by Ray Norman
By now the chaos in the room was reaching a peak. Hannah was staring wide-eyed at Ali, taking it all in. Hélène was doing much the same but also trying to keep Hannah reassured with her arm around her. Before things could get any worse and descend into chaos, I stood and with a raised hand and loud voice cried out, “Please! Please, everyone!”
I suppose my pleading surprised the crowd, and to my relief the noise in the room diminished considerably, so I turned to the director of the prison and asked if I could now address the prisoner. The director seemed to be relieved that someone was taking charge of the meeting and motioned with a nod for me to continue. As I turned to address Ali across the room, he stiffened, obviously bracing for a barrage of accusation or at least ridicule and denunciation. Within a matter of seconds the chaos in the room settled further, and one could have heard a pin drop by the time I spoke. No doubt curiosity was running high among both Mauritanians and embassy personnel as to what we were going to say.
“Monsieur Ali, first of all, I want you to know that we did not come here to accuse you nor to bring you grief. That is not our purpose. Please understand this. Rather, we came here because we simply wanted the opportunity to speak to you, especially my wife and daughter. It has of course been a challenging time for all of us, but your willingness to hear them and perhaps answer a question or two would serve to help us in this process. Would you be willing to do this?”
He was without a doubt relieved at my words, which had seemed to ease some of the tension in the room, but I could see he still remained cautious and uncomfortable and continued to avoid eye contact as best he could. But with an attempted air of self-assurance and a tinge of haughtiness, he mumbled and shrugged his affirmation that we could address him and he would answer what questions he could. Of course, the truth was he had little choice in the matter. I had just wanted to make it a bit easier for him.
I then told the director of the prison that Hélène had brought some things for the prisoner. Hélène handed the plastic sack to one of the guards, and after the director briefly inspected its contents, it was passed on to Ali at the far end of the room. He eagerly looked at the contents and seemed pleased with the towel and soap, but he immediately began bartering with his guards to exchange the magazines for cigarettes. This restarted some of the earlier commotion, as a number of guards were obviously interested in the magazines. In a country as poor as this, current reading material was beyond the reach of many everyday citizens, so the colorful magazines quickly drew excitement and interest from the prison staff in the room.
In my continued attempt to keep some semblance of order, I quickly turned and took Hannah’s hand, and as I drew her to stand next to me, I whispered, “Okay, Hannah. What would you like to say to Mr. Ali?” Hannah’s standing next to me seemed to quiet everyone down again. Hannah was capable of expressing herself in French, but she was clearly anxious and leaned into my ear to quietly ask if I would translate for her. Up to this point, neither Hélène nor I had asked Hannah what she intended to say to this man. We had never wanted her to feel obligated to meet with him, much less address him. And I guess we had assumed that it was likely that in the end she would just come along and observe without offering a comment or question. So I was a little surprised when she came forward with her well-thought-out comments.
As I translated, Hannah began, “Mr. Ali, I have two things I would like to say. I want to ask you a question; then I have something else I’d like to say. First, I want to know why you tried to kill my daddy.” The silence in the room was staggering. I admittedly felt awkward translating a question about myself, but I plunged forward with the translation. Had it not been a young, innocent girl asking him this question, I think he would have objected. He must have been intrigued by her spunk, because until this point he had avoided most eye contact with us. But I noticed that as Hannah spoke, he was watching and listening carefully. The question did take him aback, and he seemed not to know how to respond at first.
He shifted in his seat a few times and finally said with a sigh of resignation, “Ah! It was an awkward situation, a difficult time with all that was going on. Quite simply, I committed a huge act of gross stupidity.” He then mumbled his way uncomfortably through a string of comments that were hard to follow, including how his foolish act had now put him in such a bad situation. But he eventually wound his way back to his earlier comment, concluding that it was just a stupid and foolish thing that he had done.
During his rambling response I noted that, unlike the time when we met at the scene of the crime, Ali never mentioned that his intention had been to rob us. To my surprise this was never mentioned during our entire encounter with him that day. And at no point in his answer did he tell Hannah that his intention had not been to kill her father, rather that he had “acted stupidly.” As I tried to piece his thoughts and mumblings together, the impression he left me with (although he did not really say it explicitly, as it would only serve to strengthen the case against him) was that he had simply wanted to be a hero of sorts.
Hannah nodded that she had heard and accepted his answer to her question, so I turned to her for her next comment, translating as she spoke softly. “Well, Mr. Ali, I just want you to know that I do not have any bitterness in my heart against you for what you did, and I want you to know that I forgive you.” I’m not sure who was stunned the most at Hannah’s words. For Hélène and me, her words were a complete surprise. She had never articulated to us what she had intended to say, and we had certainly never coached her on what to do if and when she ever met her assailant. The others in the room, mostly a rough assortment of fairly hardened prison guards and security officials from various walks of life, were equally surprised. All eyes were darting back and forth between Hannah and Ali, without so much as a whisper. I could not help but shoot a quick glance at my friend, the crusty American security official from the embassy, to see his reaction, since his general take on all of this was that it was simply a foolhardy affair. He was standing there quietly, mouth agape and staring at Hannah; the look of tedium had vanished from his face and been replaced by one of intense curiosity.
