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.

Showing posts with label Afghanistan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Afghanistan. Show all posts

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Faith Under Fire

One Sunday in 2017, Neal and I each gave the same sermon title, "Faith Under Fire."  The sermon was based on Exodus 17: 7-16.

We spoke at different venues on the same morning, and if you'd like to hear the differences between our teaching style, listen to both sermons here! :)

Friday, January 27, 2017

My Spouse is Thriving in the Risk Situation, but I Am Not!



This statement is not an uncommon experience typically of women in ongoing risk situations. While both men and women have a much higher susceptibility of burnout in risk, it's more often found that a husband thrives in his responsibilities, even as the physical risks increase. The excitement, adrenaline...these all make his work feel all the more significant and important.

However, often in risk, women and children have a harder time.  There are usually more restrictions on movement, less freedom in decision-making (the security situation does not allow you to go there), and the pressure of threat against them and the possibility of the children being negatively impacted weighs heavily all day long on the wife as she cares for the children. Because she has more restrictions, she may feel less significant than her husband, also decreasing her normal resiliency.  

For those who haven't lived long-term in risk, it may be easy to become judgmental of her lack of thriving.  However, living long term in a place being impacted by terrorism, persecution, government intrusion can be life-draining for many.  Even if someone is thriving in this type of circumstance, it is still exhausting.  It is not uncommon for workers to take a short weekend break from this type of situation (a break in a neighboring country, for example), to sleep the first 15 hours away.  

If she is unequipped to process her emotions, (confusion often surrounds the risk situation), if she lacks clarity on their combined calling, if there is a faith crisis, or simply, she has become exhausted from the ongoing struggle to do well in risk, (risk is exhausting) she often has an increasingly difficult time thriving in the risk situation.  Once mom isn't doing well, children begin having a harder time, and then the work of the husband is detrimentally influenced by the negative spiral in the family home.

Learning to "strengthen oneself in the Lord" as David did is a skill we don't often teach or model well.  Also increasing the skill of discerning spiritual reality - what she does and how she does it in the risk situation has an incredibly deep and long-lasting impact on all the locals and expatriates watching.  While she may "feel" less significant, that is definitely not the reality.  How can a wife learn to these skills of strengthening oneself, discerning spiritual reality, and seeing her impact while thriving joyfully in risk until she is called out?  How to we come along side someone struggling in risk, without sounding judgmental or superficially spiritual?

Often times, it is best simply to listen and empathize, and wait to be asked for input, especially if we are providing pastoral care to someone in this situation but we ourselves haven't lived it.  Affirmation is a significant tool to use, and when the time comes, practical advice on how to have bigger margins of time, energy, cultural capacity, and mental/emotional reserve for risk and crisis.


What I mean by this is we often take either the SYIS (Sharpening Your Interpersonal Skills Workshop) or Henry Cloud's material on Boundaries and simply discuss margin in the areas of time, energy, and money. But the risk situation requires even wider boundaries than normal, because the risk and accompanying crisis require their own reserve.  In such places, the culture is not the easiest because of the terrorism abounding. This means workers need to increase their margin for cultural interaction, so that they can be gracious, loving, and wise in time allocation.

Yes, this will mean less "work" will be done, but in reality, workers are often more effective tools in the Father's hands, because they become more focused on what he really wants them to do, and they have less energy for all the extraneous activities. The "excellent" replaces the "good."

A lot of times we tend to be too spiritual and even concerned about theological correctness when caring for someone in risk, when instead, what is needed is a party and a way to relax. In a relaxed atmosphere, when a sense of normalcy is felt, people often naturally refocus and better hear the Holy Spirit speaking inside them or through another in the community.

Having regular periods of relaxation increase resiliency, even though there is more to be done with less people.  We actually increased the number of parties we held as the risks increased, because we needed to spend time with our "sheep" to see how they were doing and help them relax. 

We did something crazy - we chose to pay for an above-ground swimming pool during one difficult time in Afghanistan.  It probably cost us $1000 over a 10-week period for all the chemicals and materials needed to maintain the pool for the children during a long season of restrictions.  However, we reasoned that $1000 was a lot cheaper than years of paying for clinical counseling for our children.  To this day, my children view Afghanistan as FUN and HOME.

I enjoyed sitting by the pool watching the kids - it gave me time to relax and easy entertainment watching their antics.  I invited other moms and children every afternoon from 1-4pm to come and hang out at the pool, so that we could together decrease the sense of isolation we all felt. It helped us to refocus ourselves, be in community, and simply relax and enjoy what was an extremely stress-filled situation. We talked, shared, laughed, and encouraged each other - there wasn't heavy counseling or theological discussion, but a shared sense of significance that we were making it through for His Name Sake.  We were all pretty aware we were not leaving without paying a huge price - many in the community were running a low-grade situational depression, but it didn't mean an absence of joy, it was just HARD.  But it was joyful - and we saw people coming to Christ in numbers never-before seen.

