FEYZABAD, AFGHANISTAN—The trip by air from Dushanbe to Feyzabad takes a little over an hour. An eight-passenger aircraft operated by the United Nations offers a no-frills, all-thrills ride through one of the most scenic areas of the world. After all my hours of jet travel, the propeller blades and piston engines provided an exhilarating sense of flight. Our revved-up butterfly climbed steeply out of the Tajik capital. Invisible hands seemed to toy with our tiny craft as we passed through the turbulent mountain air.
Even at twenty thousand feet, our little plane was dwarfed by mountain peaks rising majestically above us. Fortunately, we flew between the peaks that we couldn’t fly over. As our plane descended through the rough terrain of Badakhshan province in Afghanistan, I looked through the airplane windows, speechless.
The countryside was obviously bone dry, even from the air, but the scenery was still breathtaking. Afghanistan in September displayed multiple hues of browns and grays with hints of green in the valleys. Although the last of the gleaming summit snows shone above, melting to quench the parched lands below, the fields remained thirsty. And the massive, rocky waves of the Hindu Kush Range lined up in front of us all the way to the horizon.
As we flew south, I looked out the east windows to my left and imagined that I could see the borderlands of China’s western frontier. Out the west side of the plane, I saw the rolling hills and flatlands towards Mazar-e Sharif, where I knew people were dying—some from war and some from hunger and exposure.
Northeast Afghanistan shares many topographical similarities with Colorado. The transition between lofty peaks and deep valleys, mountain meadows and desert scrublands happens quickly. A single picture rarely captures the extremes.
As we flew over the well-worn pathways of history, I imagined all the armies that had fought and died in the valleys and passes below us—Carthaginians, Arabs, Mongols, Britains, Russians, and generation after generation of Afghans. I wondered how people who have always known violence manage to carry on with their day-to-day lives.
TOUCHDOWN
Our wheels touched the ground, and I was immediately stunned by powerful visual reminders of the most recent wars. Destroyed buildings, blown-up Russian tanks and vehicles, and charred aircraft surrounded the airport runway. We had landed in a military junkyard.
Climbing down the metal stairs from the tiny airplane, I stepped onto Afghan soil at long last. I breathed in the dust and pungent aromas that would quickly become familiar to me. The late morning chill announced cold days ahead, and I shivered, because I had come unprepared for the cold. All I carried was a small bag of necessities and the clothes I had on, but I couldn’t stop grinning. This is just a short visit anyway; I’ll pack more clothes next time, I thought. I had finally arrived. I was in Afghanistan!
“Thank you, Lord,” I prayed with every breath. “Allow me to bring some of your peace and blessing to this land.”
A crowd of little shepherd boys ran toward the plane, laughing—so much for airport security. They were as curious about us newcomers as I was of them. Their flocks, accustomed to airplane noises and perhaps more violent ones, grazed unsupervised as the boys examined us. I returned the compliment.Their bright, dark eyes, dazzling smiles, and colorful clothing captured my attention. I took a mental snapshot, because I wanted to memorize that wonderful moment.
I couldn’t help but notice two little boys who lagged behind the others, because each one ran on only one foot aided by a crude crutch. Their empty pant legs dangled pitifully in the breeze. The ravages of war were obviously recorded on more than rusted-out airplane hulks and pockmarked buildings. They were also carved into the mine-blasted bodies of Afghan children.
Not really knowing what else to do, I greeted them in the first language that came to mind—Uzbek. To my delight, they understood me and gleefully responded.Their unexpected chorus caught me by surprise. I knew that many ethnic Uzbeks live in the north of Afghanistan, but this was a wonderful way to confirm that fact. I was able to share a simple conversation my first day in the country. Suddenly those months in Termiz, Uzbekistan, took on a whole new significance. I had taken a year of language training for this very moment.
