by Ray Norman
Before leaving Nouakchott for our up-country trip, I had been hoping to see Ali’s sister, and possibly Ali himself, but she had traveled to Nouadhibou, a northern coastal town. I was able to reach her by phone and inquire about Ali. I learned that Ali had eventually been released from prison because of our letter, and although there were some signs of progress, she indicated that he was still trying to integrate normally into society. “Ali still struggles, but you have touched his life and all of ours. You are good, good people. I cannot thank you enough.” I was unable to see Ali—he had traveled earlier that week to a neighboring country—but I asked her to convey my greetings to him.
My few days in Mauritania soon came to an end, with no word about my request to see the imam. Then, at about 7:00 P.M. on the evening I was to catch a midnight flight, I received a call informing me that I had been granted a brief meeting at 8:00 that evening. A short time later a driver met me and took me through unknown parts of Nouakchott until we arrived at a large but modest home on a busy street. It was only then that I learned I was being taken to the imam’s home.
Following proper etiquette I removed my shoes at the entrance and was shown into a dimly lit reception room filled only with a large floor carpet and a wide variety of Arabic and Islamic texts. The imam was sitting quietly on the floor in the middle of the room surrounded by a half dozen open texts. I noticed the individuals waiting on the imam showed him the utmost respect by their posture and behavior—kneeling as they handed him items and not turning their backs on him as they quietly exited the room. But I also noticed his graciousness and gentleness with these individuals.
As I entered the imam looked up, motioned me to take a seat, and said, “Ah, Monsieur Norman! And what matter brings you here?” We shook hands as I inquired if he remembered me. “Of course I remember you, Monsieur Norman. And how have you and your family been these past years?”
I gave him short updates on the family, then moved quickly to my reason for wanting to see him. “Sir, when we met some years ago, your words and counsel had a great impact on me, and largely as a result, World Vision continued its program in Mauritania during that difficult time. Since returning to the United States, I am often asked to speak to various groups—students, World Vision supporters, churches—about our experiences in Mauritania and among the Muslim people. Frequently I think about what you said to me and how meaningful your words could be to those I speak to. But I have not felt comfortable sharing that part of our story in public venues because I would not want to take advantage of your generosity or put you in an uncomfortable situation by discussing our meeting. In fact, I’ve often wondered if you remember the exact words you spoke to me that had such impact.”
The imam had been listening to me intently. As soon as I paused with this last query, he did not miss a beat and immediately began speaking softly. “Of course I remember what I said. I urged you to do all you could to keep World Vision’s programs going because of your love for the poor. I told you it was clear that you work with the poor because you love them, and our own people need to learn this. Monsieur Norman, I meant those words, and I have no problem with anyone hearing them. You are welcome to share them with any audience back in your home country, and if ever someone is doubtful that they are my words”—and at this point he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a business card—“show this to them.” I took the card, printed in Arabic and French with his name and title, “President of the Ulama, Islamic Republic of Mauritania,” along with his contact information.
He then went on to explain that he had recently returned from Madrid, Spain. Following the horrific train bombings carried out by Muslim extremists in March, he had been invited by the government to serve on an international panel to assist with national issues of reconciliation between Muslims and Christians. It was clear he was deeply disturbed by these acts by people who claimed the same faith as his. After sharing a few thoughts on his experience there, he gazed at me with sadness in his eyes and said, “Monsieur Norman, do you know what the real problem is with most people in our world today? Whether Muslim or Christian, so many people spend their lives with a spiritual void on the inside. They may carry external features, but there is a great emptiness internally.” I could see hopeful longing as he sat there on the carpet surrounded by his many open texts and shared those profound words.
A short time later, as I was seated in the dark cabin of the Air France flight to Paris, I reflected for a long time on my encounter with the imam. His words of longing could have been from the lips of many a caring Christian leader I have known. Here was a man deeply and closely acquainted with truth—and I suspected he was closer to it than even I had dared imagine.
Summer 2011
After joining Messiah College I continued to serve in various ways with World Vision. For many years World Vision had been involved in the installation of boreholes, hand pumps, and sanitation facilities in rural villages across West Africa. One of my activities involved a multi-year study that explored issues of access and use of these water and sanitation facilities by people with disabilities. Once or twice a year I would take a small team of students to West Africa to assist with field research: to interview the disabled, test assistive technologies, and conduct workshops for World Vision personnel to help them better understand the needs of the disabled in the communities where they served.
In the summer of 2011, Hannah, who was studying at Eastern University, joined our student research team, serving primarily as a French-English interpreter for the other members of the all-women team. We were headed to Mali, a predominantly Muslim nation that borders Mauritania. I was thrilled Hannah would have this opportunity, as it would be her first time in ten years to return to the region of her childhood. My prayer was that this trip back to Africa would in some way serve to fully complete the circle we had begun pulling together when we chose to return to Mauritania after the shooting—that Hannah would feel fully at home in the land and among the people of her childhood.
