by Ray Norman
We were still a mile or two from the edge of town, and I was also worried about my own blood loss. I was concerned that I could lose consciousness at any moment, possibly resulting in a vehicle accident. More worrying was the possibility of Hannah being left wounded and without help in an isolated location on the outskirts of town. As we neared town I guessed there was a chance we were in range of a cell tower. I grabbed my phone from my shorts pocket, but when I tried to look at the keys and screen they were illegible from my bloodied hand. As I drove I frantically looked for a dry, bloodless spot on my shirt or shorts where I could wipe the phone clean, but I found none.
Eventually I was able to wipe the phone (and my hand) under my relatively bloodless left armpit and dial the World Vision office. It had long since closed, and there was a good chance no one would answer. But World Vision accountants are notorious for working late, and a flood of relief passed over me when I heard the voice of Beverly, our Canadian finance director, on the other end of the line. So as not to alarm her, in the calmest voice I could manage I explained our circumstances and asked her to alert Dr. Sheikh, who had a small clinic just behind our World Vision offices.
Dr. Sheikh was a gracious French national married to a Mauritanian man, and she had set up a small practice in Nouakchott. Many of our staff used her for minor medical issues, as reliable medical facilities and personnel were extremely limited in Mauritania. And this was my primary concern; even if I were able to get Hannah to town before something terrible happened, there were no emergency or surgery facilities such as we know in America or Europe. Any type of surgery to safely remove a bullet lodged deep in Hannah’s chest was out of the question in Nouakchott. The nearest facilities and medical personnel who could possibly perform such a procedure were in Dakar, a difficult five-hour drive or forty-five minutes by a plane that only operated a few days of the week.
I recalled that Amrita’s home was near this edge of town, so I told Beverly that I would go there first to see if I could find someone to help get us to Dr. Sheikh’s office; however, if we did not show up in about fifteen minutes, someone should come looking for us, as I was not sure how much longer I would be able to maintain consciousness.
I swung into the front of Amrita’s house a few minutes later and struggled to the door, hoping none of her neighbors would see us and create unnecessary alarm. But to my dismay I found no one there. After banging on the door I stumbled back to the vehicle as quickly as I could in my condition and found that Hannah seemed to be fading. The shock and adrenaline had begun to wear off, and Hannah murmured that she was beginning to feel cold and tired. I urged her to hold on for another ten minutes, and during the remainder of our drive I tried to maintain a running conversation with her, all the while silently tossing petitions heavenward that I too would maintain consciousness.
Within ten minutes I pulled in front of the doctor’s small clinic, having negotiated the streets and traffic of Nouakchott at a relatively high speed with an obviously shot-out vehicle. I was relieved to find a small group of waiting individuals, including Beverly, Dr. Sheikh, and a handful of her staff. As I pulled to a stop and those around opened our doors and began attending to us, a flood of relief swept over me; we were no longer facing this crisis alone.
But my relief was only momentary. As the doctor leaned over Hannah in her seat, I silently motioned for her to examine Hannah’s chest. At this point Hannah was not very alert, and the instant the doctor saw her wound, she quickly shot me a glance and shook her head firmly—sending the clear but silent message that things did not look good. She obviously did not want Hannah to know her first prognosis, but she clearly did not want me to get my hopes up. For me her message was clear: given the circumstances, Hannah did not stand much of a chance.
Although others were trying to coax me from my seat, I dropped my head to the steering wheel and poured out yet another prayer, but one that was more fervent, more absolute, more final than perhaps any I have ever prayed. In that moment I stormed into heaven’s throne room and stated my case in resounding detail, but on the outside my only audible words through my folded arms were a raspy, “Oh, Lord, you can have me if this is the cost you require of me. But not my daughter. Not my daughter!” In that moment I felt that everything within me was turned inside out; every part of my inner being was laid bare, exposed, and vulnerable before God as never before or since.
I was so weakened from both the physical trauma and my spiritual battle that I reluctantly gave in to those who were trying to quickly but gently move me to the back seat. In a few moments Moctar, our World Vision director for administrative affairs and human resources, was behind the wheel. Dr. Sheikh was in the rear seat with me, behind Hannah, and under the doctor’s directions we were speeding off to another clinic equipped with a functioning X-ray machine. Amazingly, a French pediatrician on a short-term assignment in Nouakchott was going to meet us at our next stop. When we arrived he and Dr. Sheikh whisked Hannah away on a waiting stretcher, and within minutes X-rays were being made of her chest to try to locate the bullet.
As I stepped out of the vehicle, I was surprised at the size of the crowd outside the clinic. Word was already out that a foreigner had been shot, and both the curious and concerned were assembling in the street. I noted a few policemen around and was informed that the marine guards from the American embassy were on their way to work with local authorities to cordon off the area and monitor the crowd for security purposes, since the circumstances of the shooting were still unknown. I later learned that a crowd of about four hundred people had gathered around the small clinic within the hour.