The risk moment is an honor to steward, and it is that - something to steward carefully. Because it is a significant way He pushes His kingdom forward, we need to become men and women more aware of His leading in the risk moment so we can thrive joyfully as circumstances become more challenging. 


Sunday, February 1, 2015

Danger of Jail Under the Taliban

It was our mistake. We were brand new in country, and life under the Taliban for foreigners meant great care in following the rules.  We were so focused on unpacking and settling into our temporary home, acquiring language that first month, adjusting to shopping in the local bazaar, we weren't paying attention to our visa expiration date.

We were well past the thirty date expiration, and Dan T. had already been in jail for weeks for overstaying his visa date. Being a typical American, I snorted inside. "Just let them put a young American woman and her 3-month-old baby in jail. There will be quite the outcry."  My nationalistic pride knew no bounds, and was out of sync with reality.

I was naive.

Neal and I packed up the baby, and took a taxi over to the office in Wazir. There, Harri, Danny V, and Neal and I stood in a circle where Harri prayed with grave concern in this voice that the Taliban wouldn't jail us.

Danny V prayed that the eyes of the Talib visa official would be blinded to the expiration date on our visas, and simply grant us the new ones. 

Their passionate praying overwhelmed me.  The seriousness of the potential reality began to sink in. For the first time I began to get scared.  They continued to pray, and I began to think through logistics: "How many diapers did I pack?  What did I need to survive jail with my baby? I'm so glad there's not time to e-mail or call mom - it's better she not know about this until the outcome."

Prayers finished, and Danny V drove us over to the visa office. We were escorted straight into the visa office, where the Talib, all dressed in black (why is it always black?), greeted the men.  We all sat down. He spoke English and began to read the form:

Neal's job in country: Neal answered "learning language right now." 
Anna's job:  Neal answered "Accompany husband." 
Baby's job: I decided to take courage and answer "eat and sleep."   The Talib chuckled, while not really looking at me, and stamped our visas. 

Danny V believed that the Talib official's eyes were blinded, he never brought up the issue of the expired visa.  It was good.

I wasn't ready to go to jail that day anyway.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

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.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Beginning Family Life Under the Taliban


When we finally arrived to our apartment in the afternoon in Karte Se, a distinguished old Afghan man was just finishing mopping the floor. He had a long, snowy white beard, and appeared to be in his 60’s.
The apartment was better and bigger than expected. We didn’t have electricity, but we had a large living room, a large bathroom, the hallway was really large extra sitting room. The kitchen was extremely narrow, but cozy and easy to heat. We had three bedrooms, which became an office, the baby’s room, and our room. 

I had wanted a teddy bear theme for our baby, but knew that going to Afghanistan, that was a luxury I would never have. When I walked into the baby’s room, I was stunned to see a Winnie-the-Pooh theme on the wall, (wasn’t what I would have chosen but it WAS a teddy bear room), and the crib was neatly laid out and ready to lay the baby down.  The baby seemed to sense immediately we were “home” and went right to sleep.  I knew God had answered a young mother's heart desire.

We began to settle into life with no electricity, cold running water from a gravity-fed water tank on the roof, and a simple life that was more like “camping” inside of cinder block walls. Dust was incessant. The first week, we had almost no visitors. We had no money, and there was almost no food in the house. We were afraid to go out of the house, because we didn't have the language and we had heard such scary things about the Taliban. 

It turned out that because we were in Kabul due to a partnership agreement between two agencies...ours and our Afghanistan partner, each thought the other was caring for us, when in reality, no one was. Finally, by the end of the week, people realized what dire circumstances we were facing, and came to show us how to get money, do our grocery shopping, and get some basic vocabulary for getting out and meeting people.

First Demonic Attack in Afghanistan
Sadly, our anger and frustration over a number of issues began to build over the following months, which included being irritated with our leadership and how our orientation was going. Really, the problem was ours, but we had allowed our anger to move into contempt for them.

One morning, as I was cooking breakfast, I asked DH what his dream had been...he had woken me up with his tossing and turning and even swinging arms. It turns out he had been having the same dream 3 nights in a row, and in it he was fighting the same scary demonic looking person.

I drew him out, asking him to describe the person.  To our horror, we had been having dreams where we were engaging the same personage. He was pure evil.  We immediately realized something spiritual was going on, and since we were both being troubled by the same dream, we knew it was something in us that was allowing this to happen.