DUAL-PURPOSE PLAN
Our regional director had made it very clear that we had two purposes for this quick trip. First, we needed to meet with local officials to clarify our role in northern Afghanistan as an international Christian relief and development agency. That discussion would primarily be held in Rostaq, where our central office was located. Our original relief work in the region involved shelter reconstruction after the 1998 earthquakes.
Recently we had been asked to do increasingly more relief work with displaced people in other areas. Thousands of people were homeless and wandering the streets and roads because of the war and tyranny initiated by the Taliban. Sadly, this crisis showed no signs of ending. Needs cried out for attention everywhere. But we had to clarify our role and make sure we had permission to continue our work as a Christian agency working in a Muslim country.
It is common for followers of Christ who serve in similar settings to be questioned about their motives. I compare it to the tension faced at times by Jews, Muslims, and Christians teaching in the public school systems in the Unites States. They teach under certain restrictions. As I understand it, the issue isn’t that they can’t share their faith; the issue is that they can’t require their students to listen. They can’t use their class as a captive audience to teach their religious views, any more than an atheist would be allowed to enforce unbelief on students. We carry out our roles as relief workers under the same restrictions. To expand our involvement in Afghanistan, we needed to clarify the expectations of local authorities and assure them of our cooperation.
The second objective of our trip into northern Afghanistan depended on the first. If we found continued favor with authorities, the director and I planned to stay in the country for several more days. We wanted to conduct a quick survey of the area, noting places and needs that might require both short-term and long-term projects by Shelter for Life.
My specific task was to evaluate the challenges of expanding our work into areas of education. I was slated to teach English at a local college in Feyzabad. However, under these wartime and extreme drought conditions, we knew other things demanded our attention. In fact, we were not yet in a position to launch educational projects, though I was eager to begin. On this trip, we were seeking enough information to create my plan of action for serving in Afghanistan.
I thought about these objectives as we walked from the airplane to our ride. I couldn’t help but remark about a spray-painted declaration in English on the mud wall of a bombed-out building not far from the runway. I read the sign aloud, “Opium Is against Islam.”
The director chuckled and said, “You should have been here a few months ago. Right under that sign and all around that building I saw a bumper crop of opium growing. I guess the farmer couldn’t read English.”
The director waved to our driver, who leaped from a Russian Jeep and welcomed us to the country. Our bags went quickly into the back of the Jeep, and we sped away. I wondered what the hurry was until the director leaned forward and said above the roar, “If we get away first, we won’t have to eat everyone else’s dust on the way into town.” I looked back and could no longer see the airplane or any of the other vehicles. They were lost in a billowing red cloud that seemed to be chasing us down the road.
When we arrived at our little four-room office in Feyzabad, we were graciously greeted by some of our local staff.They had hot tea waiting for us, which we welcomed with gratitude. We could also smell the traditional lamb kabob and rice pilaf cooking.
Bolstered by my linguistic success at the airport, I tried immediately to communicate with our staff. Unlike my little shepherd friends, however, none of them spoke Uzbek. They were all ethnic Tajiks. So, undaunted, I switched to my few phrases of Dari (the Afghan version of Farsi) that I had picked up in Dushanbe. They understood! I could see the excitement in their eyes. Here’s a foreigner who speaks Dari, they probably thought. They began to respond rapidly to my simple greetings only to discover that I spoke just a few words of Dari. But we had a beginning.
A BAZAAR EXPERIENCE
That first day in Feyzabad, we went shopping. The market in any city or town in Central Asia serves as the mall where everyone goes to get life’s essentials and catch up on the news.They call the places “bazaars,” a term we have borrowed to enrich English. These are wonderful, smelly, noisy places where you can sense the liveliness of a culture. These were the world’s first supermarkets—full of animals, traders, moneychangers, and Afghans of varied ethnic stock buying, selling, and making a living.
Before I could shop, though, I had to visit a moneychanger’s booth. Banks are rare in Afghanistan, but moneychangers abound. Almost anyone with a little extra liquidity gets involved in the exchange business. When I arrived in the country, the going rate allowed me to exchange a U.S. dollar for fifteen of the most common currency bill, the Afghani ten-thousand note. That means a one-hundred-fifty-thousand-to-one exchange rate. Even small purchases in the bazaar require rubber-banded bricks of currency.