As for Ali, his countenance changed noticeably, and it was clear to all of us that Hannah’s simple words touched him deeply. He was no longer fidgeting in his seat and darting glances elsewhere, nor was he trying to barter any more cigarettes from his guards. He was staring directly at Hannah, trying to take in the words of this young, foreign girl who stood anxiously before him some thirty feet away. “Young lady, those are very generous words. I . . . I do not know what I can say.”
I sat back down on the edge of the rickety bed with Hannah and quickly turned to Hélène and nodded that this would be a good moment for her to share whatever thoughts she had. In a clear, strong voice my petite and usually demure wife leaned forward from her seat and said, “Mr. Ali, it seems to me you must have had a difficult life. To have inflicted the pain and suffering you did on my husband and daughter, surely you must be someone who has experienced a great deal of pain in your own life. Is this true?”
Ali stared at Hélène, nodding emphatically as she spoke these words, obviously amazed at her insight. Then he mumbled a few words about how hard his life had indeed been. She paused for a moment, then continued, “I don’t know if you are able to read the newspapers here in the prison, but much has been said about how Allah surely protected my husband when the three shots you took at his head misfired. Have you seen these articles?”
He replied that he did get to read a paper from time to time and had seen some of the articles. He then shrugged and said, “Yes, I guess it is possible. Perhaps God was protecting your husband. I really do not know. It is really a matter beyond me.”
In Islam, Allah is the one true God, who is almighty, omniscient, and requires obedience and unfailing allegiance. Yet for many (although there are exceptions), Allah is so great and exalted that he does not directly involve himself with the relatively insignificant affairs of most individuals. As su
ch, the idea that Allah would really care or take intimate interest (much less intervene) with regard to the circumstances of an individual can be a foreign notion, and so Ali’s uncertainty was understandable.
Hélène continued, “You see, Mr. Ali, this is what people have been saying, but I think perhaps something different may have been happening when the shots misfired. Have you ever considered that perhaps God was protecting you?”
This comment jolted Ali, as it did everyone else in the room.
“Yes, God cares about my husband,” she continued, “and perhaps in some measure he did protect him. But I believe God’s attention was perhaps focused primarily on you in the midst of this terrible event. Yes, your situation now is bad, but can you imagine the difficulty you would be in had you succeeded in killing my husband? You see, in God’s eyes you are just as important to him and have just as much value as my husband. God’s care and concern for your well-being extend just as much to you as they do to my husband and daughter! And I believe that God spared you because he still has a purpose for your life. There is still much you can do for good.”
She paused for a moment, seemingly unperturbed by the absolute silence in the room brought on by her amazing insight. “There was once an acquaintance of Jesus called Peter, who felt so badly about himself and his past actions that he begged Jesus to stay away from him, saying, ‘For I am an unclean man!’ But Jesus calmed Peter, reassured him, and told him that he would use him for good to reach others. And because of Peter’s acknowledgment of his fallen ways, God did restore and use him remarkably to impact many. In the same way, Mr. Ali, I believe God desires to still use you to impact others for good. You see, you are of priceless value to him, and that is why we came here, so that you would know this.”
The utter stillness in the room was overwhelming, and everyone was astounded at Hélène’s words, myself as much as anyone. I watched in stunned silence as the Holy Spirit imparted these incredible words of wisdom to my wife, who in turn poured them out with simple clarity to the man she had come to meet. In that moment I was witness to a fleeting glimpse of the incredible depth of God’s love for all people. It took my breath away.
I saw in that moment that his love for the people his Son gave his life for is both stunning and magnificent, and that its depth is truly unfathomable. Sitting in that stifling, foul-smelling prison in a remote corner of the western Sahara—as Hélène continued to gently and boldly explain how a ransom, with a price beyond measure, had been paid for Ali—I witnessed the depths and wonder of that love and its stunning beauty as never before. And never before had I felt so humbled, privileged, and undeserving to be considered one of God’s own and intimately acquainted with that love.
Hélène was now unequivocally in full charge of this meeting. But if her words had moved me deeply, her next action stunned me to my core. It was an act both frightening and courageous. As we were all still trying to come to grips with her remarkable words, she stood up from her seat. As she did so, she reached into her purse and, to my utter astonishment, pulled out a Bible—the same French Bible I had begged her to remove from the plastic bag she had prepared for Ali. She then strode quietly across the room and stood by his side. No one moved. No guard called out or moved to intercept her. She quietly opened the Scriptures, first to Isaiah, then to Romans. And for the next couple of minutes, as Ali attentively read along, she shared passages of forgiveness, redemption, and hope.
