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.

Monday, September 9, 2019

Being A Ligament In The Global Body



Guest post, used with permission)

If I had known that it would be this way, I never would have come. I’ll bet almost every global worker says that at some point. The particulars might be different, but we all come with expectations that are then slowly and painfully stripped away, rather like being flayed alive.

A real global worker engages the culture. A real global worker has meaningful interaction with local people. The really good global workers have children who speak the language and play with local children. You wear the clothes, eat the food, talk the talk, and share the good news. Nights in despair and defeat—maybe. Those who sow in tears will reap with laughter. But you do it.

I looked in scorn at the families who didn’t invite local friends over. What a waste. What’s the point in being here if we don’t engage? What’s the point?

So here I am. There is no point in being here. By “my” standards, I am a complete and utter failure. My family is a complete and utter failure. I grieve. I cry. I become numb. 


  • My husband is allergic to the food and introverted. 
  • My daughter is traumatized by the thought of speaking even one word to a local person her age. 
  • My son could have learned the language if the teacher hadn’t terrorized him for being a wiggly boy. 
  • Another daughter is dyslexic and we’re doing speech therapy—let’s get English down before we try to pick up a second language again. 

My youngest daughter and I are the only true extroverts in the house. The rest come crawling home, craving a quiet haven of rest from the outside world.

My husband is gifted in practical matters. He fixes broken things. He fixes machines of all types and sizes. He also does meetings with the local government, hoping that our project here will one day truly take off. He thinks outside the box and perseveres. Will it ever come to anything? There is no guarantee. 

But that’s not what bothers me. 

I am good at teaching music and drama and High School English to TCK’s. It is rewarding and life giving and fun. I pour myself into my children. I build up and am built up by other expat women. Moving overseas, I experienced for the first time what it is actually like to identify with and enjoy being around my own peer group. 
My whole life I’ve been out of place. It’s nice to have friends here.

I am not a mouth. That doesn’t mean I’m not part of the Body. I am not a hand. That doesn’t mean I’m not a part of the Body. Some time ago, the thought came to me that perhaps I am a ligament. 

Could I be happy if I were just a ligament—hidden away, supporting and connecting the body? It’s not glamorous, but I wasn’t seeking glory by coming out here. I think maybe the hardest part about being such an obscure organ is not being able to see the big picture. 

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of what the body is doing and how it’s growing, but muscle and skin are hard to see through and I get stretched out of shape sometimes to the point that I feel like I’m going to snap. And still I wish I could engage locals while I’m here.

I wanted to be a global worker since I was in the fifth grade, at least that’s when the thought first came to me. By eighth grade, the desire was there, too. After all, what could be more meaningful? What could be more worthwhile to do with your life than to serve God overseas like all those men and women who came through with their videos and their brochures and their masks and spears? I listened to their stories, propped global work up on its high, high pedestal like the church usually does, and waited for my turn to go. 

I finally made it on a short term trip to a former Soviet country with a Bible college choir. How wonderful!  That was the same year I married and we waited more than a decade before we finally got to go ourselves.

It wasn’t that I married the wrong guy. I made sure I married a man who wanted to go, too. We were sure of God’s leading in our relationship, and I have no regrets. It wasn’t that we were stalling. God had quite a roundabout path for us to take before we were ready. He opened the doors in His time, and I can see His hand. I am thankful for every step of the winding path that finally led us overseas. 

I just thought things would be different when we got here. 

Truth is, neither one of us has the gift of evangelism. I know there are other gifts, it just feels sometimes like if you don’t have that one particular gift, you’re useless.

Of course there was the time God miraculously preserved us from a terrorist attack and we were on the news. I believe He brought glory to himself through that. In addition, it seems logical that He must have some reason for keeping us alive. 

There is also the fact that I love living here. I love what it does for our family. I love the international community. There isn’t anything else I’d rather be doing or anywhere else I’d rather be living.
And there’s the impact back home. It seems to mean something to people—Christians and non-Christians—that we are willing to go. The fulfillment of my lifelong dream looks like a sacrifice in the eyes of some. 

But my dream looked more like life in a village, with open doors and windows and children playing all around. I speak the language. I’m even fluent depending on the subject matter and the particular dialect of the person I’m talking to.

Why am I like a soldier on standby?