I bought an Afghan outfit called showakamis at one of the clothing stalls.Though it was different from the clothes my Kurdish friends taught me to wear, I immediately felt comfortable in it. Traditional Afghan clothing for a man consists of very loose pants made from light cloth—similar to what we call pajama bottoms in the States. The waist of the pants is more than twice the size of the wearer’s midsection, but the fabric is gathered and held up by a drawstring. Over these pants, men wear a loose-fitting pullover shirt with very long tails front and back. These look a little like linen nightshirts, but the sides are sown in an eye-pleasing arch, rather than slit from bottom to waist.
Depending on the temperature, men also wear a light wrap or blanket over their shoulders that can be used to shield the face and head or provide an extra layer around the shoulders on a chilly morning. This colorful scarf also serves as a prayer rug when an Afghan stops somewhere other than a mosque for one of Islam’s daily five prayer times.
In northern Afghanistan, men often also wear a hat called a pakul, made popular by General Massoud.The heavy wool cap has a flat top and rolled-up sides. Many men wear other traditional forms of the rolled-up headdress or round hats that bear the color and shape of their tribal heritage. Most of my Uzbek friends wear a hat shaped like an upside-down bowl with a slightly pointed top. Sometimes they wrap a turban around it, creating the most recognizable head covering in the Middle East. The colors of their hats are a mixture of red, green, black, and various shades of gold and silver.
These clothing and headgear styles have been worn in this part of the world for many centuries. Contrary to most Westerners’ opinions, they are functional and comfortable. My Muslim friends and I work, sleep, and live in these outfits.
MEDICALLY SPEAKING
Our Feyzabad stay lasted only a day and a half. We visited the medical college where I expected to teach English. The fact that this school welcomes both men and women for higher education made it the only one of its kind in Afghanistan at the time. I was looking forward to the privilege of helping these local Afghans, who were serving their country.
Next door we walked through the only hospital in the entire region where I saw my first military and civilian casualties of the war. Plainly, the facility was barely able to keep up with the demand for medical attention. Every bed was full.The doctors and nurses were far outnumbered by their patients. The ever-present wailing of the grief-stricken reminded us that death was no stranger here. A softer, almost mournful sound also reached my ears—Muslim prayers.This depressing place of dying promoted an urgent atmosphere for prayer. We prayed too.
Our medical escort told us that many of the villages in northern Afghanistan have basic medical clinics, but they struggle daily with critical shortages of even the most common medicines and trained health-care workers. With most of the medical resources dedicated to the war, the Northern Alliance found it nearly impossible to maintain their nation’s health-care system.
We also visited some of the other relief offices like World Food Programme (WFP), United Nations Office for Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (UNOCHA), International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF), Swedish Committee of Afghanistan (SCA), and others. These were all agencies with whom we worked in close cooperation. I had no idea how familiar I would become with all these offices in the coming months.
THE ROAD TO ROSTAQ
FEYZABAD TO ROSTAQ—Leaving Feyzabad, we drove west to Rostaq in our less-than-trusty Russian Jeep, a lasting and useful legacy of the Soviet occupation. I quickly discovered these are rugged and surly vehicles; their suspensions make up in durability what they lack in comfort. Another feature of these Jeeps is that the windows don’t roll down, which is why they’re called “traveling saunas” or, conversely, “freezers on wheels,” depending on the season.
The roads we traveled reminded me of driving across the furrows of a cornfield in North Carolina—dry, bumpy, and dusty. The term “road” is almost always an overstatement in Afghanistan. These are narrow mountain trails used for centuries by camels and horses. They have been slightly widened for wheeled traffic. The results are sometimes dangerous. Vehicles often fail the test.
