by Ray Norman
In the weeks just prior to our departure date in late June of 2002, Ali’s dignified and elegant sister paid me another unexpected visit. She had only just learned we were leaving and seemed both alarmed and dismayed at the prospect of our permanently leaving Mauritania. Not quite understanding why she felt this way, I mumbled through a few reasons for our leaving and expressed my gratitude for her concerns, though I really did not fully understand what they were. She had been fumbling with the folds of her malafa in her lap with her eyes largely downcast up to this point—not an uncommon posture for Muslim women when addressing a male, non-family member.
When I finished rambling she looked up and squared her shoulders. Speaking softly but firmly she said, “Monsieur Norman, you need to understand that apart from myself, you and your family are the only people I know who care about my brother. He has no one else. And if you leave, I am the only one who remains in this country who cares for his well-being. You have exhibited great kindness toward him. And you and your family have gone beyond all expectations, beyond what I could have ever hoped for. But you are also the only hope I have for his future. When you leave, at best, he faces many long years of incarceration without help and without hope.”
She paused for a moment and then sighed deeply, mustering the courage for what she would say next. “Monsieur Norman, I know what I am about to ask may seem foolish and presumptuous to someone who experienced what you did under the hands of my brother, and to someone who has already done so much. But would you be willing—and I beg you in God’s name—to consider issuing a formal pardon to the authorities for Ali before you leave? It is the only hope he has to get released and have the chance of getting some sort of help. If you would do so, I promise you that he will do no more harm, and I assure you that I will do all I can to get him the help he needs. With the immense kindness and pardon he has already received from you and your family, I know that he desires, more than ever, to try to mend his ways. You see, I know him better than anyone else, and after what he has experienced in this past year, I am certain he will no longer be a danger to society.”
I was very moved by her words, her courage, and her love for her brother, and I wondered if Ali knew what an amazing sister he had. In a society that can call for harsh justice for offences that shame family or fly in the face of cultural standards and expectations, even for family members, this woman’s love for her deeply troubled brother was rich, genuine, and obviously ran deep. I pondered her request for a long moment as she sat quietly, obviously understanding my need to reflect carefully before offering a response. I knew that if the tables were turned, I too would be advocating for my own brother.
As I had done so many times in recent months, I quietly whispered a prayer for wisdom that I did not have. I cared for her and I cared for Ali. But as one who worked for an organization that had labored tirelessly for a healthier and safer society in this country for many years, I also knew that there were broader considerations. And I knew that I was not in a position to sufficiently vet them single-handedly. As I had needed to seek wisdom from the imam about continuing World Vision’s program, I knew I would need to seek the wisdom of others on this matter. So when I finally replied to her, I explained as much. I also assured her that if I were in her place, I would be requesting the same, and I promised her that I would take her request seriously and seek the wisdom of my own Mauritanian staff in the matter.
There were only about two weeks remaining before we left the country, so the next morning I called our senior staff together. Two or three of our expatriate staff were present, but the meeting was primarily attended by our Mauritanian colleagues. I explained the details of my meeting with the assailant’s sister and her plea for my assistance in obtaining a formal clemency for her troubled brother. I also explained that I felt this should be World Vision’s decision, and that my response should not only be on behalf of myself and my family but on behalf of World Vision Mauritania as well. I had no idea how this would go over with my colleagues, but I was delighted when our expatriate staff quickly suggested that we defer to our Mauritanian colleagues on such a delicate matter.
I turned to them and asked for their thoughts. I knew they had all been impacted by our decision to return to Mauritania after the shooting, and especially the encouragement we had all received from my encounter with the imam. As Muslims working for a Christian organization in an Islamic republic, they lived with an understandable tension; and the events of the past year, challenging as they had been, had reinforced their belief that Christians and Muslims could work together on common ground for things we all believed deeply in—primarily improving the lives of children and their communities. Moreover, I had learned over the years through many personal conversations with each of them that they had also been deeply impacted by World Vision’s core values—which are derived explicitly from biblical principles and which directly informed all that they did as World Vision employees.
Immediately several of our leaders spoke their thoughts.
“Mr. Norman, it seems to me that this request is in keeping with World Vision’s values.”
“Isn’t this what World Vision is all about, promoting better understanding among people and advocating for tolerance between divisions of culture, race, and religion?”
“Our work is intimately tied to demonstrating compassion to those in need; why should we withhold it in this case?”
“I think by issuing such a formal declaration, World Vision Mauritania would send a powerful message to the government and to communities across the country about our core identity.”
I was warmed by these thoughtful reflections, and soon the conversation moved to the more complex matters of examining the string of potential impacts (both negative and positive) such an action could have and the process by which such a declaration would be crafted and issued, since, to our knowledge, nothing like this had ever been done before. This was clearly new territory for all of us, but we were united in the decision that we should forge ahead.
