by Ray Norman
On my first day back in the office, Amrita mentioned to me that the chief commissioner for Investigation Services, one the highest ranking law officers in the country and one of the officials who had been with us at the small clinic just after the shooting, had stopped by the office once or twice and had called multiple times in the last couple of weeks. He was anxious to know when we were returning and wanted to speak to me urgently about a personal matter.
The Mauritanian government remained concerned for my personal safety, for obvious reasons—not the least of which had been the anonymous phone call to the American embassy a day after the shooting in which the caller had indicated that a second attempt on the director of World Vision would not be unsuccessful. The government of Mauritania did not want any more unfavorable publicity on the international front.
Within a day or two of arriving back in Mauritania, I had met with the director of National Security. He expressed his pleasure, and that of the government, that we had chosen to return and said that he and his staff would make the reentry transition as smooth and safe as possible for our family. But for the time being and until the security situation was better assessed, he insisted that I should not drive alone, that I should always be accompanied by one of my Mauritanian staff wherever I went, and that I keep his office briefed on my intended movements around Nouakchott and beyond. Moreover, he gave me his personal cell phone number and instructed me to call him if ever there were an emergency and to check in with him once a day. Often, in the weeks ahead, I would notice a handful of Mauritanian men dressed in local attire standing around venues on my day’s schedule. I soon learned they were armed undercover agents assigned by my friend the director. On occasion I would greet them and thank them for their service, but on most days I just nodded at them with a smile so as not to draw unnecessary attention. Although their presence was a bit unsettling, I was grateful and humbled that the Mauritanian government was doing its best to ensure my safety. On the other hand, it was an obtrusive reminder of the uncertain circumstances that hung over me like a pall—the ambiguous security situation and the questioned wisdom of keeping our World Vision program going during tenuous times.
My assumption, when I found myself walking into the chief commissioner’s office a few days later, was that he too wanted to talk about matters of my personal safety. I could not have been more mistaken. When I was ushered into his large office, ahead of many others waiting in the reception area to see him, he jumped from behind his desk and greeted me warmly, taking my hand in both of his, as if I were a longtime friend. He quickly dismissed the men he was meeting with and told his assistant that he and I were not to be disturbed. After taking a seat across from me, he put out his cigarette and seemed to be taking a moment to think about how to frame his words. He asked about my family, and especially Hannah and me and how our wounds were healing. Then he clasped both his hands together and, with his elbows on his knees, he leaned toward me and began to speak quietly.
“Monsieur Norman, after meeting you and Hannah that evening of the shooting, I returned to my home in the early hours of the following morning exhausted. But I was unable to sleep. And so it was for many days afterward.
“Since that night I have not been able to get the image out of my mind of you and your daughter lying there on adjacent beds. In the midst of the trauma the two of you experienced, I do not think I have ever seen two people with a greater sense of peace around them. And I have not been able to forget Hannah’s smiling face and her kind words.
“You see, my wife and I never had children, but I have a niece about Hannah’s age whom I love beyond words and who has been chronically ill for many years. She has suffered greatly and so have we. But we do not have the peace and tranquility that you and Hannah had in the midst of your suffering, and I long to know where this comes from.
“How could you and your daughter—freshly wounded by a gunman in a remote and foreign country, among people you came to help—spend hours patiently answering our questions, face a lineup of possible criminals, and all the while speak words of kindness and reassurance to us as high-ranking officials of this country? You told us that everything would be okay and how much you still love Mauritania and its people. Monsieur Norman, where does such strength and peace come from?”
I was stunned. As I sat in the smoke-filled office, with only the noisy rattle of the window air conditioner filling the gaps between his halting words, he candidly poured out his heart while my mind raced ahead looking for the words with which I could adequately respond. Caution bells were also going off in my head. Would a truthful answer put World Vision’s work, or me and my family, at further risk? I silently but fervently prayed, “Lord, how am I to answer this? If he is a man in need, genuinely seeking my counsel, then I must respond accordingly, but at what risk?”
As he brought his narrative to closure, I watched him carefully. I could see genuine anguish etched in his face, intersected at moments with unmistakable glimmers of the kind of hope that seems to flitter just outside of one’s reach. When he had finished he searched my face as I gathered my thoughts and mustered the courage to plunge forward.
I began with the notion of hope, and how it does not come into one’s possession only with the absence of pain and suffering. I spoke of a hope that puts the chill of pain and suffering under its warm shadow. I explained that when he first encountered Hannah and me, we were not without our own pain and anguish at that moment, nor had we been free from it in these weeks that had followed.
Allah is viewed by Muslims as the creator of all. He is both almighty and merciful. But while he may control our lives, the nearness of God in Islam, and being the recipients of his mercy, that does not mean that he participates in our suffering. I gently moved forward, telling him of our belief in a God who willingly involves himself directly with the intimate details of those he created, and who chooses to be personally acquainted with our sorrow and joy, our fears and hopes. I told him in very simple terms that my family and I were sincere followers of Isa al-Masih, who for us was the incarnation of hope, the incarnation of a loving God who has taken on our pain, sorrow, and sin. It was simply through placing our trust in this Isa that we found such peace in times of our greatest need.
