10 men entered our home and held us captive at gunpoint and ransacked our home.

I was thankful that DS and I lived through that day, but I know I cannot continue to live, travel, and work in these Central Asian countries without His blessing and help - as a mother and woman in these Muslim countries, I am nothing, but God is everything.