Dangerous Love

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by Ray Norman


  On most occasions, however, I was usually more prudent about meeting expectations when engaging across cultures, especially when I was among local communities that may have had limited exposure to westerners. In our “apprentice” years before coming to Mauritania, Hélène and I had strived to adapt to local culture, learn the language, and basically understand the people we served. This also involved helping them understand us and the cultural baggage and eccentricities we brought along. Sincere as we were, we made many blunders—some funny, others less so.

  In my first months in Niger, my research schedule did not allow me the luxury of a formal course in the local Hausa dialect, so I eagerly picked up bits and pieces whenever I could. My enthusiasm, however, prompted premature attempts at practice. Late one afternoon I found myself lost in a remote area, having taken a wrong turn off the dirt track I was following to get to a small village where I hoped to spend the night. In the villages where I worked, I had tried hard to set a wholesome example and to avoid the more common image of male foreigners as whiskey-swilling womanizers.

  I was at least thirty minutes from my intended destination, and just as the sun was setting across the low-lying hills, I spotted a group of women returning from their fields, each with a heavy load of firewood on her head. They were obviously startled to see an anxious white man in a motorized vehicle pull up beside them, but I jumped right in with my limited vocabulary and proceeded to ask which path I needed to take to the village where I was headed. Their apprehension turned first to shock, then to unbridled mirth as I struggled with my words, and within a few seconds they all had dropped their loads of wood and fallen to the ground in hysterics. Chatting animatedly among themselves, one of them eventually pointed me in the direction I needed to go. Later that evening, sitting securely around a small fire with village friends and grateful that I was not passing the night lost in the desert bush country, I recounted my experience with the women. When asked to repeat what I had said to them, my friends were instantly seized by the same fits of laughter I had observed earlier. After gathering their wits about them, they patiently explained to me that I had not asked for the path to their village but for the path to the local brothel.

  Some years later, and not long after we had moved to the Sultanate of Oman, Hélène trumped my language blunder in Niger by both our reckonings. In an effort to honor expectations of modesty in the local culture, she always wore a head covering whenever she went out. But being the artist and visually oriented person that she is, she bypassed the standard black scarves and used instead an intricately woven, multicolored piece of cloth she had picked up in the local market. Arabs are nearly always appreciative of Western women who dress modestly and cover their heads, but the odd looks she got over the next month or two with her chosen head covering quickly led me to believe that something was amiss. I begged her to don the more standard black or white scarf, but she would hear nothing of it, stating that she had no intention of sacrificing her artistic tastes in her pursuit of cultural propriety. One day as we were walking into a local restaurant where clients were seated on the carpeted floor, a robed man suddenly jumped to his feet, bowed politely, and in halting English said, “Madame, thank you for trying.” After pondering this and other confusing comments that obviously involved her head covering, Hélène finally decided to retire the headpiece and settled for a white scarf, much to my relief. Some weeks later, when I was preparing to travel up-country to visit Rashid, a date-palm grower in the mountains, Hélène handed me the infamous headpiece and suggested I offer it as a gift to Rashid’s wife. En route, I handed the colored cloth to my assistant, stating my wife’s request. Thinking he had misunderstood me, he said, “You mean you want me to present this to Rashid as a gift, not to his wife.” When I asked him why we should do that, he turned and said, “Dr. Norman, this would make a fine gift for Rashid! It is an expensive and high-quality loincloth, traditional underwear for Omani men!”

  These were but a few of the many practical blunders we made as we tried to reach across the cultural divides we encountered—embarrassing lessons but profound learning experiences.

  After my successful (yet culturally risky) assault of the office staircase, I stepped into the office, and my administrative assistant greeted me with her usual warm and reassuring smile. Amrita was a gentle and discerning woman from the beautiful island nation of Sri Lanka off the southern coast of India. An unsung hero, she had traversed her own long, twisting, and difficult journey to find herself now serving God in this remote place. She was a seasoned assistant who had served under a number of national directors, and although she probably did not fully comprehend it, her deep, quiet faith was a welcomed source of inspiration and strength to all of us. Whenever there was a crisis at hand and we were all running around frantically trying to put out the fires, we knew that Amrita was faithfully making the time in the midst of her own busy schedule to take these matters to the throne of grace.

  It was about mid-morning when Amrita knocked on my door to tell me she had just received word from both the American and French embassies advising that security measures could be relaxed somewhat, although some minimal measures of caution should still be exercised when outside of the home or office. This confirmed what we had been sensing recently and was welcome news, as we had been operating and living under rather strict protocols for five weeks. My first thoughts were that I could now begin to schedule long-overdue visits to some of our field sites up-country. I mentioned these thoughts to Amrita, who proffered that, while it was good news, I should still exercise caution and prudence when out in public venues, especially in my role as the foreign director of the largest nongovernmental organization (NGO) operating in the country, and a Christian one at that. She had lived here many years and knew the pulse of this country much better than I did; and she offered this advice knowing I would be out that very afternoon visiting nearby project sites.