When I finished and fell silent, he looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment, then leaned over, warmly took my hand in his, and asked that we stay in touch from time to time. During our prolonged time together, it was increasingly clear to both of us from the growing commotion on the other side of his door that the long backlog of other visitors eagerly awaited his attention. This was the middle of a workday, and his office complex bustled with seemingly chaotic activity. In a few moments I found myself stepping from his dark office complex into the blinding, midday sunlight. As I made my way to my car through the crowds milling about Nouakchott’s municipal building complex while shielding my slowly adjusting eyes, I felt as though I was waking from an unreal dream. I whispered a prayer for the chief commissioner, his wife, and his niece. Over the weeks and months that followed, he and I often checked up on one another over the phone, or when our paths crossed, each asked for updates on the other’s family and well-being. Whenever we did, he always greeted me as if I was a dear friend or brother.
A few days later the Office of the Directorate of National Security contacted our office to inform us that my presence would be needed a few days hence to visit the scene of the crime with them and provide an on-site, moment-by-moment account of the shooting incident. Our director for administrative affairs and human resources, Moctar, drove me that morning in the same vehicle Hannah and I had been in on that fateful afternoon a few weeks before. It had been cleaned of blood and the windows replaced, but the bullet holes in the side of the car and headrest were still visible.
We were to meet other officials at a small police station on the north side of town, the closest station to the place of the shooting a few kilometers north. When we pulled up in front of the station, I saw that my new frien
d, the chief commissioner, was there. We greeted each other warmly and caught up briefly on each other’s family. I was also introduced once again to the director of National Security, whom I had met the night of the shooting. We were ushered into the police office to await other officials who were to join us on our trip out to the site of the crime.
As I followed the others into the office, I noticed a Mauritanian man wearing a blue robe sitting alone and smoking a cigarette near the entrance door. He was not wearing a turban, and since I did not recognize him, I presumed he was a driver or some other local employee. The director motioned me to seat myself in front of the desk behind which he soon sat. He produced a small, clear plastic bag containing a flattened lead bullet and placed it on the desk beside a rather large and somewhat rusted pistol—the firearm used by the assailant and the bullet that had passed through my arm and Hannah’s chest. I was struck by the size and weight of both the pistol and bullet as I gingerly picked each up to examine them.
Every now and then there was some sort of exchange in Hassaniya between the officers and the Mauritanian man sitting by the entrance that I could not fully understand. He begged a new cigarette off of anyone who wandered into the office, seemed to have a cocky attitude, and spent most of his time cracking occasional jokes and nervously laughing to himself, with no one really paying him any serious attention. But as I listened to the intermittent exchange between him and the policemen, I suddenly realized that he was Ali, the man who had aimed the rusty nine-millimeter pistol at Hannah and me and shattered our worlds.
Since this was a reenactment of the crime, I should have known the assailant would probably be present, and I felt a little foolish for not having thought of this. It was clear he seemed to be enjoying the break from his awful prison cell. Then I realized that none of the officials had bothered to introduce me to this man, obviously thinking that I would not want to be bothered and that he certainly was not worthy of a formal acknowledgement of his presence among our party.
After a half hour or more, the others arrived, and we loaded up the four waiting vehicles and began weaving our way out of town among the sand dunes and under the hot midmorning sun. Fifteen minutes later we pulled up to the spot where the incident had occurred. The police had located and marked the site weeks earlier.
As everyone piled out of the vehicles, I lingered in the background to see how this was going to play out. In a few moments Ali was eagerly offering explanations to a handful of officers and walking them through his version of the events. As I watched and listened from a distance, it seemed he was eager to articulate the details of the events. The picture he painted was that of a robbery, although it seemed to me there were gaping holes in his scenario. He explained that at the time he had been under the influence of drugs that had an effect on his reasoning, so he botched an intended robbery. I made the decision not to challenge him directly and waited quietly until I was called upon.
After about ten minutes the director and the chief commissioner asked me if I would step forward and recount my version of the events. I did so in a low-key manner and was intentional about not making any reference to Ali’s version. He was clearly looking for any possible way to minimize the events that had happened, not to mention the serious consequences he was sure to face. He was already in a great deal of trouble, and I had no interest in making matters any worse for him. I actually felt sorry for him. But I knew Hannah and I were not simply victims of a botched robbery. Not that long ago I had watched this man take deliberate, silent aim at both Hannah and me at this same spot.
