by Dayna Curry
In reading the Bible, we learned that feeding the hungry and clothing the naked were of paramount concern to Jesus. When you do these things, he told his disciples, you do them to me. If Jesus lived among the poor and dying, the widowed and orphaned, then we, too, wanted to live among such people. We knew we did not have to go to Afghanistan to serve the poor—Waco, Texas, is home to plenty of people without adequate means to live. We wanted to go to Afghanistan because we knew few others were willing to do so.
“But aren’t you really going to Afghanistan to try to convert people to Christianity?” we were asked. “Isn’t the work with the poor just a way into people’s lives so you can preach to them?”
We certainly hoped we would have opportunities to share about Jesus with those who were interested. Jesus turned our lives upside down in a way that brought us enormous joy and hope. Of course we wanted to share this with others. If something touches your life in a powerful way, you do not keep silent about it. To use a simple analogy, if you have been sick for a long time and finally locate a doctor who can prescribe a cure, then you want to share the name of that doctor with others. For us, Jesus did something that defied even what we could imagine in our own minds—he healed our emotions; he gave us the ability to love and forgive; he mended our relationships; he showed us he had purpose for our lives. That is good news. Naturally, we wanted others to hear it if they desired.
But the word “convert” does not accurately reflect our intentions; it implies something vaguely manipulative, even dishonest. What we wanted to do was serve the Afghan people because we felt God had put a special love for them in our hearts. If the Afghans asked us, “Why are you doing this? Why did you leave your good life in America and come to this place?” we wanted them to know: “Because God utterly changed our lives and healed our broken hearts with his love. He loves you that much and has a purpose for your life, too.”
Ultimately, many Afghans asked us questions about Jesus. The Afghans were very curious about our beliefs, and the topic of religion came up in conversation on a daily basis. Even while we were in prison, Taliban officials frequently asked us questions about our faith. We honestly talked more about Jesus in Afghanistan than we ever did in America. Was this because we were out trying to force our religious beliefs on others who did not want anything to do with us? No, it was because the Afghans would not stop asking us questions about our God.
Further, in a war-torn country where people barely survive from meal to meal, hearts are worn on the sleeve—talk of God comes naturally. A taxi driver might say, “Oh, the country is being destroyed. There is no hope.”
We might respond, “We are praying for your country—that God will restore and rebuild it.”
He might agree: “We hope God will do that, too, but it does not look like it.”
People showed up in desperate straits at our door every day asking for help. Even our Taliban neighbors came to us and asked whether we could do anything for their disabled son. Our conversations with Afghan women would include mention of spiritual things, largely because the women were so depressed about their circumstances. When talking to a widow despairing over her sick, malnourished children, we naturally would tend to comfort her—as we would comfort anyone here in America—with the things that had given us hope.
“God loves you and he wants to help you,” we might say. “When we’re sad we tell him about our problems, and he gives us peace. Can we pray for you and ask God to give you peace?” The Afghan women welcomed our prayers. We would ask permission to pray in the name of Jesus, and permission was always granted. Always. We would give them food and medicine, too, but these alone were not enough to address the wounds of the heart.
Some people have asked us: “By targeting the people with the greatest needs, aren’t you trying to influence them to become Christians? At the very least, aren’t you creating the impression that becoming a Christian would be advantageous from a material standpoint?”
We did not mislead anyone through giving. When people approached us saying they wanted to become followers of Jesus, we would explain specifically that their decision would not gain them anything special from us such as extra money or visas to America. By following Jesus, they would get Jesus—his constant companionship, his promise to love them and never leave them—not groceries or appliances or cash. All we could promise would be our friendship, and that we gave to anyone who sought it.
