AFGHANISTAN—Before the U.S.-led military strikes against the Taliban and Al Qaeda in Afghanistan began, another massive group mounted an invasion of their own. An army of journalists and media workers overran the borders to cover the assassination of General Massoud and the imminent war on terrorism.
The little town of Khvajeh Baha od Din, several miles east of my house in Nowabad, turned into the mecca of media. The terrorist attack of September 9 that killed General Massoud had occurred there. The United Front or Northern Alliance also had its military headquarters and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs office in Khvajeh Baha od Din. This small village of a few thousand families instantly became the host to hundreds of journalists. And too many story-hungry reporters in extremely close quarters created a great deal of confusion.
It was amazing to witness the flood of westerners coming to where I had recently been the only American. They all congregated in this dusty area of northeastern Afghanistan, because the Taliban still controlled 90 percent of the country. All the main borders were closed to westerners; but the northeast, or Massoud’s and Rabbani’s domain, remained open to the outside world. The two provinces of Badakhshan and Takhar didn’t provide enough news stories to satisfy the ravenous appetite of the worldwide media.
This nosy new presence had a direct impact on our work for many reasons. First, I had to work hard at avoiding the media, or I could not get my work done. I’m sure I could have become a twenty-four-hour instant celebrity if I had wanted . . . but I didn’t want that.
I remember the first time I saw the milling herd of journalists. I had gone to Khvajeh Baha od Din to exchange some money and buy supplies. I fit in well as an Afghan with my native dress, beard, and passable speech so I was not recognized. But it was obvious they were in town and spending money left and right, because the value of the U.S. dollar had dropped to half its former worth.
I remember feeling cheated and thinking, These journalists with their big budgets are messing up the economy for those of us who will stay here and work after they drive off in the dust looking for another sound bite.
The journalists were walking everywhere with their expensive cameras, camcorders, and microphones. They were paying one hundred dollars a day for a translator and a hired driver. One hundred dollars each per day—about the average monthly salary for the local Afghans who worked with an NGO in order to serve their own people. As an American, I was embarrassed by my countrymen flaunting their western wealth in the faces of the world’s destitute and poor. And since America’s affluence is one of Osama bin Laden’s battle cries, it was even more distasteful to me.
I remember the first time I was asked for an interview with one of the major networks. I had returned to Khvajeh Baha od Din and this time I was spotted. A translator for one of the journalists saw me and said, “Mr. John!” My cover blown, I had to come face to face with a megamicrophone.The reporter asked if he could interview me because, as he said, “I need some sound bites.”
“Why not?” I said, thinking that someone needed to tell the world the truth about the desperate situation around me. I don’t think it’s what he wanted to hear, though. His questions were centered on the plight of the refugees or displaced people he had seen in DQ and the surrounding countryside. He was shocked to learn that all those displaced families had lived in that area for over a year. They were not fleeing the imminent Allied air strikes. These families had been suffering for years because of the tyranny of the Taliban.
I tried to give him a crash course in the tragedies that occurred while the rest of the world slept. His surprise mounted as he learned that I, an American aid worker, had lived in this war zone longer than most of the IDPs. But my story clearly didn’t fit the scheduled, predetermined news angle for that day. So he quickly lost interest and cut the interview short.
In general, I wasn’t happy with the pushy journalists or their brash approaches in a world that was not used to westerners. Many of them did very little to educate themselves about their surroundings or the history of the situation. They were too busy spending money and getting comfortably set up, instead of uncovering the facts that the world desperately needed to hear.
I also remember thinking, How sad that the most blessed nation in the world has to taste a terrorist attack before even noticing millions in Afghanistan, who have been suffering for years.
However, my attitude did eventually change. Happily, my original assumptions turned out to be partly wrong. I actually had a few good media experiences, which started with a conversation with Charles Sennott from the Boston Globe. I hosted him as a guest for a few nights at our Nowabad (DQ) office. He was actually paying attention and taking notes. It was obvious, by his choice of questions, that he really wanted to learn.
One night he said, “John, it would really be great if someone did a piece on your work here. The world, especially Americans, need to know that you are here and doing such an awesome job of serving the Afghans who are displaced by the tyranny of the Taliban.”
I thought it was a good idea but made no comment. However, Charles continued to pursue this plan until, finally, around the first of October, I let him write a Boston Globe article about our work.