Through prayer, the Spirit revealed to us how our anger had given the enemy a foothold into our lives. We lost no time getting on our knees and repenting of our anger and contempt for our leaders, and asking our Lord's forgiveness. We endeavored after that to extend grace and trust in our leadership, and clearer communication with what our needs were. By lowering our expectations, we were able to move into easier relationships with them and allow more understanding of the pressures they were facing.

Years later, when we became leaders, we saw how much grace our leadership really had extended to us, and how clearly people in their first 6 months in Afghanistan are clearly not themselves...they are under so much culture stress. It is up to those of us who are mature to help newer and younger workers realize the gap between their expectations and the reality, and how to process their emotions.



Sunday, November 27, 2011

A Glimpse of Jeremiah's Jerusalem


I never forgot my first glimpse of Kabul during the time of the Taliban. It was after the Mujahadeen war of the 90’s. The Mujahadeen warlords behaved in typical Afghan fashion – each positioning on a hilltop overlooking the King’s Palace and Karte Se. Forming alliances with one warlord, treachery, betrayal, backstabbing each other, and the end result is that none took control, the King’s Palace, Queen’s Palace, and most of Karte Se were destroyed. Not a single house went without some mark of the war – whether bullet marks, rockets dropping through roofs, fire, bombs. Only one house went without a mark of war – the Christian Community Church of Kabul, known as the CCCK by foreigners and Afghans alike. 

My DH and I arrived in Kabul in early September with our young baby.  I had my colleagues send me an outfit, so that when I arrived Kabul, I had properly veiled as we walked through the empty and dark Kabul airport.  Because I was clearly a nursing mother, the guards merely waived us through security – they were happy to have any foreigners coming to their country. 

We were told our apartment wasn’t quite ready, so we would be taken to another office to wait, have lunch and go there in the afternoon. I didn’t want to complain, since we were brand new.  Frustratingly, I could feel a mild case of fever and flu-like symptoms coming on, and the baby and I were weary of all the change. We just wanted to get to our apartment and begin settling in. 

Finally, it was time to pile back in the car with all our luggage, and drive across the empty city. I will never forget what I saw as we slowly drove into Karte Se – the speed necessitated by numerous potholes.  It was when we got to Demezong, the chowk where the post office was and turned onto Durulamen Road that runs all the way to the King’s palace, that my eyes widened into shock:  I had traveled in over 55 countries of the world before I married DH, but NOTHING prepared me for what I saw. 

Immediately,  the vision of Jerusalem when it was sacked by the Babylonians, as described by Jeremiah in the book of Lamentations came to mind.  His words accurately described Kabul at the time of the Taliban rule.  My heart broke as I later read his words: 

“How lonely sits the city that was full of people! How like a widow she has become, she who was great among the nations! She who was a princess among the provinces has become a slave. She weeps bitterly in the night, with tears on her cheeks; among all her lovers she has none to comfort her; all her friends have dealt treacherously with her; they have become her enemies.  Judah has gone into exile because of affliction and hard servitude; she dwells now among the nations, but finds no resting place; her pursuers have all overtaken her in the midst of her distress. 

The roads to [Kabul] mourn, for none come to the festival; all her gates are desolate; her priests groan; her virgins have been afflicted, and she herself suffers bitterly. Her foes have become the head; her enemis prosper, because the Lord has afflicted her for the multitude of her transgressions; her children have gone away, captives before the foe. ….The enemy has stretched out his hands over all her precious things; for she has seen the nations enter her sanctuary, those whom you forbade to enter your congregation. All her people groan as they search for bread; they trade their treasures for food to revive their strength.

For these things I weep; my eyes flow with tears; for a comforter is far from me, one to revive my spirit; my children are desolate for the enemy has prevailed….Her gates have sunk into the groun; he has ruined and broken her bars; her king and princes are among the nations; the law is no more, and her prophets find no vision from the Lord. 

The elders […] on the ground in silence; they have thrown dust on their heads, and put on sackcloth; the young women of Jerusalem have bowed their heads to the ground…infants and babies faint in the streets of the city. They cry to their mothers, ‘Where is the bread and wine?’ as they faint like a wounded man in the streets of the city, as their life is poured out on their mothers’ bosom.”

I now knew just a bit more what he saw, and the pain he must have felt to see his own people destroyed because of their obstinance.  War is a terrible thing, sometimes necessitated as an instrument of God’s judgment, sometimes just purely evil. But oh, how the mothers, babies, children, young men, young women, old men, old women suffer. Rule under the Taliban, under Shariah law, is hell on earth. If one’s Utopia is a place ruled by fear, hatred, coldness, and poverty, than Shariah Law is the way to obtain it. 