As I progressed through what happened, it became apparent to those around that I was not making any reference to having been robbed. Someone stopped me in mid-discourse and asked, “Well, what about the robbery part? At what point did he try to rob you of anything or of the vehicle?” I quietly explained that at no point did he ever give any indication, much less articulate, that he wanted something of ours. I explained that I had, in fact, desperately hoped that all he wanted was the vehicle or cash, so I had tried to ask him this—and that his response was silence and a pulled trigger. I made it clear that he had been articulate and deliberate in his actions, and that he had appeared to be very much in control of himself.
As it had been on that night when the authorities first quizzed Hannah and me about the events, I knew this was not what they wanted to hear. I was uncomfortably aware that the official word that had already gone out on the AP wire the day after the shooting was that this had been an attempted robbery. Perhaps the authorities had hoped that my memory would be jolted or improved once I was back at the scene.
As they continued to ask if I was sure that he had never given any indication of wanting to rob me, Ali, who was now watching from the sidelines, derisively interjected, “Look at his size! If I had wanted to kill him, I surely would not have missed. Who could miss such a large target!” Ali was told to be quiet, and the authorities then spent the next half hour taking measurements and pictures of the scene.
As we lingered under the hot sun, I kept trying to find an opportunity to move alongside Ali. I was curious about this obviously intelligent but troubled man, and I hoped that I could learn more. I wanted him to understand that I genuinely held no ill feeling against him. I still wrestled with feelings of hurt and not being understood, but I was not angry with him. I wanted him to know that in spite of what he had done, I would still treat him with respect and dignity. Unfortunately, the opportunity never came to talk to him alone or without our conversation being the center of attention, as he was always surrounded by three or four policemen. I knew from his actions that as long as he was within earshot of the authorities, he would likely retain his defensive, if not antagonistic, posture. While the authorities had obviously hoped that I would at least concede that it could have been a robbery, I think the unspoken truth was clear to all as we pulled away: Why would a man put bullets in a man, his young daughter, and their vehicle if all he wanted to do was steal cash or car?
Another concern that increasingly troubled me was a matter that Hélène and I had begun to discuss months before the shooting. When we were first married and had chosen this path of working among the unreached and poor, we had often talked about how to best meet the needs of our children as they grew toward adulthood in these environments. And we had both agreed that at some point we should give them ample opportunity to establish roots in one or both of their own home cultures. I had grown up with too many friends in the mission field whose parents shipped them back to the United States as young adults to more or less make it on their own—with no home environment with which they could identify. Many of these friends, who were third culture kids, never grew up to identify in a wholesome way with their own home culture, nor any other for that matter. Growing up they were always foreigners, but neither could they fit in with their own culture in the United States, as they had never found their place or identity with their own people.
Hélène and I knew that our two children were being exposed to a rich variety of experiences and cultures that would, at least in the long term, both shape and serve them well as they pursued their own vocations and callings in the years ahead. But although we had striven to raise our children as bicultural as possible, neither of them had spent any significant time in either France or the United States. We had no illusions that establishing roots in their home culture would be easy for our children, but we were determined to make this transition as smooth as possible, largely by being there to walk that path with them.
A year earlier our hoped-for plans for Nathaniel to attend the local French lycée, the only acceptable alternative for middle and high school level education in Nouakchott, had fallen through due to unforeseen deterioration in the school’s administration. So in the fall of 2000, we were obliged to send Nathaniel to the mission boarding school in Dakar to begin eighth grade. Nathaniel reveled in this experience and opportunity. He loved his school and the rich variety of friends and cultures he intersected with in c
osmopolitan Dakar. But we also realized that within a few years he would grow up and out of our home. Being at boarding school meant the opportunities we had to speak into Nathaniel’s life were limited, and he did not have a chance to sink roots in either of his home cultures.
So we began to make plans for a transition back to Europe or the United States sometime in 2002, and I initiated preliminary discussions with World Vision as to the possibility of a transfer to one of these places. Earlier in 2001 we had decided that by the end of the year I would inform my immediate supervisor and our local staff of our need and decision to relocate.
But now, with all that had occurred in the past two months and the critical juncture that confronted World Vision’s program in Mauritania, how could we tell our staff, our government partners, and the communities we worked with that we were planning to leave? No matter what angle I approached this conundrum from, I simply could not bring myself to make such an announcement. Given the timing, it would surely look as if we were leaving because of the attack on Hannah and me. After much thought and prayer, yet with no clear practical solution in mind, we put those plans on hold and told no one. Taking one day at a time, we focused on articulating that World Vision had every intention of keeping its programs going, and for today we were committed to making that happen.
In the midst of the tumultuous weeks and remarkable events that had followed our return, another unforeseen experience began to unfold. Many in the struggling communities we served had also been deeply troubled by the events of 9/11, and even more so by the assault on my daughter and me. World Vision, along with other humanitarian programs in the country, had found it necessary to suspend its program for a season during the Gulf War only a few years before. With the resurgence of global tensions following 9/11, many people in our communities entertained fears that were unfounded, but nevertheless real—for example, fears of repercussions from the United States government or other Western nations.