When our plane landed in Bamako, Mali, late one May afternoon, I watched Hannah closely. I knew that in the next few hours her senses were going to be accosted by waves of familiar (and possibly overwhelming) sensations from her past—sights, smells, sounds, and the plethora of other chaotic impressions one encounters only in West Africa. Our group stepped out of the plane onto the small platform at the top of the open stairway, and the ninety-degree heat instantly assaulted us. Hannah seemed stunned at first, but almost instantly I saw the twinkle in her eyes grow as the memories of Africa washed over her: the smell of the dry desert air; the warm, jovial greetings in local dialects; and the broad, toothy smiles of West Africans among the growing crowd at the foot of the stairs. Hannah seemed like someone slowly waking from a long dream, as the reality of the distant past came flooding back to the present. When we paused momentarily on the platform, I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Welcome home, Hannah.” Without taking her eyes off the scene unfolding around her, she summoned one of her warm smiles just for me. It was a reassuring smile as wide as the sunset that was just spreading before us over the broad savanna plains.
After we had passed through the tedious immigration and customs formalities, we were ushered into the baggage claim area and the chaotic hustle and bustle that so often characterizes most West African airports: the African men in their smart, locally tailored suits engaging one another in friendly banter; the African women decked out in their colorful batik outfits and their towering head-dresses barking loud orders to scrambling porters; and the sweating porters jostling for a preferred place along the hopelessly jumbled baggage conveyor. Hannah and the girls stood back quietly from the chaos, taking in the scene, while I jumped into the fracas to locate our bags. I had warned the other girls of this initiation rite to Africa, but they stood there with mouths agape at all the wonderful disorder and loud commotion. Hannah stood with the girls, but she was smiling knowingly, with her eyes darting to and fro, taking in all that was familiar in the chaos be
fore her.
The half-hour ride to our hotel though the crowded and bustling streets of Bamako was no different, with the other girls gazing quizzically at all that did not make sense, tossing questions among themselves and occasionally at me. Hannah’s face was glued to the window, and it seemed to me as we wound through the hot, teeming streets of Bamako that she was quietly filling the void of ten years with the wonderfully familiar. That evening I went to bed feeling deeply grateful for how well her initial reentry to Africa seemed to have gone. I did not know then that the biggest test of this trip was still before her.
The next week flew by with the long journey by road up-country, stiflingly hot weather both day and night, long days in the villages interviewing the disabled, data collection at water pumps and sanitation facilities, and late evenings swatting mosquitoes and trying to compile our gathered information on our laptops under the flickering lights of the small World Vision guest house.
After a week the heat and long days had taken their toll on our team. We took Sunday off to rest and visit the open-air market in the nearby town. West African markets are an explosion of activity and a cacophony of sounds, sights, and smells that accost the senses in every way—the pressing crowd, the cries of hawkers, the bleating sheep and goats, and the smells of smoked fish and roasted meat, all rolled together in the stifling one-hundred-degree heat of the West African Sahel in May.
Around 11:00 A.M. our group of five stepped out of the Land Cruiser and headed toward the market. Just as we began weaving through one of the narrow corridors nestled between the thatched vendor stalls, I heard an unusual commotion only a short distance away. Passing some fifty feet before us was a small group of traditional minstrels and dancers surrounding a small group of men waving large rifles in the air. They were dressed in old animal skins, and I instantly recognized them as traditional hunters. They were obviously there for a local celebration, and I suggested to the girls they approach the festive hunters so that I could get a picture of them all together. Before any of them could answer, Hannah quickly declined and curtly declared that she would rather not involve herself with the hunters. Since the other girls generally took their cues from either Hannah or me in these unfamiliar settings, they hesitated; and we eventually followed Hannah as she deliberately moved down another market corridor away from the hunters.
From the look on Hannah’s face, I instantly realized my mistake. The usual smile and inquisitive, discovering look in her eyes were gone. Her countenance was etched with concern and her demeanor somber and serious. I quickly moved alongside her and said, “Hannah, I am so sorry! I was not thinking!” This was undoubtedly the first time Hannah had seen a gun up close since she had confronted Ali’s. Moreover, these guns were not in the hands of American policemen or deer hunters. They were in the hands of Muslim men in the same region where her world had been shattered some ten years earlier. The color was drained from Hannah’s face, but she mumbled that she was okay and that she just wanted to keep moving.
Over the next few minutes we made our way slowly through the crowded corridor, but unknown to us the hunters had turned down the same route and were only paces behind us in the crowd. Then, like an unexpected clap of thunder, one of the hunters fired his gun into the air. Instantly the crowd cheered and the minstrels started up their music once again. But Hannah froze in her steps. When I moved in behind her, I saw her shoulders shaking, and it seemed she was having trouble breathing and was about to retch. I instantly drew her to me, and she buried her face in my chest. As she stood there quietly sobbing in my arms, I saw the large jagged scar from ten years ago exposed with each rasping heave of her chest. I held her shaking body closely and repeated over and over, “Hannah, hold on. It’s going to be all right. Just hold on.”
Hannah was determined not to make a scene there in the open market. As the tears began to flow freely down her cheeks, she quickly pulled down the large sunglasses perched on her head, gathered herself, and moved on down the corridor—struggling with every breath and desperately trying to regain her composure. She clearly hoped that by blending into the noisy, pressing market crowd, she would become invisible to it. The other girls knew something was wrong, but since they had not heard Hannah’s full story, I am not sure they made the connection.