I thought I would follow Hannah, but instead I was taken to another area for medical treatment of my wound. The instant I realized I was not where Hannah was being examined I insisted (somewhat belligerently) that I join her. With a tourniquet tied around my upper arm to staunch the bleeding, and against the clinic staff’s protests, I stumbled to the X-ray area, where I found a number of our Mauritanian staff, along with other officials, anxiously waiting in the hallway for news about Hannah’s prognosis. They each greeted me warmly and quietly. I then made my way to Hannah’s side and squeezed her hand, letting her know I was back with her.
In a few moments the developed X-ray was rushed to the two doctors, who with their assistants began hovering over Hannah and were soon glancing quickly back and forth between her and the X-ray, murmuring. The X-ray showed no bullet in Hannah’s chest area, but did indicate one down near her waist where she had no evident wound. While they pondered the X-ray results, a wise medical assistant began feeling around the folds of Hannah’s dress near her waistline and found the bullet. As they began cleaning the blood from the rest of her abdomen, they found a small exit hole near Hannah’s armpit. In an instant the truth became clear. The bullet had entered the center of her chest and hit her sternum, but having been slowed down by the window glass and my arm, rather than penetrating farther, it had glanced off her sternum, passed along the exterior of her rib cage, and exited near her armpit. The bullet had not penetrated her lungs or her heart; she was seriously hurt, but not in mortal danger! The murmurings of those huddled around Hannah were replaced with sighs of relief, and the pediatrician turned around and told me the amazing news that even he was trying to grasp.
By this time the small room and the hallway outside were packed shoulder to shoulder with our staff, government officials, embassy staff, and others. They grew instantly silent as they listened to the doctor’s words directed at an anxious father. In the hot, stifling press of that largely Muslim crowd, I felt the crushing, threatening burden of hopelessness loosen and lift from my shoulders, and I turned my eyes upward and unashamedly uttered my thanks to God. “Thank you, thank you, oh, faithful and loving Father.” As I said these words, the healing tears at last began to flow. Joy and relief, as well as tears, were soon expressed around the room and shared equally between Muslim and Christian, American and Arab, black and white, and just about every color in between.
A short time later Hannah and I were reclining on adjacent beds. We were wrapped in bandages with intravenous drips in our arms. With the fluids making up for her loss of blood, Hannah began to revive. In spite of being in a spartan facility in a remote desert town, for the first time in several hours we both began to relax. Our most troubling discomfort was under our thin, single sheets. Our bloodstained clothes had been removed or cut away, and the area around our wounds had been cleaned. But Hannah had been left with no clothes or even underclothes, and I had only my undershorts, still partially stained with blood. With medical staff, World Vision staff, and other officials constantly moving in and out of the room, I was not about to let my last piece of human dignity go with those undershorts. Hannah had not been so fortunate and told me so in the desperate but fervent whisper of a frightfully embarrassed ten-year-old girl.
But there was little either of us could do. With the intravenous drips in our arms, our bladders were constantly in need of emptying. I would trundle off to the toilet holding my intravenous drip in one hand, pressing the elbow of my wounded arm against a sheet to keep it wrapped tightly against my torso, and solemnly greeting officials who milled about in the hallway as I passed in my undignified state. Hannah was forced to make do with a bedpan while attendants stood around—an exercise she would later claim was “the most difficult experience of the entire day.”
Shortly after we were moved to our beds, the American ambassador, Jon, and his wife, Shaparak, arrived. He was a seasoned diplomat who had spent more than four hundred days in captivity during the Iran hostage crisis of 1979–81. Visits by the chief commissioner for Investigation Services and the Mauritanian director for National Security followed. In the midst of the commotion and the constant coming and going of different people at our bedsides, I kept an eye on Hannah; I was concerned she would be completely overwhelmed. But her demeanor surprised me. She met everyone’s gaze with a warm, quiet smile and responded kindly and gently to every query. In spite of all she had been through, she was obviously at peace.
The ambassador and his wife were our good friends, and they greeted us warmly. They immediately asked if I had called my wife. When I told them I had not, the ambassador gave me his cell phone, and his wife urged me to call immediately. This was not going to be easy, and they saw my hesitation. I loved Hélène dearly and did not want to distress her, especially since she had a premonition that something was not right only hours before her departure a week earlier. I had dismissed it, but she had left with a genuine concern for our safety, and I now had to tell her that her discernment had been right-on. Under the insistent stares of my two bedside guests, I took a deep breath and dialed France.
Hélène was surprised at my unexpected call, so I quickly explained that Hannah and I were okay, but that there had been an incident near the beach. I then took a deep breath and briefly explained the events, assuring her that Hannah was now in stable condition beside me here in the clinic and was waiting to talk with her.
Hélène stayed remarkably calm, but I could tell there were a hundred questions thundering through her mind. I quickly said, “Listen, Hélène. Shaparak and Jon are standing next to me, so I will pass the phone to them so they can explain the details and answer your questions.”