We understood that the Taliban prohibited non-Muslims from sharing their faith with Afghans. Of course, this law violated international norms. The Taliban, which had a miserable human rights record, guaranteed its citizens no religious freedom and very limited freedom of speech. At that time, only three countries—Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and the United Arab Emirates—even recognized the Taliban as a legitimate government. Though we were not planning to go to Afghanistan and thump our Bibles on the streets of Kabul, we hoped to be able to share deeply about Jesus in a natural way with our friends, just as we do here in America. Friends share their hearts with one another. We wanted to exercise that freedom.
We did understand that by answering a friend’s probing question about Jesus we might indeed be breaking the Taliban’s law, though even then the lines were unclear. In their own language, the Taliban forbade foreigners to “invite Afghans to other religions.” We simply were making ourselves available to those Afghans who wanted to know about our faith. Nevertheless, we recognized that if the Taliban perceived us as having broken their law or crossed their line, we would have to be prepared to accept the consequences. In the end, we were willing to take punishment because we really believed God had called us to Afghanistan.
Further, our faith compelled us to talk openly about Jesus where opportunity arose. In the Bible, Jesus directed his followers to go and share his truth with people all over the world. We recognize that not everyone agrees with our view that the Bible is true, or with our interpretation of the Bible; but like anyone else, we have to live out our convictions. We wanted others at least to have the chance to hear about Jesus if they were interested. What they chose to do with the message we shared would be between them and God. We could not force people to embrace a religious faith even if we tried. No individual can reach that deeply into the heart of another. The inclination of a person’s heart is God’s business, not ours.
Why couldn’t we just accept that the Afghans were Muslims and keep our faith in Jesus to ourselves? some people asked us. We respect Muslims—their devotion to prayer and desire to be fully submitted to God are remarkable. In addition, Christians could learn a great deal from the Afghans’ unflagging commitment to hospitality. At the same time, we believe the Afghans—like all people—should at least have the opportunity to hear about the teachings of Christ if they choose. Do the Afghans not have a right to study other religions if they wish and make decisions about matters of faith for themselves?
The most difficult of all the questions we faced concerned those Afghans who might decide to become followers of Jesus based on a connection with us. The Taliban ruled that for Afghan Muslims, changing religions was a crime punishable by death. The same law holds in some other Muslim countries. Some people close to us wanted to know how we in good conscience could go to Afghanistan and share anything about Jesus with Afghans, knowing that in the end those same Afghans might wind up with death sentences.
In dealing with this reality, we decided that we would share about faith in Jesus on a deep level only if Afghans approached us on their own initiative and were persistent in their inquiries. The Afghans, too, knew the risks. If they demonstrated determination to learn more about Jesus, we could not in good conscience deny them. We tried to be extraordinarily careful and we allowed the Afghans to set the boundaries for our interactions. If an Afghan approached us wanting to become a follower of Jesus, we would explain the very real dangers tied to that decision and encourage the individual to consider the matter with great care. “You could lose everything,” we would say. “You could be bea
ten. You could die.”
Ultimately, some Afghans were willing to take a chance. In fact, even as the Taliban seemed to be tightening its control over religious minorities in the months leading up to our arrest, Afghans seemed more curious about Jesus than ever. Looking back on events, perhaps we should have been more cautious answering the Afghans’ questions during such a tense, restrictive season in Taliban history. But at the time, it was very difficult for us to turn away people who wanted to know more about Jesus.
four
KABUL LIFE
Heather & Dayna: In March 2001, we arrived in Peshawar and hired a newspaper van to take us to Kabul. A Pashtun-language expert—a Westerner—rode with us, ensuring us greater safety but less room for our luggage. I, Heather, carried more bags than Dayna because I was moving to Kabul for a three-year term; Dayna had only been back in the States for a two-month break. We decided to leave some of the luggage behind and retrieve it later when we could get free spaces on an International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) flight back to Peshawar.
We would need to return shortly to Peshawar anyway to purchase items we would not be able to find in Kabul for our new house. Those of us from Waco were in the process of moving across town to be closer to our coworkers with Shelter Germany. Formerly, our group from Waco lived in an area of Kabul called Karte Se on what we referred to as the “non-electricity side” of town. Now we were going to live on the city’s “electricity side.”