Although I was profoundly touched by this courageous act of Hélène’s, I confess that I also felt the cold fingers of fear that had lurked constantly in the shadows of the room since we first set foot in it. And consequently, as my mind raced ahead of Hélène’s words, it focused on the immediate consequences of her actions, not the eternal ones. I could not help but wonder if we would all end up in the same cell as Ali by the end of the day!
Hélène finished with the wonder-inducing words of Jesus found in John 3:16 and then told Ali if he ever had the opportunity to get his hands on a Bible he should read through the book of John, as there was much, much more to be found there. As she gently closed the Bible, my heart was racing uncontrollably and my eyes were fixed on the senior Mauritanian authorities in the room, desperately trying to read their faces and predict their response—reprimand and confiscation of the Bible at the very best, expulsion from the country or detention at the worst, although most likely something in between, I reasoned.
But Hélène was not finished. She leaned over to Ali and softly asked him if he would like to keep the Bible. “Oui, Madame, bien sûr!” As he said this he hastily took the Bible from her hands, lifted his blue robe, and placed it somewhere among his undergarments where, hopefully, no one would take it from him. He had rejected her magazines outright, but this was a book he obviously wished to keep. Without missing a beat, Hélène then swung around, locked her eyes on the director of the prison, and asked, “May this man keep this book?” The director, shaken from the seeming spell we had all been under, stiffened, then hastily nodded, “Oui, Madame, of course he may keep the book.”
For the first time that day, I saw Ali smile.
Hélène was shaking almost uncontrollably, though imperceptibly to most, as she walked back across the room and took her seat next to Hannah and me. Then, to everyone’s relief, with perhaps the sole exceptions of Ali and Hélène, the meeting was finally over. In an attempt to restore some semblance of officialdom and control, which had largely been dismissed (even shattered) in the last ten minutes, the prisoner was hustled out of the room—after which we were quickly escorted back out the prison gates and into the Sahara’s staggeringly bright, afternoon sun.
Never before had I been so proud of or so upset with my wife—and both in the same moment. As we drove back home, I feebly tried to remind her of the huge risk she had just taken. She silenced my protests with the words, “Well, I think I earned the right to do what I did, and it seems the authorities must have felt the same.” Truer words could not have been spoken in that moment.
We had hoped that our willingness to forgive Ali in person, and our insistence on meeting him personally in the prison, would let the authorities know that we were following all that was happening with him and were interested in his well-being, even if he had been the one who committed such atrocities against us. We hoped this added attention would detract from any shadowy plans that might be in the making for his eventual demise. But more importantly, we hoped that in some small way our visit had brought a measure of comfort and reassurance for this man’s troubled and confused heart.
The next day Hélène stopped by my office briefly for an errand. As we were chatting I noticed a large, black Mercedes-Benz pull up in front of the office, and a moment later a very elegant-looking Mauritanian woman stepped out and made her way to the reception area on the first floor. A short time later Amrita knocked at my door. When she stuck her head into my office, she informed me that I had a visitor.
Amrita maintained my calendar rigorously and faithfully rendered me the wonderful service of filtering out and prioritizing the plethora of visitors who wanted to see me for an endless string of needs. Usually an unscheduled visitor to my office would be quickly assessed by Amrita and either redirected to another staff member, or, if deemed important enough, Amrita would schedule an appointment with me for a later time. On rare occasions, however, Amrita would let me know that an unscheduled visitor was here to see me, and her knowing look made it clear that I needed to take the meeting. Such was the look on Amrita’s face this time, and I knew she felt it important that I meet this person. Since the visitor was a woman, I was glad for Hélène’s presence and asked her to stay with me for a moment until I better understood the purpose of this woman’s visit.
She was a light-skinned, Arab woman in her late fifties, and she strode softly into the room wrapped in a beautiful, orange malafa. We greeted one another politely, although somewhat stiffly, as we were strangers; and as she took her seat, she removed her large, elegant sunglasses from
her face. When we were all seated and facing one another, I leaned forward from my seat on the office couch and asked what I could do for her.
Her command of French was strong, and she began by apologizing for the unannounced meeting and thanking me for giving her a few moments of my time. She then continued, “You see, I am Ali’s older sister. But since our mother died when Ali was still very young, I have essentially functioned as his surrogate mother all these years, as I am much older than he. I am granted a fifteen-minute visit with him once a month, and just this morning I visited with him. As I sat with him he began recounting your family’s visit yesterday.” Her voice began to trail off, and with shoulders shaking her eyes filled with tears, and she began to weep silently. Hélène and I glanced at each other and waited patiently with concern etched on our faces. After a pause, she continued, “As his account unfolded, he began to weep and was unable to continue for some time. So he drafted a letter in an attempt to express his feelings about your visit to the prison, and he asked that I deliver it to you.” With trembling hands, she handed me a sealed envelope that Hélène and I opened and read together:
6 June 2002 at 9 A.M.
My dear little Hannah, Madam and Sir: