i remember clearly as we flew into kabul, afghanistan, seeing the bomb planes on the side of the runways and overturned tanks scattered about the dusty roadways leading up to the small one room airport. if one were naive enough and shut off from the current events of the day, the landscape of scattered planes torn into pieces and scrap metal from tanks would lead you to think you were flying in the day after a tornado hit. but this was not the case. these images that are painted in my mind now were the direct result of years of war, and most recently, a retaliation of american forces in that land for the tragedy of 9/11 and deliverance, or an attempt to, of the people.
i, and three other people, had come there though with one purpose, to love and restore. we were there the first summer that women were allowed to attend school in newly intergrated classrooms. we spent a few days in kabul, familiarizing ourselves with the "right people", being briefed on what was expected of us, and what was expected of us to not do, along with other vital keys to our best chance of survival. we then traveled to mazar-i-sharif where we would spend the next two weeks. the classrooms we were in were filled with students of the later teen years: girls still very meek and soft spoken, and the males, testing limits of the "authority" of a white female teacher. love knows no offense.
one day i was in a classroom with one of the young girls on my team, and at one point, i turned around
and noticed a group of 5 men standing in my doorway. they stood there for a period of time, long grey beards, traditional afghan dress known as "Kamiz Shalwar". perfect love cast out fear. my dear team member and i continued our discussion with our students, and lost thought in our minds of the men "observing our classroom".
our first night in mazar-i-sharif, we were in the guest house which would be our home for two weeks, gathered in the dining area for our evening meal. we had finished blessing the food and begun to pass around plates of rice and glasses of nectar to drink. in the midst of our jovial christian fellowship in the midst of one of the most oppressed lands, ruled by a fundamental islamic group, gun shots sounded outside our window. this became within seconds the sounds of a full fledged firefight. the christian man who lived here yelled for us to lay down on the floor (and since we had been sitting on the floor to eat, this didn't take much time). while on the floor, we listened as screams, arguments we could not understand, and more shots rang out. sirens then sounded and alarms from the building next to us went off. we happened to be caught in the crossfire of a battle in the street to storm the building next to us. we were on "lock down" in this guesthouse/compound for the next two days. there were locals, who had become very loyal to this guesthouse, being employed as guards there for the last 10 years, who would go out each morning to observe and calculate the risks for us that day to venture out. the third day he told us the climate had calmed much and we could return to our classrooms.
we spent the next few days teaching, loving, knowing no offense. there are no remarkable stories to tell of new brothers and sisters coming into the kingdom, no prayers of redemption offered up, and no miraculous healings. we were merely faithful to plant seeds. seeds that others will come behind us and do as they are called to do with. i am faithful to pray for these people, those i encountered, those i did not encounter, that a harvest time will come, and they will be amongst the wheat gathered. i pray that those seeds fell on good soil, and will grow, produce fruit, and that fruit will produce more seeds and a beautiful cycle will continue.
it began here. my eyes were opened here. my heart was softened here. my heart knew no offense here. my faith grew here, planting seeds, trusting in God's sovereignty that others come behind us and harvest.
i returned to the states after these several weeks, and i remember in clarity standing in the boston airport, somewhat confused, and definitely no where near reacclimated. still in my hijab, i wandered aimlessly, trying to process the last few weeks. by this time, the shock of returning had began to settle enough for me to realize i was hungry. being in no short supply of places to eat i found myself in front of a burger king in the middle of this boston airport. i became utterly paralyzed with grief as i realized the vast difference of the need of the land i was just in for several weeks and the abundance of the land i just returned to. how could i spend on one meal what would feed a family for weeks there? how could i nosh on a ready made hamburger and salted fries when those i had grown so close to the past few weeks were at that same moment, still under such oppression and need. i didn't. i found my way to my american airlines waiting area, and curled up on a stretch of 3 unused seats, took advantage of the plethora of clothing i was still in, and disappeared into my ball of fabric. sleep befailed me and my heart raced. tears as streams flowed from my eyes. the short 21 years of my life (at that point) had not produced a person that could understand how it was that i was able to just leave such oppression and darkness and return to this level of comfort and security. it seemed unjust. my heart burned for those i met, loved and left behind.
it began there. it began in the tears of a 21 year old, wrapped in a ball of fabric, in the middle of the boston airport, curled into the stretch of 3 chairs, it began with the thought, the heart, the passion, the fire: NOW THAT I HAVE SEEN, I AM RESPONSIBLE.