It was one of the more difficult telephone calls I had ever made, and over the next ten minutes, the ambassador and his wife graciously and patiently explained everything to my anxious wife. She was soon chatting with Hannah, much to Hannah’s delight, and was surprised at the strength of her daughter’s voice. I then signed off with Hélène, explaining that Hannah and I would soon be medically evacuated.
After my call to Hélène, the director of National Security, the chief commissioner, and a couple of their staff asked to have some time with us. Understandably they were keen to know the details of the incident. Both men were polite and asked their questions gently. They were obviously intrigued by Hannah’s spunk, given what she had just been through, and the chief commissioner seemed particularly taken by Hannah’s peaceful demeanor and her persistent smile. We did our best to describe the details of the incident but were of limited help when asked to describe the assailant—and this was obviously their greatest interest.
At the time Mauritania was a little-known country whose leadership was struggling to come out from under the reputation of being an isolated, backwater place where pockets of Islamic extremism bubbled and burped out of its rocky and sandy expanse. This incident was not what Mauritania needed, especially in the immediate aftermath of 9/11 and the negative international press received since then. Early in our discussion and before I had the opportunity to give them my take on the motive for the incident, one of the men proffered, “It was obviously just a robbery; he clearly wanted your vehicle.” I explained that, in my attempt to engage the assailant in conversation when he first pulled the gun on me, I had asked him if he wanted my vehicle. Given his lack of response and his actions that followed, I knew with certainty that this had been no simple robbery attempt. It was obvious these officials were anxious to save face, and diplomatic expediency called for an official account that would soothe concerns and not inflame them.
After the officials left I was surprised to see my friend Brock and his daughter Hilary walk into the room. I was touched that Brock would bring Hilary to see Hannah, given the obvious risk of frightening her and overwhelming her with the tenuous security of the situation, the commotion of police and armed guards around the clinic, and the sight of her best friend lying freshly wounded before her. Their courageous and selfless act spoke deeply to both of us, especially Hannah, who was delighted beyond words to find her best friend at her bedside.
The situation was obviously hard on Hilary, as she spent most of the time crying quietly at Hannah’s beside while Hannah tried to console her with smiles and assurances that she would be okay. Hannah has always carried the memory of this special moment.
As it had turned out, Brock and Hilary had not been able to make it to the beach that afternoon. As we chatted, it slowly dawned on Brock and me that had they been there, it could well have been him and his daughter who encountered the assailant.
Following my description of the incident and where it had occurred, the police had their men on the beach taking nearly every suspicious lone traveler in the area into custody. Later that evening the chief commissioner and the director of National Security came back into our room and in lowered voices asked me if Hannah and I would be willing to look at a lineup of individuals they had rounded up in the general vicinity of the assault. I was a little dubious at how this would work, as the assailant had been wearing a traditional robe with his head wrapped in a turban, making it nearly impossible to positively identify the individual even if he had been caught. Hannah had been through enough for one day, and I was worried about the alarm she might feel at the possibility of facing her assailant once again. I quickly expressed my doubts and concern to the two gentlemen and told them I was willing to see the lineup in another room.
But they insisted that we involve Hannah, stressing the point that two memories are better than one and that with each passing hour, the chances of finding the man significantly decreased. So after asking to be left alone with Hannah, I explained the request and told her that, while I would be seeing the lineup, she should not feel under any pressure to do this with me. I should not have been surprised that, even in her condition, Hannah’s spunk and curiosity would get the best of her. After a moment’s reflection she said she was rather interested in the idea of possibly seeing the man who had done this.
A short while later they brought in several individuals and lined them up against the far wall. I had been told that two of them would be police officers dressed in local garb, while the remaining men would be the suspects. It was evident who the suspects were; they were disheveled, obviously terrified, and one had wet his trousers and robe. (I think I told Hannah he must still be wet from the beach where he had been picked up.) Within a few mom
ents it became clear to Hannah and me that none of the men matched the size, height, or skin tone that we remembered of the assailant. But the chief commissioner was persistent and wanted Hannah to at least indicate whom among the lineup the assailant most looked like. She thought about this carefully, gazing once again at everyone, and then matter-of-factly turned to the chief commissioner and said, “He looked mostly like you.”
For an instant you could have heard a pin drop. Hannah had no idea she was addressing one of the highest-ranking law officers in the country, and at first I was shocked at her words, true as they were. But who can fault a child for an innocent and honest comment? After a rather uncomfortable moment the entire room burst out in laughter.
As Hannah’s words broke the ice, I glanced briefly at the suspects and noted the flood of relief that crossed their faces. My heart ached for them, and I was distressed that our misfortune had caused such anguish and fear in their own lives. Hannah quickly went on to say that while the assailant was not as tall as the chief commissioner, he had roughly the same build and, more importantly, the same light skin tone. The ambassador and other officials had told me that the incident had become a matter of national importance and that they were under immense pressure to bring it to a quick end. In spite of their friendliness and kindness to Hannah, I got the impression they were disappointed that the lineup did not resolve the matter. By the end of the evening, it became clear to me, regardless of what I said, on its public face this incident was going to be written off as a mere robbery attempt.