A few days later, he talked to me about an ABC television interview with his friend David Wright. I was flattered but feeling that I had better things to do. I came here to serve, not to be a celebrity. Besides, we had lots of wheat to distribute that week. I didn’t have time to stop for the interview. In fact, our four-room mud mansion didn’t even have TV.
I eventually agreed to a taped interview, if the crew could find me, but I wasn’t going to make any special efforts to accommodate them. They would have to take the initiative; I was just too busy. I told them they were welcome to come to our DQ office or accompany us to one of our projects or distributions. That way, I could continue what I came to do, which was to serve people in need.
Somewhat to my surprise, they took me up on the offer. And for most of a day, I had a camera crew with me, getting up close and personal with the Afghan people. Based on their tape from that day, millions of Americans got a report of our work in action on ABC World News Tonight with Peter Jennings.
Prior to this, my only camera exposure occurred with Saira Shah in the spring of 2001, when she stayed with us for a week. She was filming the award-winning Afghan documentary Beneath the Veil. Soon after the Allied attacks, Saira returned and included some of our work in her follow-up documentary. She and her TV crew spent a second week with us. We helped her with logistics and local contacts as time permitted. As a result, her reports and personal efforts have expanded our network of donors to the continued support of our service. The work of Shelter for Life was seen all over the world on the CNN report “Unholy War.”
AIR STRIKES
As far as I remember, we first started hearing airplanes, other than the familiar Taliban jets, the first week of October. At first it was hard to tell if they were dropping bombs or blessings. At any rate, the Taliban suddenly met their worst nightmare in the form of F-15s, B-52s, and cruise missiles. It’s no pleasant feeling, being awakened at three o’clock in the morning to the sounds of bombers and jets. That equipment made a much louder statement than the old Russian planes the Taliban used or the Northern Alliance helicopters that daily transported supplies and soldiers. We often felt the ground shake under us.
In our area of northern Afghanistan, I saw only a little of the heavy bombing. The most strategic spot within our view was the mountain range of Katakala. The Taliban used that vantage point to bombard DQ and Massoud’s border crossing. With the roaring rockets and Taliban tanks blown off those hills by the Allies, our area was finally liberated.
The next closest strikes were in Taloqan, Kondoz, and around Mazar-e Sharif, to our west. Doomsday for the Taliban had finally dawned. Scared to death, they retreated in all directions, but most of them congregated in Kondoz. The effects of the bombing reached us almost immediately. Villages across the river sent word that the Taliban were gone. Within weeks of this new war on terrorism, the flow of IDPs through our area began to reverse. People started going home. It was a beautiful sight to me.
Still, it was really hard for me, being there with my Afghan staff who were wondering, Did that American bomb just kill an innocent civilian or one of my own relatives? However, in our minds and hearts, we knew there was no other way. The Taliban and Al Qaeda would have never surrendered. In fact, possessed by evil itself, they would have probably all become suicide bombers and killed more innocent victims along with themselves.
I’m not in favor of war, but I do believe that, at times, it’s the only effective form of human justice. Sometimes God, who is just, holy, and all-loving, allows war to bring about peace and a long-term plan of greater good.
FOOD DROPS
Soon some of the same planes began dropping food, clothes, and other types of assistance. I thought, Where were you guys last year when we really needed you?
These airdrops in our area were quite controversial. At first, the only recipients were soldiers and commanders. The drops were made at night, and therefore the soldiers were always the first to get there. They would shoot flares into the night sky to alert their comrades and then supervise their own distributions.What supplies the soldiers couldn’t use often showed up for sale in the bazaar. I walked by stalls in the market with shelves stacked full of boxes that were clearly stenciled, “A GIFT FROM THE PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES.”
These developments so disturbed me that I was determined to help in some way. I scolded some of my commander friends and said, “How can you expect God to bless your country when you rob the poor?” Most of them listened.
Refugees and neighbors came by and asked, “Mr. John, why don’t you do something?”
They clearly assumed I had a hot line to the president or direct contact with the planes. After all, they thought, what the planes were dropping probably belonged to me. I was the only American there on the ground. I was “Mr. Distribution” who “did not fear anyone but God.”
I wanted so badly to help that I said, “If I hear the planes again in the morning, I’ll come and check it out.”