Our friend Chris Mason found the two of us a house in Wazir Akhbar Khan, a neighborhood of choice for Taliban, Arabs, and other foreigners. Most of the houses on the street were large, freshly painted, two-story concrete homes. Ours was the smallest, most decrepit house on the street. The previous tenants, Sudanese mercenaries, used the house for an artillery storehouse and the backyard for a bunker. The wall enclosing our yard was riddled with bullet holes, all of the trees in the backyard had been cut down for firewood, and the inside of the house had to be completely remodeled. Going into the project, workers estimated they could complete the overhaul for under $1,000; all told we spent more than $3,000.
Even after the workers finished, the house looked less than pristine from the street. For starters, in front of the house the workers left a mound of grayish dirt by the sidewalk, and passersby used the mound as a trash heap. Stray dogs slept in the mound at night and hid in a nearby sewage ditch, making excursions after dark somewhat treacherous. The house itself was whitewashed, though badly in need of fresh paint. We liked it that way. We had come to Afghanistan to serve the poor and did not want to appear as wealthy foreigners living in a posh, high-end residence. The contrast between our lives and the lives of most Afghans already was stark enough.
From the street you could see our house’s flat-roofed second story above our concrete wall. A wall surrounds most every Afghan home. Our wall had a walk-in gate for visitors and a larger gate through which a vehicle could pass. To the right of both gates you could see a tiny square window in the wall; the window belonged to the watchman’s bathroom. A watchman, or chowkidar, protects the house and answers the gate. Most foreigners and Afghans with means hire day and night chowkidars. Night chowkidars sleep in a watchman’s room across the courtyard from the house and abutting the wall. Our watchman’s room was located at the wall’s front right-hand corner. We kept a toshak, or futonlike cushion, in the room, along with a little stove and teapot, and a cabinet for cookware.
The front door to the house was glass, and a curtain could be pulled across the door at night. Next to the door hung our coatrack, though we kept no coats there, only our chawdurs. Straight through the entranceway was our living room, or saloon, where we arranged toshaks and large pillows on the floor to form Afghan-style couches. Other furniture included a low, square coffee table; a cabinet for our television; and a low corner table. Framed prints we had picked up in Pakistan hung on the walls. Most of the pictures were portraits of Kuchi people.
Under the Taliban, Afghans were not allowed to own pictures representing people or living things. Such pictures were outlawed because according to the Taliban’s interpretation of Islam, representations of living things distracted one from the worship of Allah and tempted one to idolatry. Most Afghans couldn’t afford wall hangings of any sort, and we often wished we had left our walls bare even of decorative fabrics and hats so that the women who visited us wouldn’t feel bad about the austere condition of their own homes.
Adjoining our saloon was a dining room with table and chairs loaned to us by one of our coworkers. If Afghans were eating with us, we would spread a large plastic sheet, or destarkhaan, across the saloon floor and eat sitting on our toshaks in traditional Afghan style. In our kitchen we were fortunate to have a half-sized refrigerator, which we picked up in Peshawar; most Afghans do not have access to refrigeration and have to go to the bazaar to buy food every day. We also had a Russian-designed gas stove and ample cabinet and shelf space thanks to the handiwork of an Afghan carpenter. We kept a solar-powered oven in the backyard, and our day chowkidar, Khalid—a slight, cheerful man with salt-and-pepper hair—did most of our cooking.
In the afternoons, it was best to keep your windows closed. Dust storms would arise out of nowhere, and if you were caught unawares with open windows, everything would be coated with dust within minutes. Dust storms notwithstanding, Khalid swept our floors every other day just to keep up with the grit.
In our bathrooms we had Western toilets in place of the typical Afghan squatty potties, ceramic toilets set into the floor with places for your feet. We installed a flush squatty potty in our chowkidar’s bathroom, though. Afghans did not know quite what to do with Western toilets, and neither did we feel comfortable using squatty potties: You had to develop certain leg muscles to be able to maintain your position. On occasion, after women and their children had visited our house, we would notice children’s footprints on the toilet seat in our downstairs bathroom.
We were cautious when we invited Afghans inside for reasons of security, though it was difficult to gauge when the Taliban might enforce the no-visiting rule between foreigners and Afghans. One of our foreign friends, for example, had relationships with many Taliban officials whose homes he visited. The wife of the Taliban commander who lived next door to us visited our home and had tea with us a handful of times. The commander himself even showed up at our gate one day with a hospitality gift of freshly baked bread in return for a cake and M&M’s we had sent, hoping to develop a friendship with our neighbors.
When we first moved to Wazir, crowds of street children and poor women in burqas would gather outside of our gate at all times of day to ask for food, medicine, money, and work. Such crowds gathered at foreigners’ gates all over town. One day our Taliban neighbor informed our chowkidar, Khalid, that he did not approve of crowds loitering in front of our house. We knew that if one widow were standing outside the gate talking with us, then it would be only moments before a dozen people joined her, so we began asking the women to step inside the gate. Often we invited the women into our house for tea.
Perhaps inviting the women in was somewhat risky, but short of telling the women they could not come to see us, we did not know what else to do. After all, these women were the reason we had come to Afghanistan. A Talib had viciously beaten a crowd of women standing at the gate in front of Chris and Katherine Mason’s house when our friends lived in Karte Se, and we did not want the same scenario playing out at our gate in Wazir. We decided we would continue letting the women inside until our Taliban neighbor told us to stop. He never did.
We arranged for women and children to come to our gate at lunchtime during the week—Sunday through Thursday in Muslim countries—and we made appointments for visitors to come on Fridays and Saturdays. We usually gave the women some food and tried to create jobs for them. We hired one woman to wash our sheets and towels and another to wash our clothes. Other women we hired to embroider items like tablecloths, coasters, bookmarks, wall hangings, Christmas ornaments, and purses
. We commissioned some women to make clothes for us and for other poor Afghans we knew. We paid one woman to make our curtains with fabric we purchased in a Pakistan bazaar. Another woman made the toshaks and pillows for our saloon.
If a widow came to our gate and she did not have a bread or widow card from an aid agency to get food each month, we would take down her name, address, age, number of children, and other information. Then we could write up an official document and take it to an aid agency ourselves so the widow could qualify for assistance. If a woman had a recent prescription from a doctor, we occasionally would give out money so she could get the prescription filled. Since some beggars carried around ancient prescriptions asking for money, we would always look at the date and then indicate in writing on the prescription that we had given money to purchase the medicine. More often, we personally took the prescription to get filled or asked Khalid to go in our place.
We almost always offered to pray for women who were sick. We would explain that when Jesus was on earth he healed everyone who asked. “He’s alive and still heals people when we pray in his name,” we would say. And the women would urge us to pray.
As we helped them, the women often said, “God will give you merit.” We loved saying, “We’re not giving to earn merit. We’re giving because God loves you and so do we.”
Our weekday mornings in Wazir started to the sound of dozens of children chanting portions of the Qur’an in Arabic at the Taliban commander’s house on the other side of our wall. The commander ran a madrassa, or Islamic school, for girls and boys. Girls generally were permittted to attend religious school up to age eleven; otherwise they were denied access to education. The Afghans, however, were determined about educating their girls, and we knew of several underground girls’ schools. A taxi driver we met raised money for girls’ education. We even hired a teacher to set up a coed school for the sons and daughters of some women we knew. On occasion we heard reports of Taliban police sweeping through areas of the city looking for girls carrying books. The police might track down a school that way and make an example of it—imprisoning, fining, or beating the women in charge. Other girls’ schools would quiet down in the wake of such a raid, but soon they would be flourishing again.