This mission was such an eye-opening experience for me. I always knew I had lived a privileged life, but I was amazed as I came to understand just how sheltered I really was. We walked into apartment buildings that were condemned, but people were still living there because they had nowhere else to go. The smells were completely overpowering. On the days that I knew we were going to some of these buildings, I used to spray extra perfume on my clothes in the morning to try and drown out the smell. That never worked.
My companion was from Mexico and didn’t speak much English. I was fine being forced to speak French because I was trying to learn the language as fast as I could, but I had a feeling she didn’t much like Americans. She harrumphed that I was being prissy when I didn’t want to walk down dark alleyways or take the shortcut back to our apartment through the dark park at night. Maybe I was being prissy in her eyes, but in my mind, my caution was simply a matter of self-preservation. Sometimes, when I was feeling really sorry for myself, when all our appointments had either fallen through or we had been stood up, I would think, What did I sign myself up for? Why did I agree to take this kind of rudeness? Then I would have to remind myself, Elizabeth, you survived nine months of being kidnapped. You can survive this mission. Stop being such a baby.
We were always encouraged to talk to people everywhere we went, so during my first week in Évry, as my companion and I were sitting on a bus, I tried in my very remedial French to strike up a conversation with the young man sitting across from me. I asked him if he was from France. “Êtes-vous français?”
He politely answered. My French was slow, and his was thickly accented, so I had no clue what he was saying, but then we exchanged some other pleasantries, some of which I actually did understand. He asked me about the badge I wore on my jacket. I told him I was a missionary for my church from America. “Je suis une missionnaire de l’Amérique. Êtes-vous … um, are you religious? Religieux?”
He said something that sounded like, “Moos-li-ma.”
In my pathetic understanding of the French language, I said I had never heard of that religion before. He smiled at me, and then it was his stop and he had to go. My companion nudged me and said in her broken English, “Muslim. Muslim, Sister Smart.”
Wow, I felt like an idiot. I never again forgot what that word sounded like. Of course, I’d heard of Islam. I didn’t know tons about it, but I had a friend in junior high who was Muslim. We didn’t spend a lot of time discussing religion, but I had learned through association that Muslims believed in Allah, that Muhammad was their greatest prophet, and that—like Mormons—they valued family and modesty. It seemed to me that Mormons and Muslims had something else in common: People who don’t know anything about the actual tenets of our faith are quick to judge us based on the actions of a few fringe extremists. All that said, as part of our training, we were taught that we should not proselytize or attempt to convert Muslims, recognizing that, depending on their country of origin, they might face terrible repercussions for even contemplating another faith.
My mission was one of the hardest yet most rewarding experiences of my life. I learned so much about my own faith, other people’s faith, other religions, a whole different culture and language, and I learned a lot about human nature as well. There are some people who are going to hate you for no reason other than that you are there, talking about religion. But you also meet some of the kindest people in the world.
One of the people who made a lasting impression on me was a native Frenchwoman named Giselle, who lived in Caen with her two small children. She invited my companion and me into her small apartment and started telling us about her life. She cared about everyone and everything and truly practiced the “love thy neighbor” teachings of her Christian faith. She told us that years earlier, as she prepared to go on vacation, she noticed a homeless person who was a regular outside her apartment building. That day, instead of rushing by and ignoring that person, she stopped and said, “I live on the sixth floor. Here is my key. Stay here as long as you need to.” When she got back to her apartment after her vacation, there was nothing left. All her belongings—furniture, clothes, food—everything was gone. Instead of reporting the robbery to the police, she sighed and said, “Oh, well. They needed it more than I did anyway.” And she started over with nothing but the contents of her suitcase.
If my mission and my religion have taught me anything, it’s that faith isn’t just what you believe in; it’s how you live, how you love, and how you move forward.
