September 12, 2001: A Bad Dream?
FEYZABAD—On the morning of September 12, 2001, unusual noises elsewhere in the building interrupted my sleep. A mixture of my friends’ voices and the crackling of the shortwave radio rose and fell among the other sounds of the awakening city. I kept my eyes tightly closed. Nothing about this new day encouraged me to open them.
Gradually, certain words and phrases in the radio transmissions pulled back my curtain of sleepiness: “America is at war.” “America has been attacked, and the enemy is about to feel the wrath of an angry superpower.” “Lives have been lost and saved in the World Trade Center towers,” and “the heroes of Flight 93.” It was hard to make sense of any of it, because it felt so far away, in that semiconscious place somewhere between asleep and awake.
Finally, familiar words snapped open my eyelids, as if from a bad dream: “Osama bin Laden,” “Al Qaeda,” and “Afghanistan.” Every story seemed to mention, in the same breath, my homeland and the land that I have called home for a year. Afghanistan had changed overnight from a little-known, blank spot on the globe to the center of world attention. I got my knees under me on the sleeping mat and stood up. I had work to do.
Radio reports repeatedly named bin Laden and his Al Qaeda network as the terrorists behind the 9/11 attacks. Since we couldn’t see the horrid video footage or photographs of the ongoing nightmare, it was difficult to fully comprehend the shock that we heard in the voices of Americans being interviewed. For us, the attacks presented a new side to our immediate problem and a great dilemma.We had to decide whether to stay in Afghanistan or evacuate. We reacted to the broadcast news reports and the reality around us as well as we could. Several days later, I would weep in pain and astonishment as I watched the 9/11 footage for the first time.
EVACUATE OR STAY?
We talked with the Shelter for Life regional office in Tajikistan several times that day. Other supporting agencies participated in those discussions. Three of our team’s six members were ordered to evacuate immediately. Their supporting agency had a security plan with a low tolerance for risk. We had already decided among ourselves the day before that an evacuation by any of us would probably mean an evacuation by all of us.
Sometime during the morning of September 12, we were surprised to hear the UN airplanes taking off. It took us a little while to verify that their entire staff had evacuated eastward to Pakistan. For one reason or another, we were not included in plan A. This left us one evacuation route, plan B—the border at Eshkashem. With half our group already ordered to leave the country, I had to make a personal decision that would affect the rest of the team. My heart was breaking and heavily burdened.
I was the only team member who had been to the Eshkashem border before. I knew from personal mistakes how complicated it could be to cross that border. I could at least take the group there. Two of the people with us didn’t have valid Tajik visas, so there would have to be some tricky negotiations to get them into Tajikistan. And they needed me to translate.
As the day and the discussions wore on, I realized I really had no choice. It would be best for all of us to head to the border together. Once we reached that conclusion, the regional office simply settled matters by asking us all to leave the country. They told us that someone from Dushanbe would travel down to Eshkashem with the paperwork to allow the pair of “illegals” to cross into Tajikistan.
By the time all these decisions were made, it was too late in the day to start our trek to the Tajik border, so we planned our departure for early the next morning. The radio continued to feed us the heartbreaking news from home. Slowly the suffering and agony of the tragic events back in the States began to seep into our hearts and minds.
SORTING IT ALL OUT
We spent the remainder of the day delegating things at the office, packing, crying, praying, and talking. I was busy contacting all of our local staff and settling up our finances, in case we were prevented from returning right away. I wanted to leave with a clear conscience. Love makes a better memory than debt.
This meant changing several thousand dollars into barely manageable stacks of Afghanis. I delivered sacks of money to a couple of bakeries we had contracted to provide bread for local IDPs. I paid the rent on several buildings and gave our local staff their current salaries. By the end of the day, we owed nothing in northern Afghanistan but a debt of love for the people we came to serve. None of this diminished the feeling in me that I was abandoning my post.
As we tried to sort things out, in one way, everything we heard on international radio about the 9/11 attacks made sense. The events fit with our experience. General Massoud’s assassination was one ugly piece of a worldwide puzzle of terror. My Afghan friends in the north took no joy in the evil that was done to America. They identified with our sorrow out of their own great loss. In fact, most were angry, ashamed, and embarrassed that the evil of September 9 and September 11 was done in the name of Allah.
As I talked to our local staff and assured them we planned to return, they were eager to express their sadness for my country. Several apologized.
“This is not our view of Islam or what is means to be a Muslim,” one said. “We don’t believe that evil suicide bombers, who kill innocent people in the name of Allah, go to paradise as a reward for their wickedness.”
These men had become friends. They wanted to comfort me. One of them walked me back to the office, gripping my hand in a handshake while his arm held my shoulders. Our mutual tears mingled in the dust. I had no words to tell them how much harder their expressions of love made it for me to leave.
When night fell, we gathered at the office. Our bags were packed and ready for an early departure. We sat by lamplight and talked late into the night, trying to sort out our feelings and thoughts from the day. Several versions of the same question eventually dominated the discussion: Why would the Taliban and Al Qaeda, on the verge of taking control of all of Afghanistan, suddenly decide to enrage the world’s remaining superpower? Why bomb America when their plans for Central Asia were making great progress? Why pick a fight with the biggest guy on the block when you can barely handle the fight you’re already in? We guessed it had to be the result of arrogance, stupidity, and the will to destroy.
In the days before 9/11, we tried hard to figure out how soon more bad things would be happening in northern Afghanistan because of the Taliban and Al Qaeda. The terrorist training camps of bin Laden were growing and spreading. Time seemed to be on their side. One day later, the picture radically changed. The more we heard about the steely resolve in the U.S. to respond to the attacks, the more we realized that bad news was on its way to the Taliban and Al Qaeda.
As Americans, we soon began to compare the terrorist strikes with the only similar disaster in our history—Pearl Harbor. Like that infamous day of December 7, 1941, our hellish day of 9/11 would only serve to “wake a sleeping giant.” I have since come to understand in a new way that sudden, inexplicable changes in human events are not accidents. They point to God’s sovereign or complete control of his universe. The Bible reveals that God rules heaven and earth. I believed he would bring greater good out of these awful, evil events. Ultimately God’s plan of justice makes every wrong right. These terrorist attacks and our response to them no doubt fit into a bigger picture, even though our view of it is not crystal clear.
TO ESHKASHEM AGAIN
Early the next morning, our local staff sent us on our way. They had already performed their first Muslim prayers for the day, but they stood quietly in the chill with us as we prayed for their safety. We all held out our empty hands to ask the Creator of the world to kindly watch over us all. Then we shook hands all around, with our left hands resting on our hearts and our right hands reaching out for one another.
“Salaam Alekkum,” we softly exchanged, looking into each other’s eyes. “Khudo khafis,” which literally means “God protect you” were the last tearful words we spoke that day.We didn’t know if we would ever meet again.
The six of us shoehorned ourselves into two Afghan-driven Russian Jeeps. Our road trip took us through snowcapped mountains and peaceful valleys that we couldn’t enjoy because of our heavy hearts. I tried to point out some of the history I had learned on my trip through this area nine months earlier, but none of us was really interested.
Things at the border looked unchanged from my previous visit. The dirt road that left Eshkashem gave no indication that it led to an international crossing. A small shack and a wired gate marked the Afghan side of the border. A simple bridge spanned the river. The familiar boxcarlike container that housed the Tajik and Russian personnel sat on the far shore. Getting out of Afghanistan was easy. The border guards had little interest in keeping people in the country.
Entering Tajikistan, though, proved a bit more complicated. I left the rest of the group in the relative protection of the Jeeps and began to negotiate. After each round, I ran back to my group to confer. I quickly lost ground. When the guards discovered that the six of us only had four visas between us, they began to shake their heads. We also wanted to bring a Jeep purchased in Afghanistan with us into the country. This news brought even more negative responses from our border friends. I got tired of running back and forth, fighting the cutting wind and eating the dust it continually kicked up. A difficult day was again developing for me at this unfavorable border crossing.
By now the sun had run its course. Hours of hard work and juggling various dialects hadn’t impressed the border guards. They shrugged and told us it was too late. We would have to return to the Afghan side, and quickly, before the guards on that side locked the gate and went home. If that happened, we would just have to spend in the night in no-man’s-land between the two countries. Things were coming down to the wire.
I had been quietly insisting, in my simple Tajik, “In the name of the Lord, we will all cross together with the vehicle.” They all laughed every time I said it. After all, we might be Americans and other foreigners, but this was the Tajik border out in the middle of nowhere, and they were in charge.
Finally our friend arrived from Dushanbe with the proper papers for the couple that had no visas. He also brought some Pepsi Cola to share with the guards.That simple gesture broke the international crisis. The six-hour-long standoff ended. They suddenly allowed us into the country with one final condition—we had to give them a ride into town before we went on our way. One minute the door was closed; the next it swung open. We had no doubt that God had made a way for us when no way seemed possible.
I MUST GO BACK!
DUSHANBE—Once we were in Tajikistan, we had an eighteen-hour drive ahead of us to our destination.We were exhausted when we reached Dushanbe on September 15. I was glad that we all arrived safely, but I was convinced that I should return to Afghanistan, alone if necessary. I had been dragging my feet all the way from Feyzabad. However, it was nice to have a break, to take a shower, go to church, and visit with friends in the big city. But after a week, I was anxious to return to the land that I now loved. I thought, I must go back, because I left most of my heart there.
I began to discuss with our regional director, Mark Baltzer, how I might get back inside Afghanistan. He thought I needed to wait. One of the immediate concerns about my returning had to do with Americans being in the country if the U.S. military bombed it. Much of the work that we had done in northern Afghanistan had involved the application of funding and materials, like USAID wheat, that had originated from the States. No one knew how American bombs would be received. Afghans have a history of setting differences aside in the face of a perceived common enemy. Would the Northern Alliance welcome our involvement?
There were also questions about how my presence in Afghanistan might be perceived by all sides. However, I thought everyone’s overly cautious concern could paralyze us and keep us from responding with God’s compassion to the poor and suffering. Potential danger may cause some to worry, but for others it creates a wonderful work atmosphere in which to practice faith and selfless service.
I respectfully but persistently explained my point of view.Things were developing rapidly as a result of 9/11, but there was little reason to believe that even if the U.S. launched attacks against Al Qaeda, that those would affect northeastern Afghanistan. The Northern Alliance showed no signs of buckling, and hopes were growing daily that America was gathering an international coalition that could mount a crushing blow to the Taliban and their allies. This hope was a cherished dream of the United Front or Northern Alliance, who remained in control of the areas where I worked.
On another side of the issue were international voices raised on behalf of the suffering in Afghanistan. If foreign forces attacked Afghanistan, would that not worsen conditions even more? Dire warnings about the terrible winter coming and the prospects of thousands of starving refugees seemed to complicate the issue. Should the international community concentrate its efforts on wiping out the Taliban or on preserving the lives of the millions of suffering people in and around Afghanistan?
From my perspective, we certainly weren’t doing all we could. There were plenty of opportunities to help people in the northern area, and I was itching to get back in there. This was exactly the kind of situation where I wanted to serve. I was wired for this very moment. I felt like a freshman football player who keeps jumping off the bench and begging, “Come on, send me in, Coach!”
By now it had become clear that, while many of the terrorists who had attacked my country had been trained in Afghanistan, no Afghan had directly participated in that cowardly act. I felt no animosity at all toward the people of Afghanistan. I couldn’t get over the genuine expressions of sadness and solidarity I had received from my Afghan friends. They had already suffered for such a long time, yet they expressed such great sorrow over the loss of life in America. Or, perhaps, because of their losses, they could empathize with us. They were ashamed that those claiming to be Muslims did such an unholy act. I knew that their suffering wasn’t over, but neither was my responsibility to help wherever I could.
In Dushanbe, I saw on Russian and Tajik television stations a few news clips of the actual attack against the World Trade Center. I also saw some pictures on the Internet that gave me a deeper appreciation for what my fellow Americans had been and were going through. My heart was crushed and broken every time I saw the news. At times, I sat and wept uncontrollably. Naturally I wanted to help in some way back home. But I realized from brief, direct phone contacts with my family that the way I could probably do the most good would be to return to the place where I had already been serving. Thousands of Americans from across the country were rushing to help and serve at the tragic sites back home. But now, no one was rushing to help the still-bruised and bleeding people of Afghanistan. I knew I had to stay.
IF GOD OPENS THE DOOR . . .
After long conversations and prayer, my boss, Mark, gave me permission to seek a possible entrance into Afghanistan. The UN had abandoned all flights for fear of being shot down. All the borders were officially closed. I knew from past experience that officially closed borders could often be unofficially opened. The conditions from our office were clear: If God opened the door into the country, I was permitted to go through it. The rest they left up to my discretion, diligence, and determination.
Flying in Tajikistan can be a high-risk experience, especially the route between Dushanbe and Khorugh. Pilots get paid extra because they have to clear the Hindu Kush range in less than prime aircraft and then land between mountains. It’s so close you can almost reach out the windows and touch the snow-tipped mountain peaks. If visibility isn’t perfect, the planes don’t take off from Dushanbe.The airline should be called Wing-and-a-Prayer Air.
The first minor miracle occurred when I went to the Dushanbe airport the morning of September 24. Again I heard the Tajik phrase, “If the sky is soft we will fly.” On that day, the heavens were clear, and I took the flight from Dushanbe to Khorugh. My recent eighteen-hour driving ordeal suddenly shrank to a one-hour flight. That put me just sixty miles north of the same border at Eshkashem that I had crossed only eleven days before.
At the local bazaar, I made arrangements with a Tajik man to drive me to the border. While we ate lunch, I tried to explain the time constraints related to the border. He nodded that he understood, but his pace remained unchanged. In Central Asia, life does not move to the tick of the clock. They are much more event oriented and group minded. We may think we understand this, but when we’re in a hurry, we quickly demonstrate that we don’t. Needless to say, the driver stopped by his house on the way out of town to fill his wife in on his plans. Since I was probably an important figure to him, I had to be introduced to everyone in his family. I was trying my best not to be the ugly American wearing the demanding Timex watch, but I desperately wanted to get going.
Once we left Khorugh, things started moving like clockwork. But not for long. We stopped every so often to pick up someone along the road. Tajik hospitality began to wear on me. My driver also had a maddening fuel-saving technique. He turned off his engine and coasted down miles of twisting mountain roads. He would let the car coast almost to a complete stop before throwing it back into gear.
Then, as if to add insult to delay, we also had a flat tire. The driver remembered a distant relative who lived nearby. I tried to keep my sarcastic outlook to myself. How could anyone in such an isolated place help us? To my surprise, not only did the man actually exist, he even had the right-sized tire on a rim he was willing to give us. Another miracle! As we drove on, I realized that it was time to practice some patience.
The KGB border office was closed when I arrived late that afternoon. According to the remaining officials and soldiers, I had just missed the Russian border forces. When they learned that my plan was to cross into Afghanistan, they were not pleased. In fact, it didn’t appear that they would give me permission. They kept repeating insistently, “This border is closed.”
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY
ESHKAMESH—I had no choice but to retrace my steps a few miles to the main KGB office of Eshkamesh. At first I was treated as if I had already done something wrong. Thankfully, when the ranking Russian official arrived, he acted more favorably. In fact, he said that I could stay in the KGB office overnight, and in the morning he would personally take me to the border.
We had a stimulating conversation that evening. His questions seemed motivated by genuine personal curiosity rather than official duty. He showed interest in our work in Tajikistan, as well as Afghanistan. He offered me one of the beds for lodging and then served me eggs, bread, and tea for breakfast. He also proved to be an expert in international relations. I was reminded of a simple rule of thumb I have repeatedly found to be true: Where God guides, he also provides. I expressed my gratitude for the official’s kindhearted help.
That morning, when we drove to the border, one of the Russian guards remembered me from our recent departure.
“America! America!” he greeted me as I climbed out of the vehicle. He was a big guy who looked like the Russian boxer in the film Rocky. He was, no doubt, pro-American.
HOME AGAIN!
AFGHANISTAN—The crossing went smoothly. Just a few minutes later, I was back inside Afghanistan. Our Dushanbe office had contacted one of our national staff members in Feyzabad, so one of our vehicles was waiting for me on the other side.
What a joy to be back! So much had changed in less than two weeks. I enjoyed the ride and a time of “catching up” with our driver and one of our project supervisors. We arrived at our office and were warmly greeted by the rest of our staff. At that point, it first occurred to me that I was probably the only American left in northern Afghanistan. In fact, I may have been the only international staff person for any of the relief agencies in that part of the country. I definitely had my work cut out for me.
On September 26, 2001, I visited the familiar UN-WFP office just down the dusty road from us. Yes, the news was true, they informed me. None of the international staff of the UN agencies had returned yet. But the local staff was eager and willing to help. We chatted like old friends and then turned our combined attention to our immediate plans.
I had a long to-do list. The first item involved a request for 860 fifty-kilogram bags of wheat for our project in Yaftal. The Latrine Project in the drought-affected villages of Yaftal had been completed, but we had been able to deliver only the first third of the wheat-for-work payments, due to shortages and lack of transportation. On September 28, I traveled with four big trucks loaded with USAID wheat up to Yaftal. We had told the people the day before to come to the designated distribution point. When we arrived, hundreds of donkeys and people anxiously awaited some hard-earned food. I was greeted as if I were the king of Persia and instantly served watermelon by a group of Northern Alliance soldiers, who came to help with crowd control.
At that time, just a couple of weeks after 9/11, the American-led air strikes were imminent. However, the soldiers and our beneficiaries asked no questions about my nationality. I had 860 bags of goodwill with me.They were too happy about getting food to ask, and I was too overjoyed with the privilege of serving them to mention it. That distribution was one of the most peaceful days of my life.
THE NIGHT VISITOR
FEYZABAD—The night before I left Feyzabad I had an unexpected visitor at the office. Local authorities, from fear of the unknown, were now asking people to stay home after dark for their own safety, and they enforced a strict curfew. Someone knocking on my door in the dark obviously didn’t understand that law enforcement in northern Afghanistan usually shoots first and asks questions later.
When I opened the door, I was face to face with another American. We exchanged names, which turned out to be slightly comic, because his name is also John. He was a journalist with the New Yorker. He had received news that there was still an American humanitarian in the area with SNI/Shelter for Life, and he wanted to see if it was true.
He asked, “John, are you the only American aid worker here in the country right now?”
I replied, “Perhaps, but I don’t know for sure.” We didn’t talk long, and I declined any official interview. I didn’t think anyone else needed to know where I was at the time. But his interest reminded me that the world’s eye was suddenly on Afghanistan. I didn’t imagine that soon hundreds of journalists like John would be in my neighborhood.
THE ROAD TO ROSTAQ
The following day, I left Feyzabad for Rostaq. I needed to get to our central field office to pay all our monthly bills and salaries.
Since it was also the end of the month, I could help our Afghan accountant close our September 2001 books.
We also were about to receive some more WFP wheat for the workers laboring on our fifty-kilometer mountain road from Rostaq to DQ. I anticipated seeing the progress of the road after a month’s absence. Many on those work crews had become personal friends. It would also be sweet to present USAID wheat to Afghans, when so many in the world were either expressing feelings of hatred towards Muslims or accusing America of anti-Islamic actions.
Driving the road to Rostaq, I remembered my first trip across those rough miles. Not much had changed in a year. In the distance was the military junkyard known as the airport. Burned-up fields and dry land reminded me of the continued drought. The mountains still offered the same mute-but-magnificent witness to God’s omnipotence.The roads were full of donkeys and the taste of heat and dust. The people looked the same. But everything seemed more familiar to me. This place was my home, even if not my homeland.
This September there was a sense of hope in the air. Many thought that the evil of 9/11 would result in greater good. For the average Afghan citizen, this meant the downfall of the Taliban. Of course, no one was dancing with joy at the thought of U.S. air strikes. Reality said that some innocent civilians could be casualties. The country would, no doubt, experience more damaging blows as bombs and missiles leveled homes and buildings. But the cry of thousands of refugees was for justice, liberty, and freedom from the tyranny of the Taliban. The greater reality was that, if America did not respond, millions of Afghans wouldn’t have a prayer for survival. An all-out war on terrorism was their only hope.
AMBASSADOR FOR GOD
I must say that it was a privilege to be in Afghanistan, whether or not I was the only active American relief worker. Whether I was safe or not, I felt secure. Whether I lived or died, I knew I was right where God wanted me to be. I reminded myself that many people, who were praying for me, would join me if they could.
My return communicated a powerful message to our local staff and those we were serving: We really care about you.We care enough to stay when the going gets tough. My presence in the country was not about me or my desires or my great plan. Instead, it was all about God’s apparent choice in letting me return to Afghanistan as one of his ambassadors. I felt privileged to be on this mission of mercy, serving the wonderful people of Afghanistan.