I had heard stories about fights and even killings at these early-morning, in-the-dark distributions of airplane-dropped assistance. The sudden bounty dropped into the midst of poverty and despair sometimes brought out the worst in people.
One cold morning around three-thirty, I heard the planes making food drops. I rose from my sleep and hesitantly cranked up our motorcycle. I headed out on a cold, dark, desert trail of a highway to find the unknown point of distribution.
As I traveled, people and donkeys occasionally loomed out of the gloom. They were all amazed to see me.
Many of them shouted, “Mr. John, what are you doing?”
They wondered why I, the “rich American,” would need to go and get free stuff from the airplanes. I stopped occasionally to ask about the drops. Hundreds were out roaming the darkness with me, and they confirmed that drops had occurred, but they had not found the landing spot yet.
After an hour and many miles on the chilling ride, I decided to give up. I stopped to greet some friends I recognized. I told them I was finished for the night and heading back to the office.
They said, “We think the drop was on the other side of Khvajeh Baha od Din.”
I learned later that they were right. My attempt to bring order to the chaos of a night distribution turned out to be unsuccessful . . . and even painful.
Disappointed, I zoomed off into the darkness, looking forward to a hot cup of tea at the office. Soon I missed a turn and lost my way. Trail riding in the dark almost always includes detours. The moonless, starless night contributed to my endangered status. My headlight cast such a small pool of light in front of the bike that it was almost useless. And I wasn’t experienced enough as a rider to realize the hazards of what I was doing. But I soon learned a valuable lesson. My front wheel sandwiched into a small ditch just off the narrow path and the cycle came to a jarring stop.
I took flight shortly before four-thirty that morning. I know what time it was, because my watch stopped when I landed. The takeoff was fast and smooth, but the landing was hard and rough; I ate dirt for breakfast. I realized that my mouth was cut and bleeding. My instincts told me to stand up, but when I tried, I fell back down. Then I passed out cold.
I might still be there, but one of my motorcycle buddies from DQ was behind me and heard me leave the road. He knew my ride through the scrub brush would shortly come to an end. It didn’t take him long to find me.The headlight did its only good work for the night, creating a beacon for my helper to follow.
My friend picked me up and took me back to our office on my own motorcycle. Though I set out that night to be the Good Samaritan, one ending up saving me. I was sore from head to toe, and I thought I had a concussion or severe neck injury. Later that day, I felt even worse and could hardly move. But I rested and by the grace of God gradually healed. We even fixed the motorcycle for just over one hundred dollars.
One direct impact of all the air strikes is somewhat hard for me to put into words. It’s another one of those overwhelming feelings I had one day about two months after 9/11.
During much of 2001, we served thousands of displaced families in Dasht-e Qaleh. At its largest expanse, the Nowabad camp had looked like a small tent city. Now, one day in November stands out vividly in my mind.
I drove down the mountainous road from Rostaq on a glorious and crisp winter day. One spot on the road allowed me to glimpse most of the camp at one time. On this day, I could see nothing. But etched in my mind was the horrible day a year ago when this same view overlooked three thousand blue tarps.
Now, the faded pathways and worn vegetation marked the location of the camp, but it was empty. The displaced crowds that had gathered around the distribution trucks were gone. The kids who climbed on the rusted Russian tank had left their toys and gone home. I began to cry.
Because of the war on terrorism and, therefore, the collapse of the Taliban’s evil regime, tens of thousands of displaced Afghan families had been able to return to their original homes. This alone has changed our work drastically—for the better.
Now we have the privilege of helping these families resettle. We’re providing the assistance they need to rebuild their lives, their homes, and their hopes for a better future. Thousands of families suffered for years because of the Taliban and its connection with Al Qaeda. The good news is that they have all been able to journey back to the places of their birth or to their own villages. There’s no place like home. And all the fifteen thousand IDP families (over seventy-five thousand people), who were in our area of northeastern Afghanistan, are no longer displaced or homeless. They are no longer in the open. They are home.
I couldn’t hold back my tears as I saw the place that had consumed a year of my life and emotion. I was so glad they didn’t need me anymore. Nowabad is the place where I was threatened as a doer of good, the place where I had lost sleep because of the suffering, and the place where I had the unique privilege of learning that it really is “more blessed to give than to receive.” This area, where I daily smelled the stench of war, felt the sting of death, and saw the awful results of terrorism, had turned into a reminder of hope and peace. The place where babies cried and where people sometimes went to bed hungry or cold had become a place in my life that now stood for the victory of good over evil. Justice had come for the oppressors, and the people were free from the clutches of tyranny.