  Life in this corner of the desert is restricted enough during normal times by environmental, cultural, and sociopolitical parameters and expectations, and we were all anxious to get back to the more normal rhythms of life. After Amrita left the room, I found myself thinking about resuming our family’s visits to the nearby beaches—one of the few places in the country where we could find much-needed outdoor refreshment and exercise. For many, both expatriate and Mauritanian, the long stretches of wild, open, and usually empty beaches were a wonderful respite from the rigors of Nouakchott life and the oppressive heat. On weekends my family and I frequently joined other staff members for an afternoon of relaxation and fun. In normal times we made short trips to the beach nearly every week for a walk, a swim, or some type of water sport. These trips offered a complete break from the routine and always helped us feel we had restored some level of sanity to our crazy lives. Over the years we had developed a plethora of beach activities to pass the time: surfing, kayaking, or skiing in the surf with the assistance of a double-length ski rope attached to a four-wheel-drive vehicle driven along the open beach. Each one in our family, including Hannah, is a strong, experienced swimmer, and we knew how to handle ourselves in the often-turbulent surf and unpredictable currents.

  After 9/11, however, we had adopted a policy that expatriate staff members should not spend time on the beach unless in the company of others and with at least two vehicles. Although some in the expatriate community continued to visit the beach, most of us at World Vision refrained—a precautionary measure until we were sure things had indeed returned to normal.

  I picked up the phone and called Brock, an American friend whose daughter, Hilary, was Hannah’s best friend. I told him of the announcement from the two embassies and asked if he and Hilary would be interested in joining Hannah and me for a late-afternoon swim and perhaps some surfing. Brock was interested but not sure if he would be able to get away in time, so he agreed to let me know beforehand if he was going to make it. I made a few calls to other friends and told them that some of us were likely to make a beach run later that
day.

  I finished most of the important tasks on my desk shortly after midday, and after a quick lunch I left the office with my driver for our field offices in the outlying squatter communities of El Mina and Sebkha. Once there we were joined by field staff, who briefed me on recent progress as we drove out into the community to visit a newly constructed maternity clinic and some recently installed water delivery outlets.

  Access to health facilities and clean water was largely unheard of in these communities prior to World Vision’s assistance. Community members had contributed to these efforts with both their financial resources and labor, and it was always heartwarming to see their excitement and delight as these efforts came to fruition. I was also keenly aware that the transformation of poor communities into communities of hope, which I was privileged to witness firsthand, was only possible because of the many people in the United States and elsewhere around the world who took seriously the commands of Jesus to love their neighbor and to love the poor.

  What I saw with my own eyes was not a glowing, full-color report in a brochure or a well-scripted television clip about the benefits of Christian humanitarian work. Rather, this was the real thing in all its raw integrity. The communities were still dirty; people still suffered in ways impossible to describe adequately. But what I witnessed on these visits were tangible signs of progress, hope, and confirmation that a difference truly was being made in the lives of the poor for the sake of Christ. And I was grateful that, in the midst of the restrictions we had to work under, we had consistently been open about our identity and our motivations—that we were a Christian organization that in obedience to Christ’s command sought simply to help the poor; that our practice of partnering with communities reflected how we as Christians chose to live out our own faith; and that our love for them was our response to being loved by Christ.

  To our Muslim friends, loving and caring was not considered proselytizing, nor was offense taken when we were open about the reason and source of our love. Many Muslims regard Jesus as the prophet of love, and they readily expect true followers of Jesus to be people of love. But they rarely see this in the few foreigners they encounter who call themselves Christian.

  Of course, for the Christian, Jesus is far more than just a prophet or proclaimer of love. He is the actual source of our love, the author of love itself. And to the extent we could, we faithfully tried to let that love flow freely in all our words and deeds as we labored alongside Mauritania’s poor. Our expressions of love and care in the name of Christ were, for the most part, readily accepted.

  The new maternity clinic in the El Mina squatter community stood in stark contrast to the surrounding squalor—a beacon of hope reflected in the faces and conversations of the women of the community who toured the modest facility with me, as well as a silent, shining reflection of the love of countless caring and generous Christians from around the world. Most Mauritanian women do not have even remote access to such a facility. For most expectant mothers childbirth takes place on a floor mat in the family’s mud house or tent, with little or no recourse if things go badly. And if both mother and child survive the birthing process, poor, unhygienic, postnatal care often takes a high toll.

  I inspected the delivery room and the postnatal-care wing of this small facility, then spent some time chatting with the others from the community and the local mayor’s office who had joined us. This clinic was also the fruit of a collaborative effort among World Vision, municipal administrators, and the community, and I was particularly delighted that we all could take pride in the fruit of our efforts in having made this important facility a reality in the community.

  The last site we visited that day was a potable water-holding tank in Sebkha, one outlet of a much larger, community-wide water delivery network. Individuals or secondary water vendors obtained water from outlets for a small fee that was invested in a fund managed by the community and used for the system’s maintenance and upkeep. I examined the quality of the construction and chatted with community members about their views on clean water and its fundamental role in reducing the incidence of common debilitating diseases, especially those that threatened their young children.