I walked alongside Hannah as she slowly took control of her ragged breathing and her tears. After a few minutes I turned to the girls behind me and whispered that we really needed to get Hannah back to the guesthouse. On the ten-minute drive back, Hannah was rigid and silent, staring blankly out the window. As soon as we pulled to a stop, she was out the Land Cruiser and into her room with the door quickly closed behind her.
I yearned with all that was in me to follow her into that room and hold my little girl. But another part of me knew that the girl who had just slipped behind the closed door was also a young adult who was struggling to cope with the brutally resurgent past as well as come to grips with her own future. I suspected Hannah needed to do this on her own. She was no doubt faced with her own human frailty, but she needed to find a way to summon her inner resources to surmount the confusion and leering fear that surely confronted her.
While giving Hannah her needed space, the rest of us sat on the front patio of the guesthouse, quietly trying to occupy ourselves with reading or typing on our laptops. Every now and then one of us would steal a concerned glance at the closed door. Nearly an hour had passed before the door opened and Hannah stepped out. I will probably never fully know all that Hannah had to confront in that lonely hour; I can only imagine. But when she emerged I could tell she not only had emptied herself, but that there had been some sort of release and the matter was settled. She took a seat next to me, made eye contact and smiled, and then softly assured me that she was okay. Her color had begun to return, and there was a settled look of confidence in her countenance that seemed to say, “I can do this.”
With Hannah’s permission I turned to the other girls and said, “I think you need to hear the full story.”
Spring 2013
In a country such as Mauritania, where the entire national budget does not even come close to that of many moderate-sized cities in the United States, government allocations for such things as social services are often minimal or nonexistent. As such, resources to assist the most marginalized and troubled individuals in society are limited at best. During the ten years that had passed since our leaving Mauritania, I had heard there was a quiet but unique and growing movement to help these individuals find ways to regain their sense of self-worth and develop meaningful and productive livelihoods. I had few details about this effort, other than it had developed significantly, was active in virtually every major township in the country, and was positively impacting many. The simple objective of this rehabilitation and social insertion ministry was to bring light and hope to some of the world’s most forgotten individuals in a desperately rudimentary social services system in one of the world’s poorest regions. It had gained significant favor and support from the government due to the quality and transformative nature of the service it rendered.
In the early spring of 2013, I received an unexpected call at my office. When I picked up the phone, the hollow, crackling sound instantly signaled the caller as one from distant shores. In a second or two I heard the voice of a longtime friend, Tom Abbe, whom I had not heard from for several years. Tom was a seasoned West African hand who hailed from Portland, Oregon, and who, after a long absence, had recently returned to Mauritania to work. Tom told me that earlier in the day he had had the opportunity to meet and have lunch with the man who oversaw this unique social services work, named Kamal. During their lunch meeting at a small café in Nouakchott, Tom had asked Kamal how this remarkable ministry had come about.
“Ray, you need to hear this story. What’s more, Kamal has wanted to make contact with you for many years now and would welcome the opportunity to talk with you. May I put you in touch with him?”
The next day I placed a call to K
amal. He greeted me warmly and told me how delighted he was to finally have the opportunity to meet me, even if over the phone. He explained how he had always hoped to one day be able to thank me for the impact my family and I had made during our days in Mauritania, and to tell me how our own actions had deeply influenced the direction of his own work when he had first come to Mauritania. Kamal then began to tell me his story.
He had arrived in Nouakchott a short time after our departure, believing that God had led him there to serve but not really knowing exactly what he would do. He spent the first months learning about the country and culture but primarily praying about how and where God would have him serve.
One morning he got in his car and drove around the city, praying and seeking God’s direction. He found himself driving past the national prison, and as he did so he noticed a Mauritanian man standing on the street with a small bag of belongings thumbing for a ride. Kamal did not generally pick up local hitchhikers, but he felt an unusual compulsion to give this particular man a ride.
The man thanked Kamal for his kindness and explained that he had just been released from the prison. He then told Kamal his name and paused for a moment. When Kamal did not react, he said, “You do not know who I am, do you?” As Kamal continued weaving through Nouakchott’s confounding traffic, he shrugged and replied in the negative. “You see, I am Mr. Ali Ould Sidi, the man who shot the former World Vision director and his daughter. And today I have been released from prison because of a letter of pardon that Mr. Norman wrote for me.”
This got Kamal’s attention, but Ali was not finished. He gazed intently at Kamal for a moment, then blurted out, “You are a Christian, aren’t you?” This second statement caught Kamal off guard even more than learning the man’s identity. He hesitated for a moment before offering a cautiously mumbled reply in the affirmative. Ali continued, “You Christians seem to genuinely care about the neediest and most outcast in society, so you know what you people ought to be doing here in Mauritania?” Kamal kept silent with his eyes on the road, but Ali continued. “You need to help the many people like me who are society’s throwaways. There are so many who lack a sense of personal worth and are hopeless. Such troubled men and women need help getting their feet on the ground and learning how to readjust to living productively in society! There is so much opportunity to help.”