The camp was empty, like a ghost town. I was moved as I relived the last year of my life and how God had allowed me the privilege to work with SNI/Shelter for Life alongside an Afghan staff who were with me in helping to save the lives of so many. We often worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week, to serve, to help, to give, to do all we could do to avoid a major humanitarian crisis. We were able to share God’s love on the front line.
From the shoulder of the mountain road, I could see our compound’s mud walls glowing in the sun. That simple place funneled life to people. I stared at the roof where I had watched the bombings by Taliban jets and saw their rockets and missiles fly. I saw myself lift my hands to heaven and ask God to be merciful.
God shed his grace on this place in ways I could never have expected. I was filled with gratefulness, not only to God, but to so many others who have helped me get to that place where I could help those in need. Throughout my time in Afghanistan, I have been deeply aware that I am the last in a chain of people who pass on something good to others. I am grateful to DARE International in the UK for this partnership and for allowing me to work with SNI/Shelter for Life. Thanks to the Red, White, and Blue (to USAID/OFDA) that funded our emergency relief projects. And thanks to God for choosing me and putting me in the place of my dreams, a place to give my life to serve others. How grateful we all were that the war on terrorism brought justice and freedom to those who were oppressed.
MOVING TO SERVE
TALOQAN—Because all the IDP families left, many of the NGOs moved west from Feyzabad to Taloqan, the capital of Takhar. I remember that my first trip in that direction for a coordination meeting included numerous discoveries. When we arrived in the city, I was startled to see paved roads, big stores, large fruit-and-vegetable stands, and even some signs of electricity. What a jump in time from my little village of Nowabad. I was thrilled to drive on real roads. In comparison with the area in which I had lived and worked my first year in Afghanistan, I felt like a little kid from the farm going to the state fair for the first time.
However, the greatest feeling was actually seeing all our IDP friends moving back home. Everyone seemed to be headed in the same direction. They were on donkeys, camels, horses, and tractors, moving back into their villages in Takhar and Kondoz. I was overwhelmed when I saw so many friends in freedom, in peace, and in great joy as they journeyed home.
Trials and tribulations continue to challenge these devastated and damaged people. We all had to cross a river to get to the Taloqan section of Takhar. The bridge had been destroyed in the fighting. The area where we forded had gotten so much use that it became a quagmire with an appetite for vehicles. We almost lost our Jeep in the mud, but a tractor showed up with a cable and helped us cross. The IDPs around us were on a mission. I could see it in the way they walked. They no longer moved with the apathetic shuffle of the homeless. They moved with the determined steps of the homeward bound.
Watching them go moved me to tears. I had an idea of what awaited them: ruined wells, destroyed mosques, burned roofs, leveled buildings, demolished schools, and areas that had been mined by the Taliban or because of previous wars. There’s no place like home, but theirs needed a lot of rebuilding. So much work was left to do. Thankfully, by this time, other organizations were on the scene to help.
SAMARITAN’S PURSE
The news about our presence in Afghanistan brought various organizations to our doors after 9/11. Millions of people were praying, and many were ready to help in tangible, practical ways. Spreading God’s love through acts of compassion and missions of mercy is something we all can do.
One such group that quickly became our partner was Samaritan’s Purse. This agency, led by Dr. Billy Graham’s son, Franklin, carries out relief and development projects to benefit people all over the world. One of their best-known programs involves the packing of shoe boxes with practical and delightful gifts. Individuals, families, and churches pack millions of these shoe boxes every year. Samaritan’s Purse delivers them to the forgotten children of the world.
While the agency has been welcomed in the majority of the nations of the world, they had never been able to take shoe boxes into Afghanistan. That became Franklin Graham’s personal goal after the events of 9/11. His organization contacted our SFL/Dushanbe office with their plans and asked me to assist them with local arrangements.
Shipments of large cardboard boxes stamped “Samaritan’s Purse/ Operation Christmas Child” began to fill our storage space. Each one was filled with individual shoe boxes wrapped in colorful paper.
One of the greatest events of my life was actually assisting in the very first Operation Christmas Child shoe-box distribution in Afghanistan. What a day to remember for the students at our DQ school in December 2001, just a little over three months after the attacks on our country.