  As a water engineer by training, I could not help but ponder the similarities between this network that facilitated the flow of clean, safe water and our own roles as vessels through which Christ’s love could readily flow to those I stood with under the warm afternoon sun. This was not idealistic or presumptuous spiritual reflection. The challenges and discrepancies in my analogy were uncomfortably evident. I was keenly aware that our recently installed water network might provide more reliable delivery of a life-giving substance than would the earthen vessel I inhabited. Sustainable delivery of clean water in the desert can be accomplished with good science and careful planning, a task that seemed less daunting than the task of effectively and faithfully positioning oneself as a vessel for the flow of Christ’s love. For most water projects in this part of the world, the installation of the system (be it pumps, pipes, or holding tanks) is the easy part. Their upkeep and maintenance over the long term is the more challenging undertaking. And so it is with the heart. Being stirred or inspired to help the poor in the name of Christ is only the first step, and usually the easiest. Keeping one’s heart clear of prejudice, self-interest, pessimism, and other clogging influences is a more complex undertaking, and it requires commitment to daily, faithful maintenance.

  As I moved toward the waiting vehicle to leave, I offered a silent, desperate petition to God. Not only did I pray that this small project would be seen as a reflection of his care and love, but I found myself beseeching him to—in some way, in any way—mold me and my colleagues into more willing and pliable vessels for his use, for the ready flow of his love to the people of this dry and thirsty land.

  4

  PETALS OF BLOOD

  My prayer is not that you take them out of the world

  but that you protect them from the evil one.

  (JOHN I7:I5)

  UNDER OUR PRESENT SECURITY MEASURES, A DRIVER FROM THE office took staff children to their homes from the school in the early afternoon. In Hélène’s absence, Aboubacar was there to welcome Hannah home, give her a snack, and watch over her until I returned from work later in the afternoon. Hannah loved Aboubacar and trusted him implicitly, as did the rest of us. During Hélène’s short absence, Aboubacar would prepare a stack of fresh pancakes, which he knew were Hannah’s favorite, instead of the usual and more modest milk and cookie as an after-school treat. I only learned this much later. It was their little secret, but it explained why Hannah often did not have much of an appetite at dinner on those days when I played Mr. Mom.

  As I drove back into town around 4:30 P.M., I gave Hannah a call at the house with my cell phone, explained to her in simple terms what I had learned earlier about the relaxation of security measures, and asked if she wanted to make a short visit to the beach before dinner. Though she was already deeply engaged with her Barbie dolls, she agreed to go—perhaps more because of my excitement than her own. The prospect that her friend Hilary might join us there was an added incentive.

  When I drove up to the house a little before 5:00 P.M., Hannah was wearing a lime-green summer dress covered with cherries and orange-slice patterns over a purple bathing suit with a butterfly print—a gift recently mailed to her by her grandmother. I grabbed a towel and a pair of shorts, along with a few other items for the beach, and in a few minutes we were bouncing over one of the small tracks that wound through the low-lying sand dunes north of town.

  I still did not have firm confirmation from Brock or the others I had called earlier in the day, but if they could not join us, it was very possible we would find others we knew enjoying the beach on this fine afternoon. I told Hannah we would drive out to our usual beach spot and join up with whomever we found there. If no one was at the beach, it would have been worth the try and we would just head back home and go again another day.

  As we dro
ve, Hannah and I chatted about her day at school, her friends, and Mom’s anticipated return home in another week or so. The isolated track we followed paralleled the beach about a quarter of a mile inland. Fifteen minutes north of town, after weaving between small dunes and dodging the odd, grazing camel, I turned west toward the beach and stopped the vehicle at the base of a large range of dunes that separate the salt flats from the beach itself. These dunes rise to a height of fifty feet or more, and after I engaged the four-wheel drive and deflated the tires, it would only take two to three minutes to cross the dunes and arrive on the hard-packed beach. Deflating tires enhances the vehicle’s traction in soft sand and is a ritual we regularly went through when traveling to the beach or to remote sites up-country.

  It was still rather warm, and the ocean breeze was blowing up sand from the dunes. As I stepped out of the vehicle I left it idling, with the air conditioner running and the windows up. I stretched briefly and took in the quiet surroundings—an endless horizon of sand dunes with the gentle sound of the hidden surf a short distance away.

  One of the things I loved most about my line of work was that it took me to some of the most remote places that people inhabit on this globe. For many the desert is only a harsh and threatening environment, but in my years in the Sahara and in Arabia I had learned not only how to survive and live unthreatened by its sharp edges, but also to cherish the isolation and stark beauty it offered. It was the first time in five weeks I had been out of Nouakchott’s teeming confines, and I savored the quiet, isolated moment. Years before, I had been asked by someone what I loved most about Africa, aside from its people. Before I had really tried to process the question, I surprised myself by blurting out, “The great silences. What I love most about Africa are its great silences.”

 

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