My faith—and this religion that’s been the vehicle for my faith—has played a huge role in my life. It’s always been there for me when I needed something to hold on to. At the end of the day, if all religions prove to be wrong, I won’t regret believing, because it has made me a better person and has helped me live my life in such a way that I will never need to be ashamed of any part of it. I think most religions are that way: a set of beliefs that help provide hope, healing, and a meaningful way of life. It really is something quite beautiful and extraordinary, if you take the time to stop and think about it.
However, there are those who are willing to sink so low as to take those beautiful beliefs and ways of life and twist them and manipulate them until they no longer resemble what they should. Every religion on the planet has seen that infected sliver: a self-serving extremist fringe that has nothing to do with faith and everything to do with agenda. Brian David Mitchell and Wanda Barzee are prime examples: two people who perverted Scripture in the ugliest, most self-serving way imaginable, using it to deceive and harm people. To harm a child. There couldn’t be anything more despicable.
Because I was that wounded child, I felt a certain empathy when I recently heard the story of a little girl in Afghanistan.
* * *
As a child growing up in a war-torn country, this little girl (we’ll call her Fatima to protect her privacy) was used to the sights and sounds of conflict. In her brief life, she’d already seen too much. She’d witnessed a relative who was heavily pregnant being killed by her husband for leaving the home without his permission. She often heard one of her uncles say, “It is better for a woman to be in the grave than to go to work and show up in public.” Her family eventually fled Afghanistan. They lived as refugees in Pakistan for a time, then returned to their home country, hoping things might change. Inside and outside this little girl’s home, there was a war zone in which a twisted version of their religion was used as a weapon against women—and against faith.
One day when Fatima was seven years old, she was working in the fields alongside her father. Suddenly, a huge explosion rent the air. Everything went black. When Fatima regained consciousness and opened her eyes, she saw her father and knew immediately that he was dead. When she finally was able to tear her eyes away from her father’s body, she looked down and saw that her leg was badly mangled. Fatima was taken to the hospital, where the doctors amputated her leg just above the knee. This devastating moment turned out to be the beginning of a long, terrifying journey that shook her family to its foundation and galvanized a greater purpose in her life—a purpose made more powerful because it was guided by her faith.
When my friend Dana told me briefly about Fatima, I wanted to know more. I reached out to Fatima, but she was away celebrating Ramadan. How long is Ramadan? I wondered. When will it end? Early July. Thank you, Google. I waited until July and invited Fatima and Dana to come up to my home for lunch, hoping she would allow me to interview her for this book. In my experience, faith is an integral part of hope, and religion is a framework for faith, so I knew I had to ask about hers. I thought it was important to include in this book interviews with people whose religion is different from my own but whose faith has sustained them the way my faith sustained me.
When the day arrives, I want Fatima to feel welcome in my home. I generally don’t do a great deal of cooking, and my cooking is nothing to get that excited about anyway, but I want this to be nice. Despite my best plans, the kitchen doesn’t look a
s tidy as I want it, and there’s no time to waste. I jump in my car, quickly strapping my trusty sidekick Chloé into her car seat, and off we go to Whole Foods. Personally, I love Whole Foods, but it’s a bit trendy—and a bit spendy—for everyday living. It’s more of a special-occasion grocery store for us. I know exactly what I want. Nothing heavy. Flaky, light croissants for chicken salad sandwiches, an array of cheeses and fruit for a cheese platter, some of the premade quinoa salads and kale salads, and a beautiful Chantilly cake loaded with berries for dessert. I quickly push my cart through the store, snatching things up as I go. Whenever we have people over for a meal, I always, without fail, overdo it with too much food. This time is no exception; I end up spending over a hundred dollars just on the cheese. I guess it’s clear that France gave me not only a love for pastry but a love for cheese as well. Usually if you look in my pantry or fridge and we don’t have much of anything, the one thing you are guaranteed to find is cheese.
Chloé, of course, decides she would prefer to be out of the cart rather than safely buckled in, so now I’m trying to push the cart and convince her to sit still. That usually means no one wins. Fortunately, I make it up to the checkout before the real struggling begins. I don’t blame Chloé for wanting to get out and look at things and touch things. That’s what I want to do every time I’m in Whole Foods!