By the end of the meeting, I asked three of our Mauritanian leaders to develop an initial draft of such a statement, and we also agreed that they would then confer with our lawyer (a local Mauritanian whom we kept on retainer) and vet the idea with some of our contacts among the judicial authorities in the government. The biggest challenge before us was time, as my departure was now less than two weeks away. Arranging meetings and working on an appropriate draft document in this environment could be agonizingly slow, but we needed to do this with as much local input and support as we could get.
A few days later they reported back to me. Although our lawyer and some of the authorities were surprised, if not taken aback, by the idea, they saw no reason why we could not move forward with it. And it seemed that as the deliberations continued, these individuals became increasingly intrigued and supportive of the idea. During my last week at the office, I reviewed a couple of draft statements, but the clock was ticking, and the process remained tied up with our lawyer and the time-consuming consultations in which he still needed to engage.
Our last day in Mauritania, and my last day as national director, arrived, and we were to fly out that night on the twice-weekly Air France flight. I was running between home and office, trying to wrap up things on both ends, and throughout the day I kept asking Amrita if she had heard anything. Word from our director for administrative affairs and our lawyer was that they were working frantically to have the document ready (and have the final green light from local authorities) for my signature before the close of business hours. That time came and went, and I had to get home for a shower and to gather up my family.
A few hours later we were at Nouakchott’s small airport. My concern over the unsigned document was a blessing in disguise that helped to rein in my tattered emotions. I was about to leave a job that I had loved more than any before—and a continent that had given so much to me during a romance with its people, culture, and geography that had spanned more than forty years. And I
was leaving it all for a new job and country that I felt I really knew little about.
Amrita, our faithful friend and co-laborer, joined us at the airport with all our travel documents in hand, along with about a dozen of our staff. To our surprise Aboubacar came into the small terminal with his sweet family in tow—all dressed in their finest apparel. Their unexpected appearance almost broke my heart and Hélène’s, and I could see through his smile that Aboubacar was struggling as much as I with this moment.
In a short time our luggage was checked, and we had our boarding passes. As we were exchanging our last hugs and tears, one of our staff came rushing into the terminal waving a folder over his head. It contained the letter for which I had been waiting. Just moments before we had to board the plane, I hastily reviewed the final document, asked Amrita for a pen, and signed. Hélène herded the children toward the gate, and I turned and hoarsely offered my last ma’a salama (farewell) to my cherished friends. Minutes later the airliner lifted into the beautiful night skies as Mauritania fell silently into the darkness below.
The signing of this letter, drafted with the assistance of both Muslim and Christian, was my last official act in Mauritania. It was necessarily drafted with the rather stiff, legal terminology of the French language, but an approximate translation is as follows:
June, 2002
Nouakchott
DECLARATION
As my assignment in Mauritania is coming to closure, and in consideration of World Vision’s founding values which advocate tolerance and favor-granting opportunities to people in hardship;
And because of the immediate support which my family and I received from the Administrative and Judiciary Authorities of Mauritania;
I wish to hereby inform you, on behalf of myself and my family, and on behalf of World Vision Mauritania, that we extend our pardon to Mr. Ali Ould Sidi for his extreme act of attempting to take the life of our daughter and myself.
In view of our desire to demonstrate compassion for the person concerned, and for his present circumstances and those of his family, we express our desire that he be given opportunity for sustainable reintegration to society in an appropriate manner, so that he may never again pose a danger to the public or be the source of future sorrow.
Since this matter regards the public, it is only the Public Prosecutor and his department—as he oversees all penal proceedings relating to such matters—who can bring these matters to closure.
Dr. W. Ray Norman
National Director
World Vision Mauritania
cc:
Department of State Security
Legal Counsel for World Vision Mauritania
Judge responsible for the dossier
United States Embassy
World Vision Mauritania files
When our plane landed in Washington, DC, no one was scheduled to meet us, so we knew we would be making our entry alone. It was probably better that way, since we each needed space in which to process this new and unfamiliar setting. We proceeded through immigration, collected our baggage, and soon found ourselves thrust into the bustling terminal and a new world of sights, smells, and sounds.
Nathaniel and Hannah were wide-eyed as they took in yet another new culture, and their stiff body postures and unconscious gawking at everything new betrayed them as true foreigners, the very thing they wished not to be. We paused momentarily in the midst of the commotion to redistribute the luggage among ourselves, and I asked Hannah to grab a particular bag. As I did so, I unconsciously spoke to her in French. Hannah instantly stiffened and hissed, “Dad! We are in America! Don’t ever speak to me in French here. In America I only want to be known as an American!”