That first trip from Feyzabad to Rostaq was my nerve-racking introduction to Afghanistan travel. We even broke down once. But our talented and experienced Afghan driver was also a good mechanic, so he soon had us running and back on the road. Otherwise, we would have been stuck for who knows how long. (I’ve never seen a tow truck in northern Afghanistan. And with no phones, whom can you call?)
A FIELD REPORT
ROSTAQ—Our central field office is located in the mountainous village of Rostaq. This area, consisting of more than one hundred fifty villages, was the epicenter of the disastrous 1998 earthquake. We met our local staff, who are mostly Tajik. Some of them have been with our office since 1998, and three of them speak fairly fluent English.
Once again we were treated as royally as kings and welcomed with the finest hospitality. Soon they were telling us stories of their work since the earthquake, mostly for my benefit. I watched the expressions on their faces as they described the daunting tasks of rescue, relief, and reconstruction in which they had participated since the catastrophe. They practically glowed! I could tell they were fiercely proud of their efforts.
In the previous two years, hundreds of homes had been repaired or rebuilt. Damaged houses now had roofs, children had schools, and families had safe drinking water. People whose lives had been shattered now had shelter and hope.
These men exuded the kind of confidence and camaraderie that develops among people who have to depend on each other during crises. They struck me as ideal companions for a hazardous journey. I have since discovered that my first impression about them was accurate.
We also discussed the upcoming talks with the local authorities about our future plans. Here the staff expressed concern. The war loomed as a major obstacle to the future. The front line of the war was creeping ever closer. Communities that had just dug themselves out of the rubble of a natural disaster suddenly faced a new threat from the storms of war.
We also knew that part of the complicated conversations we were about to have with political and religious leaders grew out of tensions created when a Christian organization works in a strictly Muslim area. Fortunately, we had a good track record of humanitarian service to hold up against some vague accusations and suspicions that had been falsely leveled against us.
I didn’t envy the local leaders, because they had a difficult choice to make.They could ask us to leave, based on unsubstantiated charges of anti-Islamic activities, and thereby gain prestige as preservers of their faith. And, in fact, we had given them our word that we would go if they asked us to leave. However, they also realized that our departure would end every relief and development project we currently managed there. The fact of the matter was that there weren’t any candidates for our replacement; no other humanitarian organization could step up as our substitute.
From our perspective, these discussions had to do with our integrity. For them, this was an opportunity to exercise wise and courageous leadership. They would either bow to prejudice or side with the pressing needs of their people.We hoped the lives and attitudes of our staff conveyed our deepest desire to serve.
A CRITICAL MEETING
Rostaq is actually full of ethnic Uzbeks. In fact, the local commander, the head religious elder, and the local governor were all Uzbek. At our first meeting with the governor, I was prepared to try out my limited Uzbek with him. Somewhat anxious from the tenseness of the moment, I extended my right hand and lifted my left hand, palm in, to my chest in the traditional Central Asian greeting.
“Salaam Alekum,” I said in Arabic. He responded in kind. I continued to grasp his hand and wished him good health and prosperity, speaking his language. His eyes brightened, and a dazzling smile creased his face. He graciously accepted my simplified Uzbek, and we exchanged several phrases. I again marveled at how speaking someone’s mother tongue often opens the door to his or her heart. This was a good start. I soon discovered, however, that the dialect of Uzbek in northern Afghanistan and the one I studied in Tashkent and Termiz were quite different in pronunciation, verbal usage, and vocabulary.
We spoke with the governor about our desire to begin some new projects as God provided the staff and the funds. Afghans and other Muslim peoples don’t find it at all strange to discuss plans with the added condition “Inshallah”—God willing. The authorities also addressed the lack of security in the area by reminding us that, since we were technically in a war zone, they couldn’t guarantee our safety.This caution highlighted concerns for us but also underscored the value of our efforts to help those people displaced by the war.
As expected, the discussion covered other issues beyond security, such as our guest status as foreigners and followers of Jesus the Messiah. We explained to him that we were all committed Christians called there to serve as Christ commissioned us. We also stated that God would have us share our faith if others asked us, though we understood that our place as guests in their country meant that we could not expect or demand the attention of our hosts to our faith.
Feelings of understanding and unity were evident. They were careful not to offend us but wanted to emphasize how important it was to them that we continue to maintain our past history of service, for which they were grateful. We, in turn, offered our gratitude for their diplomacy and hospitality. By warning us not to push our Chr istian teachings, they preserved their role as defenders of their faith. And by allowing us to stay, they preserved their authority over us and secured our ongoing services to the community.
We left that meeting with the blessing to continue our much-needed work, as long as we didn’t try to force our faith on the local people. We had not worn out our welcome. We could stay in northern Afghanistan and expand our work.
DESIGNATED DRIVER
After our meeting, we visited several boys’ and girls’ schools that we had built or repaired since the earthquakes. By this time, I began to appreciate someone who had been our constant companion since I met him at the landing strip in Feyzabad. His name is Halifa Hassamidin (Halifa means driver). We have since spent countless hours together in the car. He became one of my best Afghan friends and language tutors. He treated me graciously, even though he knew that I was struggling with his language. I sensed in him a genuine respect when he realized that I really wanted to learn from him.
My language lessons began immediately. I started asking a very useful question, “In-chi-ast,” which means “What is this?” Like a little kid, I continually pointed and asked. My new friend seemingly never tired of pronouncing the words and correcting my mimicking errors. Now, two years later, he is still patiently teaching and improving my broken Dari. He has become my favorite designated driver, and I enjoy our travels together. From the first day of our relationship, he has consistently found ways to assist me.
For the record, I don’t drive in Afghanistan. I have a long list of reasons why, but several stand out. The first reason has to do with dignity. It’s easy and tempting, when we live in another culture, to prove how much we Americans can do on our own. As a relief worker, I can fall into the trap of conveying to people that they need my help, but I don’t need theirs. But I demean my Afghan friends if I communicate to them,“I’m going to help you, but there’s nothing you can do for me.” If I engage in relief work with integrity, though, I’m going to encourage those I’m helping to do as much for themselves as possible. My goal is not to make them dependent on me. Instead, I want to assist them only until they can make it on their own. I encourage that, in part, when I depend on them for certain reciprocal favors. For instance, I honor Hassamidin’s dignity when I ask him to drive for me.
Another reason I don’t drive is reality.The people I’m trying to help know their land much better than I do. They even know when and how to ask for directions. They also need the work. The governments where we serve often worry about foreigners taking away gainful employment from their own citizens. They recognize that a foreigner may have special skills and resources their own people don’t have, but driving is a good job for their citizens. In truth, I’ve had enough concerns in the last couple of years in Afghanistan that I’m truly grateful I haven’t also had to worry about driving. Hassamidin helps keep me safe and sane.
A third reason I don’t drive involves friendship and trust. Hassamidin knows my life is in his hands. He takes that responsibility seriously. In a culture that’s very sensitive to shame, being entrusted with someone’s life is a big deal. Also, spending all that time on the road has fostered a great friendship between us. In truth, I get a three-for-one deal: Hassamidin serves as my friend, my driver, and my language coach all at the same time. I surely would not speak as well, or have as much hair left, if I drove myself on the Afghan roads.
A BEND IN THE ROAD
DASHT-E QALEH—Since our scheduled time was quickly winding down, we left Rostaq and drove further northwest to Dasht-e Qaleh. I began to develop a real taste for the treacherous roads and the diet of dust we ate continuously.
Along the way, we stopped at the crest of a beautiful mountain pass. Hassamidin let us enjoy the view as he pointed out some of the geography of northern Afghanistan. Far to the north we saw Tajikistan. He pointed west and described Kondoz and Mazar-e Sharif, the areas under Taliban control. Later, we found out that while we were driving down the mountain toward Dasht-e Qaleh, the Taliban mounted a major assault on Taloqan, their next objective.
We made our first stop at the Shelter for Life office. I was in for several delightful surprises when I met the local staff.The engineer at our girls’ school project was an Uzbek from Mazar-e Sharif. The cook that worked with him at the job site was an Uzbek from Rostaq. Then I learned that the other driver who works for us in this area is half Uzbek.
The Dasht-e Qaleh area population is 80 percent Uzbek. Of the two languages (Dari and Uzbek) I needed to manage, I already knew a fair amount of Uzbek. I was amazed to be in northern Afghanistan, surrounded by thousands of Uzbeks and a staff that spoke or understood Uzbek. I immediately felt at home.
We drove over to see the girls’ school project that was almost complete.The community was grateful to our agency, not only for encouraging female education, but also for helping with the process. On the way, we received radio confirmation that Taloqan, General Massoud’s stronghold, was falling into the hands of the Taliban. Their next target would probably be Khwojaghar and then the Tajik border area of Dasht-e Qaleh. Based on this news, it was obvious that hundreds of displaced people would soon be passing through our area as they fled the fighting in their hometowns. With these rapid developments in mind, we met to talk about our response. So much for careful plans about long-term education and development—people in desperate need would be arriving soon. And that had to take priority.
At one point in the discussion, the regional director turned to me and said, “John, how would you feel if I left you here right now? We need someone from our international staff in Dasht-e Qaleh for at least the next few weeks.You could coordinate our emergency relief efforts for the refugees that will be arriving in the next few days.”
I thought about the small bag I had brought, since this was supposed to only be a short visit. Suddenly I actually had a chance to stay. Considering this opportunity obviously meant an adjustment in my plans, because I had thought I was coming to teach and be involved in education. But conditions had changed. Was this the time for education or emergency assistance?
I love to teach. I also believe the axiom that says, “It’s far better to teach a man to fish than to just give him fish.” However, sometimes there’s an unexpected bend in the road, and life turns complicated. If a man is starving, he may not be interested in my fishing lessons. Perhaps the teaching can wait until after I share some fish with him. Was this my opportunity to serve and help bring God’s blessings to war-torn people? I remembered my vision in the Philippines and seeing myself serving the poor in Afghanistan. That wasn’t a vision of teaching; it was a vision of service. Perhaps I was envisioning this very moment.
Concerned that I was hesitating, one of our local staff spoke up, “Please stay and help us, John.”
I had actually already decided to stay, but their invitation ringing in my heart, spirit, and mind confirmed it. A seven-year dream finally came true that first week of September 2000. I chose to stay with my small bag of essentials and a conviction that “for such a time as this” God had ordained this mission of mercy inside Afghanistan. Simply said, I was in the right place at the right time.
With no luggage, no books, no computer, no shoes or winter clothes—nothing that I brought from the West—it took me only a minute to move into my new home. My housing featured the typical Afghan amenities: rugs and floor mattresses. I had no electricity, no running water, and no telephone . . . but lots of work to do.
Our regional director and another field officer, Chris Jones, crossed the border on the Amu Darya River at Ay Khanom that day. They headed back to Dushanbe after assuring me they would keep in touch. They also left me a limited budget to use for our emergency response. With a mixture of excitement and loneliness, I watched them cross the border. The encroaching sounds of warfare intruded on my solitude.
“Father God, thank you for bringing me here,” I prayed. “Help me to be your hands and feet to the people around me. Help me never to forget your constant presence with me.”
GETTING ORGANIZED TO SERVE
I knew I needed to recruit more help in order to handle the incoming IDPs. The present staff in the office already had their own responsibilities. As so often happens, my need was met in an almost miraculous way.
A tall, gray-bearded, distinguished-looking fellow stopped by our office during my first day on the job. I discovered he was Engineer Massoud, who had worked with us during a 1999 shelter program in Khvajeh Ghar. Shelter for Life had repaired hundreds of homes under the direction of this skilled and caring associate. He asked if we had more work. He knew the front line was moving and wondered if we were going to help the IDPs who would soon arrive. I hired him on the spot.
Once I settled into Dasht-e Qaleh, I lived as the locals lived. I felt a little like a refugee myself. I slept on the floor in our office most of the time. We actually had a small wood-frame bed with a small mattress on it, but I preferred the floor where I could stretch out. The staff and I ate together, worked together, and became friends. None of them could speak much English, so it was a language learner’s heaven.
We had no time to waste. The refugees were coming. Massoud and I drove to the local governor’s office to talk about plans to help IDPs. He was also Uzbek. We wanted to make arrangements for the help of a bakery, in order to provide bread to the most vulnerable refugees. They would need our help right away.
Afghan people enjoy a simple diet. They are not burdened with many food choices. Rice, bread, tea, fruit, vegetables, yogurt, and a lot of lamb make up their basic menu. As Muslims, they eat no pork.Their daily bread is just that, bread—a flat loaf that looks like large pita bread. They eat it every day, if they can get it. It also serves as edible silverware; ripped pieces of bread serve to scoop and sop up other foods.We knew that our first response to the needs of the IDPs would be to find a way to provide them with daily bread— both a necessity and a comfort.
Instead of discussing the bakery plan with us, though, Governor Nazar took us for a ride. Much to our surprise, he drove us to a place five miles outside the city on the Kowkcheh River.When the car stopped, my pulse quickened. Through the windshield, I could see a field covered with odd shelters, animals, bundles, tarps, and lots of people. It looked more like the ruins of a small town after a Texas tornado than a campsite. The governor figured there were about one hundred fifty families living under those makeshift tents that were handmade from blankets and rugs. The refugees were already here!
“These people need your bakery right now,” he said. He had received word that morning that the first wave of displaced persons fleeing the Taliban attacks on Taloqan and Kondoz had crossed the river. They were setting up temporarily in this area of Dasht-e Qaleh just over the river from Khvajeh Ghar.
“I was about to send word of this to you when you appeared at my door,” he said.
Engineer Massoud and I immediately began to survey and register the people at the campsite. As I’ll explain later, this step is a crucial part of delivering help in an orderly way. Good assistance is usually the result of good survey and selection work. The next day we hired Hashim, a local baker, to make sixteen hundred loaves of bread daily for all these displaced families. We had an old Russian Jeep pickup truck to use for transporting the bread to the people.
Our original emergency response was simple but effective. Each day at the agreed hour, we stopped at the bakery and loaded the fresh loaves of bread. We hired Amrudin, a young lad from the Panjshir, to count the loaves of bread. He stacked them like pizza crusts in burlap bags and transported them out to the refugee camp.Then we distributed them to the families in exchange for the coupons we had issued during our survey. I’ll never forget the joy, surprise, and gratefulness of those first eight hundred displaced people (one hundred fifty families) when they discovered that this foreigner and his staff were going to be able to give them bread every day. We became an unexpected answer to their unspoken prayers.
Unfortunately, that first bakery arrangement lasted only a few days. Our local baker simply couldn’t handle the added business. His clay oven could only bake so many loaves an hour, and he wasn’t prepared to work around the clock. That minor crisis was resolved by another miraculous circumstance.
Among the refugees were a baker and his family from Taloqan. Once we discovered this, we were able to help him quickly set up a bakery. His partnership with us preserved his own business and let him serve his poor neighbors in a practical and valuable way. Our daily work was developing under God’s guidance.
THE PLACE OF MY DREAMS
I fell in love with DQ (Dasht-e Qaleh). Our wonderful Uzbek staff befriended me and made me feel at home. The DQ girls’ school project (female education is something the Taliban hate), and our opportunity to respond quickly and compassionately to serve others appealed to my deepest desires. I had the daily privilege of feeding the hungry; exactly what Jesus Christ would do. I will always be glad I stayed. That decision has been confirmed many times over. I experienced joy and fulfillment in the place of my dreams, speaking Uzbek, learning Dari, and helping the poorest of the poor.