Once we get home, I try to make everything look lovely and presentable. My mom is so much better at this kind of thing than I am. She has an artistic flair that shows in everything she does. Me—not so much. But I try. And somehow I manage to pull it off. It’s probably the yummy Chantilly cake on the glass cake stand that elevates the presentation above my usual status quo. I want Fatima to feel my appreciation for her willingness to talk to me. This young woman has been through so much. The loss of her father and her leg to that land mine. The loss of her childhood to poverty and struggle. The loss of her peace and safety to misogyny and threats of violence.
My house is at the corner of two forked streets on a mountainside. There’s no fence around my yard, so when I sit on my deck (where I have lunch set up), people can see me as they drive by, which can be confusing, because when I tell people my address, their GPS sends them to my front door and driveway around the corner. So today, as I’m adding the last-minute touches to our lunch on the deck, I look up and see a white sedan pull over to the curb and park. Two people get out, and one is my friend Dana, so the other must be Fatima. Instead of walking or driving back around to the front door, they hike down the grassy incline to my deck. I have a mini heart attack, thinking about Fatima’s leg, but she doesn’t hesitate for a second. She troops down the slope and climbs the steps to the deck with only the slightest limp.
“Hello.” I offer my hand. “I’m Elizabeth. Thank you so much for coming.”
Fatima looks me over carefully and says, “Dana gave me your book to read before we met. I thought you would be older.”
“Really?” I have to laugh at that. “Usually it’s just the opposite. People see me frozen in time as a fifteen-year-old.”
We sit down and start to eat lunch, but Fatima hardly touches the food on her plate. Maybe I’m just used to living with boys, I tell myself; whenever there’s food around, it’s gone in about half a second. Maybe she doesn’t like American food. Maybe she’s not hungry. Maybe she’s too nervous to eat. Or maybe I’m too nervous about not offending her. Why won’t my brain stop worrying about how much she eats?
I attempt small talk for a bit before I start peppering her with questions, but Fatima doesn’t seem to be one for a lot of small talk. So I set out the digital recorder and dive in. Fatima’s story tumbles out in bits and pieces. I’m going to paraphrase here rather than quote her directly. I want to be clear, because the story is so important.
The loss of a leg would be trial enough for anyone, but the death of her precious father was devastating to Fatima and her family. His death meant more than just the loss of a beloved family member; it meant the loss of their income, the loss of their freedom. They had to move in with an uncle who was cruel and abusive to Fatima, her mother, and all her siblings. Her trouble did not end there; Fatima’s family learned that the explosion was the result of a mine specifically targeted at them. The Taliban had found out that her father was working against them. Even after his death, they continued to target Fatima’s family and extended family, to make an example of them. Life became unbearable, and they had to relocate back to Pakistan for their own protection.
Fatima, her mother, her five sisters, and her one brother lived all together in one small room in the home of a relative. Fatima’s mother took in sewing to make a little extra money to send Fatima to school to get an education, though her uncles and aunts didn’t want her to go and living conditions made it virtually impossible for Fatima to study. Despite all this, Fatima loved learning and school. Imagining a better life for herself and her family, she applied herself to studying and taught herself to speak English.
Fatima’s mother was still a young woman, so her brothers hoped to marry her off again, but Fatima’s mother refused. She wanted to give her children the best odds for survival, and she felt that if she remarried, she would be destroying any chance of that. She also knew that she was dying. Fatima’s mother had been diagnosed with brain cancer, but she didn’t tell her children until the very end, six months later. She didn’t want them to worry about her. She died clinging to the hope that Fatima would go to school and get a good job to help support her siblings.
Fatima did just that. She graduated from high school and returned to Afghanistan in search of a job. She found work with a private contractor in Kabul, then went on to work as a translator for a military base. As she struggled to build a career with which she could support her family, she became more and more frustrated with the discrimination continually shown toward women. She made the bold choice to go to work for Oxfam International, teaching and promoting women’s rights in different communities. Fatima also continued her schooling and ultimately did her thesis on women’s rights.
Having accomplished all this, Fatima traveled to Jalalabad, to one of the districts where her family originated, to visit the grave sites of her parents. It’s the custom there, when one visits a family grave site, to pass fruit out to the people around, so Fatima thought nothing of it when a small boy approached her. But instead of fruit, he handed her a sealed envelope, telling her, “There’s a letter for you from that man.” Fatima looked up and saw a tall, bearded man with a turban wrapped around his head. She didn’t recognize him, so at first she thought the letter must be for someone else. Surely it could not be for her. But it was. When she opened it, she found a letter from the Taliban threatening her if she did not stop working for foreigners and women’s rights. Knowing all too well how serious this threat could be, Fatima made the very difficult decision to leave her family and everything she knew. She came to America, seeking asylum, and Dana took her in.
Trying to process all this, to make sense of the bits and pieces, I take a deep breath of the cool mountain air before I ask her the question so many people have asked me. “After everything that’s happened to you in the name of religion, Fatima, do you still believe?”
“It’s not the religion that makes people good or bad,” she says. “Mostly it’s the culture. For instance, Islam never says to kill a woman because she goes out and works. In fact, it encourages people to go out and work and gain an education. The wife of Muhammad the prophet was an entrepreneur. How could Islam start from these things? The bad things like killing, stoning, beating, and abusing are a misinterpretation by people—people who use Islam for their own benefit.”
“Fatima, how has your faith helped you?”
“I pray to God a lot. Whenever something terrible is happening to us, whenever we are in extreme situations, I always pray to God, and my prayers are answered. I did not think it would be possible for me to come to America, but I prayed a lot. My sisters prayed a lot. And I was able to come.”
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br /> * * *
I also believe in prayer. I have for as long as I can remember. When I was little and my parents would tuck me into bed at night, they would often share stories from their childhoods. Sometimes Mom would tell us about family road trips when she and her eight brothers and sisters would climb into the dependable station wagon with her parents in the front seat—her dad at the wheel, her mom as navigator with the trusty map—and they would set out for an adventure. They’d go to the beach or a lake, or if they were really lucky, to Disneyland. Occasionally they would go all the way up to Canada and visit Banff.
On one of their adventures, somewhere out in the middle of the desert, they missed the last turnoff to refuel and continued on, thinking, We’ll be okay. We can make it to the next service station. They even tried a shortcut. But they didn’t find a gas station. The family car, with its dying chug, made it to the top of a hill. Grandpa said, “We’ll coast down this hill, but after that we can’t go any farther without more gas.” He took his foot off the brake, and they coasted down the hill, stopping a little distance away. I can only imagine the squabbling that went on then. My mom has never said anything about that, but I have been on enough road trips and had enough car troubles to know that those two things put together add up to a perfect recipe for short tempers and plenty of complaining. Eleven people in the same car, no AC, stuck in the middle of the desert. Sounds kind of like hell.
My grandparents remained calm, and a family prayer was said. They asked God for some fuel to make it to a gas station. Shortly after they completed their prayer, to their surprise a big truck came barreling down the hill and slowed to a stop next to them. The window was slowly cranked down, and a man’s face appeared. The man asked, “What seems to be the problem?” My grandpa told him what had happened. The man smiled and said he had plenty of gas with him. The trailer he was towing behind his rig happened to be full of gas. He whipped out a hose and a nozzle and filled the station wagon’s tank not partway but all the way with gas. Before he left, my grandpa tried to pay him, but he wouldn’t accept even a penny. Almost as suddenly as he had appeared, he was back in his truck, trundling off down the highway. To some this story may seem like it was just luck, or it was coincidence, or the good deed of a fellow human, but I believe that it was a miracle, an answer to prayer—and that’s not the only small miracle I’ve seen or heard of in my life.
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