We arrived at what was to be our home for the next 6 months or so. The first floor was completely sandbagged on the outside, but we were led to the upstairs. Our first security briefing in-country was to be told to run downstairs if we heard shelling, and we were taught how to use the VHF radios (okay, DH already knew everything about how to use them, but I needed the orientation).  Security call was nightly, to make sure everyone was in long before the Taliban-imposed curfew. 

This was the beginning of learning how to live in a city just a short ways from the front-line of a terrible war.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

The Robbery in Afghanistan


The emergency call to the aid network via VHF radio base stations had gone out across the city of Kabul that our house was being robbed. Tom Little ran into our yard and confronted the armed robbers as they fled our house, where they had held my husband, myself, and our two little children age 2 and 9 ½ months hostage as they ransacked and looted our home. It was the fall of 2002, and in the euphoria of liberation from the Taliban, no one realized the power vacuum had created the “Wild West” where only the strong…those with guns…could survive.

At 7pm that November night, during the month of Ramazan, eleven Afghan men jumped our wall, tied up our watchman, and entered our home. They waltzed into my kitchen and said, “Shhhhh, we are the police.” Never one to be called a fool, I immediately called to my husband, David, who was upstairs getting our son ready for bed, and he heard the strange note of fear in my voice and immediately ran down stairs to see what was up. The image of three Kalashnikovs pointed at his abdomen as they marched him backwards up the stairs is imprinted in my mind forever.

My next thought: “Where’s my cell phone?” I saw it on the kitchen table and hid it under my armpit just before the robbers motioned convincingly with their guns I was to go upstairs, too.

My husband and I kept trying to persuade the robbers we were guests in their country, that this was shameful of them to be robbing us. I could see they held my husband down on the floor in the children’s room with our son playing next to him. They began to get angry I would not go into the room with David. In a panic, I realized I could not go into the bedroom unless I held my blond-haired, blue-eyed baby girl in my arms…I had no idea if they would want to steal her, too. I kept telling them in Dari, “I have a baby… Yak tefl darum.” They wouldn’t listen to me.

Finally, the tallest robber began to get angry; he pushed me roughly against the wall so hard it cracked my head. My husband jumped up and yelled, “Don’t touch my wife.” Without hesitation, a long sharp knife was thrown towards my husband and son, and 3 guns were pointed at David’s temple, pistols cocked. I realized I was seconds away from becoming a widow. We didn’t know at that moment these men had already killed several people as they robbed two other homes before ours that day.

My five feet nothin’ was no match for the robbers 6 feet plus, but now “mama bear” was enraged. Seeing I was no threat as a woman in their eyes, I quietly asked my husband to sit down, and I leaned up into the robbers face with flint in my eyes, and said, “Yak tefl darum.” What possessed me besides sheer rage and fear and the awesome mother-courage which comes to us at moments like this? I recognized I would do anything for my baby.

Finally, the robbers understood, and four men escorted me at gunpoint to the nursery where I retrieved our daughter. When our little family of four was finally seated on the toshaks (floor pillows) in the back of the children’s room with one man left to guard us, they returned to looting our home. David and I sat on the floor and thanked God for sparing our lives thus far, as we gave back to Him once again every earthly possession we had. I quietly whispered to my husband, “I have a cell phone.” We agreed he would distract the robber as I tried to call out, using the baby as a shield to hide my phone’s glow light. I finally was able to get another mom on the phone. She speedily told her husband and another friend, and both men jumped up and began running to our house. Then she made the radio call which got the message out across the city.

Tom Little heard the radio call go out, and he ran immediately from his house, heading for ours. Running courageously into our courtyard all by himself, Tom yelled, “O bacha, chee maykuni?” (Oh little boy, what are you doing?) …cultural words chosen to shame the robbers. They pointed their guns at him and he put his hands up. We yelled from the window, “Tom, we’re okay.” We didn’t want our friends killed when rescuing us. The robbers fled the house like cockroaches, leaving utter destruction in their wake.

Other friends soon arrived, and began to minister to us and put our house back in order. In reality, what seemed like hours was twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of terror followed by years of healing. Little did we know Tom only had 8 more years to live and serve the people of Afghanistan. Little did we know that it would take five more years for us to learn to let go of our anger towards the robbers and learn to love the Afghan people despite the robbery. We learned to see them through God’s eyes, not our pain-filled human eyes, and to keep loving no matter how they responded. Our children want to go back home to Afghanistan.