Hélène and I both stared at her in surprise. We knew Nathaniel and Hannah were excited to be in America, with the opportunity to live a normal life, whatever that was. And I knew that while Hélène would have the relief of not having to carve out a life in a remote outpost, she was keenly aware that America would still be foreign soil for her. But I had underestimated the youthful pressures and insecurities that weighed on each of our children—the gnawing desire to fit in and blend seamlessly into this new culture without the embarrassment of standing out like the awkward foreigners they were.
After renting a car we made our way north through Maryland and Pennsylvania toward our new home. The first hour was spent largely in silence as we each took everything in and processed it individually. Then we rounded another bend in the highway, and there looming before us was a huge billboard from a well-known restaurant chain with the bold words, “Eat, Shop, Relax!” We all gazed in silence for a moment, then simultaneously burst out in laughter as Hélène commented, “Well, welcome to America!”
We knew we were once again in a foreign land, facing a sign that beckoned us to take up a radically different lifestyle and a different set of values. As we rolled through the scenic rural landscape toward our new home in Grantham, Pennsylvania, my mind and heart struggled to make the adjustment. I knew I would need new strength and a new vision, and I beseeched God for such as I kept the car headed northward. I knew we were going to a place where the grass would be greener and the days pleasantly cooler, but I also knew that the stars would not shine with the same brilliance as in the land we had left behind.
Postscript
THE STORY CONTINUES TO UNFOLD
And if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
(ISAIAH 58:I0)
OVER THE YEARS, WHEN WE HAVE RECOUNTED THIS STORY, ONE OF the responses we often hear is how courageous we were. My first reaction is to recoil from such a suggestion, because as the events unfolded none of us felt courageous. But this sentiment has caused me to reflect more deeply on the nature of actions that elicit such a response.
As for my family and me, I think many of our actions in Mauritania flowed from our deep convictions rather than from raw courage. And true courage seems to be inextricably linked to heartfelt convictions. Convictions can be, and should be, intentionally developed and strengthened throughout one’s lifetime. As Christians our convictions are understandably rooted in our understanding of Scripture. But convictions alone can serve little purpose when they do not inform the way we live our lives. Thomas Carlyle, the nineteenth-century philosopher who was raised in a strict Christian home and who later lost faith, surmised that “conviction is worthless unless it is converted into conduct.”
How then are convictions effectively translated into action, and what fuels the courage to act on convictions? It seems to me that convictions come somewhat more easily than courage. Holding convictions generally involves little risk. The need for courage, on the other hand, implies that risk is afoot. But like love, courage flows best from the heart. We must ensure that our convictions reside in our hearts and not simply in our intellects, so that we will find the needed courage to act on our convictions, and to do so unwaveringly, wisely, and responsibly. Then we can do the otherwise impossible—forgive when it is unmerited and love across boundaries that are opaque and frightening. Courage rooted in our convictions, but which flows from the heart, begins to close the uncomfortable gaps we so often encounter between faith and intellect, and even holiness and compassion.
And so it was for us in Mauritania. We went there with the deep conviction that we were called to love and serve in the name of Christ—a mandate of Scripture for all those who seek to follow Jesus. In the midst of crisis, we may have appeared courageous. But our actions were simply our often-faltering attempts to follow Christ. They were a natural outflow from our hearts, troubled and hurting though they were at that time. But we were also the recipients of immeasurable acts of love and mercy by the One we have chosen to follow—and by other fellow followers we have been privileged to travel alongside in this remarkable journey of life.
My family
’s story is just a small subset of a greater and far more amazing story that has yet to reach its conclusion. The story of God’s love—his reconciliation and redemption in the world and his wondrous, caring, and patient ways—is still unfolding. Our stories never really end. They keep going, just as the hand of a loving God never stops moving.
Summer 2004
It was only after our return to the United States that we as a family slowly began to put together all the pieces that compose the series of events recorded in this book. We found ourselves sharing bits and pieces of our story as they came to mind. But it took time for the whole picture to come together, even in our own minds and hearts. And I was hesitant to share portions of this story too broadly, due to its sensitive nature and the possibility of putting at risk World Vision’s work or individuals with whom our lives had intersected in Mauritania, both Christian and Muslim.
I was particularly concerned about sharing the story of the imam’s counsel, specifically in public venues such as church events. He had been generous and courageous with his words and counsel, and I was loath to put him in a potentially uncomfortable situation for the sake of an exciting story back here on American soil.
In the summer of 2004, I returned to Mauritania in an advisory role for World Vision’s program development in new areas of the country. I was there for only a few days, and most of those were spent up-country. But I inquired about the possibility of obtaining an audience with the imam on the last day of my trip, when I would be back in Nouakchott. He was now Mauritania’s chief cleric as the president of the Ulama, and obviously had an extremely busy schedule. No promises were made, but I was assured that my friends would make the appropriate inquires. I had no idea if I would be able to see him, or even if he remembered who I was.