God orchestrated an amazing border crossing at the Amu Darya River for Gary Lundstrom and the Samaritan’s Purse team. He used our history of faithfulness in service to not only smooth the way but also “build a bridge at the border.” We made it to the school just in the nick of time. Soon the local leaders and all the teachers in DQ joined us in this amazing event.
We gathered all the first-through sixth-grade students, both boys and girls. More than eight hundred kids participated in this joyous celebration. We told them a little about Christmas and the idea that we imitate God’s giving the greatest gift of all by giving gifts to one another.
We also explained the events of 9/11 to the students and informed them that the children and families of the victims of the World Trade Center attacks packed many of the shoe boxes they were about to open. Some of these presents were sent in loving memory of firefighters, who lost their lives in New York trying to save the lives of others.
The Uzbek governor, Saed Sadek, who lost his home in Khvajeh Ghar because of the Taliban, was there to help us. I spoke in Dari, and he translated and reinforced my words in perfect Afghani Uzbek. Everyone was moved when they heard how the victims of 9/11 wanted to express God’s love for the Afghan people.
Tears streamed down my face when I explained to a boy who had been orphaned by the Taliban that his present was from another orphan who became one because of the terrorist attacks of 9/11. He joined in my crying as he heard those words. It was quite an emotional day and clearly illustrated how the teachings of Jesus the Messiah truly promote peace, grace, and real forgiveness.
What an unforgettable sight to watch so many smiling, happy, joyful kids as they opened their Christmas boxes. No doubt, for many of them, these were the first real presents they had ever opened. I watched a little girl cautiously open her box. Nestled among assorted items lay a lovely dark-skinned doll that looked like her. She sat there very still as the chaos of joy swirled around her. I couldn’t take my eyes off hers. They shone with a quality I can only describe as sheer wonder. She gently lifted the little figure out of the box and held it before her, taking in every detail. Then she wrapped the doll in a tight embrace and sat there rocking, eyes closed, lost in her own world of contentment.
Crayons, socks, gloves, games, toothbrushes, combs, hair bows, dolls—the assortment of gifts had the kids laughing with delight. The school erupted into spontaneous expressions of excitement, fun, and freedom. The release was contagious. Adults were laughing and crying at the same time, and then laughing at each other. After all the sadness and heartache of their last few years, I wished many more days like these for the children of Afghanistan.
CHANGES
The whole atmosphere in our area has become different now. Even though we live in a torn and frail society, great peace comes when with the absence of the threat of war. Fear has been replaced with a feeling of freedom, hope, opportunity, and joy in the air.
I am still overwhelmed that God allowed all the displaced people in our area to go back home. In fact, I’m convinced that God himself enters into the world of human suffering. I certainly sensed his presence inside Afghanistan during those darkest hours. One way God shows his love is through our acts of compassion and kindness. And when we speak out for justice, promote peace, or serve the poor, God is there.
You don’t have to be on the front line of earthly war to do these godly things. In truth, we’re all on the front line of war against the Evil One in this world every single day, whether in Afghanistan, America, or any other place on earth.
HOMECOMING
On December 20, 2001, I left northern Afghanistan. The trip was not easy for many reasons, but I wanted to get home to the States and surprise my family for Christmas. I wanted to give my mom a hug and tell her in person that I loved her. All my family had worried and prayed for me during the months of uncertainty in Afghanistan. I also wanted to see what was going on in my home country.
However, simple plans in Afghanistan often involve surprising twists. After doing the Operation Christmas Child distribution, I finished all my work in our Shelter for Life office to prepare for a trip to the States. I participated in one more round of those heartfelt Afghan handshakes and good wishes. As always, I told my staff and friends I would return.
When we arrived at the Amu Darya border crossing, our plans were delayed. The motorized barge had broken down, and the dark water flowed swiftly at my feet, blocking my way. Staring at the water, I thought, Will I spend another Christmas inside Afghanistan?
One of the Afghan guards standing behind me cleared his throat. I glanced over my shoulder into the familiar eyes of the brave sailor who had rowed me across this river under enemy fire one night back in August. He pointed up the river without a word. There, perched on the river bank was a small bamboo raft.
I looked back at him and nodded. He laughed joyously as we headed for another adventure together. I felt a little like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I may have started home for Christmas on a bamboo raft, but I still got there on time.