Living Behind the Veil

I'm often asked what I wear in Afghanistan and what it's like to wear a veil. It's freedom. Freedom to have a bad hair day, freedom to arrange my chadar to conceal the curve of my breasts and backside, freedom to not be an expatriate for a little while. It means freedom to hide even on the street from the Afghan men's eyes which seem to strip me naked.
When I relax my shoulders and walk less purposefully, less confidently, my eyes downcast and covered by sunglasses, I pass for an Afghan woman. I hear the men whisper in Dari, "Is she a foreigner or local woman?" I chuckle but am silent. On the street, I'm also a free target....freely exposed to groping, sexual innuendos whispered to me as a man bicycles by, free to have stones thrown at me, freely seen as no one's wife, daughter, sister, mother, friend, or boss. I step inside my gate, and remove my chapan and chadar. Now I'm someone's boss, motherhood returns to me as little steps run to greet me, and I receive a kiss from my adoring husband. Now I'm free to his loving and gentle eyes which know and enjoy my curves, free to once again be under the protective umbrella of being a wife, mother, friend, colleague, boss, niece, sister, daughter, woman.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

What I Don't Hear

I'm sitting here in a small town in Minnesota, USA, in my living room in a beautiful leather and fabric chair given to us on Tuesday by some partners from our main sending church.  The fake Christmas tree is glowing with soft white lights, red ribbon and a crooked star because the cat keeps pulling at the ribbons and dislodging the star, and the fake electric fireplace is on, giving a glow framed with the fake poinsettas and plastic garland.

Wow!  That's a lot of fakeness, but it sure looks nice and doesn't require a lot of maintenance.

It really looks quite nice. 

I thought I heard the Islamic call to prayer just now.   But I know I didn't, because this town is primarily Lutheran and Catholic and I've never seen a Muslim here.

The Islamic call to prayer is just in my memory from years of living in Islamic culture.

It's nice not to hear the Islamic call to prayer 5 times a day, even though for almost 2 decades I tried hard to let the 5x daily Islamic call to prayer remind me to pray for Muslims, and now I just don't pray enough for them because I don't hear the call to pray. Lord forgive me!    

What else don't I hear?

I don't hear gun shots.

I don't hear military helicopters flying over head.

I don't hear distant bombs.

I don't hear police sirens.

I don't hear Turkish neighbors complaining, the elderly Turkish couple upstairs having their nightly marital argument and the "click click" of her heels as she angrily walked around upstairs (we live in a single-family house in USA, not an apartment).

I don't hear Islamic drums beating.

I don't hear the roar from an angry mob running down my street.

I don't hear the doorbell ringing from a poor person or a guard or an official from the Turkish medical establishment selling vaccines.

I don't hear the sellers hawking their wears on the street  like the potato cart seller going by, yelling in Dari, "Kachalu, kachalu, kachalu!" (Potato potato potato!). 

I don't hear roosters crowing.

I no longer hear Dari being spoken all around me and I can understand almost everything.

I no longer hear Turkish being spoken all around me and I can pick out various words.

I no longer hear Russian, Khazakh, Pakistani English, and the lilting voice of my French colleague who always said my name so wonderfully it made me melt.

I no longer hear the teasing voices of my Irish, British, and Scottish friends. I've yet to meet a Northern Irish person I didn't like.

I don't regularly hear the words of sexual innuendo whispered loud enough for me to hear as a man cycles by but not for my husband to hear. I wait until the Afghan man is at least a block away before I tell Neal what the man just said. I am afraid Neal will beat the man to a bloody pulp, and we really came here to point people to Christ, instead of beating them up, so I wait to tell Neal.

I no longer hear the welcome voice of my husband returning home and feel the immense relief that we've both lived through another day and are together. (Today he wasn't kidnapped. Thank you Lord. Of course I still hear Neal's voice, but not like those years in Afghanistan when each day of life together was truly a gift.)

I don't hear the speakers of the police Ford Ranger truck yelling "Tez Tez Bura, Tez Tez Bura, Tez Tez Bura" (go faster, go faster, go faster) even though we were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic and literally could not move an inch. Why did they think yelling "Go faster" would help? 

I don't hear the drums and loud music of the nearby wedding hall.

I don't hear the laughter and hum of conversations from the neighborhood restaurant.

I don't hear the annoying but funny jingle of the ice cream cart cycling by (we called it hepatitus on a stick). 

I don't hear a Khakbad (dust storm) starting up and rattling my doors and windows.

I don't hear a generator running, feeding electricity to a house sucking energy for at least a few lights at night.

What a luxury life in a small town in America is.

We are so rich.

So pampered.

The silence is so "normal."

Thank you Lord for the silence, but help me to always appreciate it and not take it for granted. I don't want to ever forget what it was like to be in a place where the noise of people suffering and dying surrounded me.  So much of the world isn't enjoying the silence I am tonight.  I want my kids to know how much I value what we don't hear while living in a small town in America. 

 I ponder the mystery of the 30 minutes of silence in Heaven yet to come. 


Go To:

What I don't See
What I don't Smell

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