12

Tears for Somalia

My father’s friends in Kentucky weren’t the only people now watching the developments in East Africa with interest and concern. The media attention on Operation Restore Hope moved the long-term heartache and horror that was Somalia’s history to center stage in the American consciousness. As word of the scope of the need spread, the generosity of faithful friends and supporters in the States and around the globe enabled our work to expand rapidly. Sometimes, we felt that our work had become too big to manage.

We had launched a modest mom-and-pop relief venture. It had mushroomed into a professional multi-national organization that employed as many as one hundred and fifty Somali and thirty-five full-time western staff members stationed in four different countries. For the first several years, Ruth administered the entire operation from a small office in our home in Nairobi.

While most of the relief that we distributed came from the United Nations, our bare-bones organization greatly appreciated and needed the steady stream of funds generously given by believers. This support enabled us to recruit personnel and fund what had become an expensive endeavor.

Even beyond that support, what made the biggest difference in those days were the thousands of people who also supported us by praying for the Somalis and for their physical and spiritual needs.

Our swiftly increasing monthly expenses and payroll meant that I had to carry as much as $100,000 cash (in one-hundred-dollar bills) on each trip into the country. I would divide the money into three or four different bundles hidden in different places in my gear and on my person. If I was robbed, I hoped that my attackers would be so thrilled with the first stash they found that they would quit looking and leave me with most of the money. I am thankful to say that I was never robbed.

Nevertheless, when my supervisors learned how I was transporting funds into Somalia, they were horrified and they informed me that I was not allowed to do that anymore. I asked if they had a better plan. There was no financial system operating in Mogadishu, and no legally recognized or transferable Somali currency. The only option, I argued, was to continue with my financial strategy or to end our work and pull our team out of the country.

They had nothing better to suggest, so I kept doing what I had been doing—without their authorization, but with their full knowledge and unspoken blessing. We never came up with any other workable system for handling funds during the entire six years that our organization conducted relief work in Somalia.

One of the key reasons our organization was able to accomplish so much and keep working in Somalia for so long was because of our committed Somali staff—almost all of whom were Muslims. Because we provided employment where there were few jobs, and because they saw that we were helping so many of their people, the Somalis who worked for us, and most of those we helped, were willing to overlook the fact that we were Westerners—and, by definition, infidels.

Our Somali staff was the cream of the crop. The few believers we employed or interacted with were godly people. And our Muslim staff included some of the most sacrificial people I have ever met. Because the unemployment rate was about ninety percent, we were able to hire quality people from a variety of backgrounds—former college professors, nurses, agriculturalists, nutritionists, veterinarians, water engineers, businessmen, educators, and accountants. Our relatively low pay scale was considered a princely sum in Somalia in those days. We attempted to spread our money as far as possible to help as many families as we could.

My Somali chief of staff and right-hand man, Omar Aziz, became a dear and trusted friend. He was one of the most street-smart and compassionate individuals I have ever known. One day he came into the office weeping. I didn’t know what had happened or how I should respond in a culturally-appropriate manner. I did what seemed natural; I waited out his tears.

He soon wiped his eyes and told me why he was so upset. He had been on an errand, walking down a street near his own neighborhood when he spotted a malnourished woman sitting in the shade of a small tree, leaning against the trunk, nursing a baby. Omar Aziz greeted her as he passed by. She returned his smile, but her baby never stopped eating to look at him.

When Omar finished his business and returned the same way less than an hour later, he noted the same peaceful scene—the same woman under the same tree with the same baby in the same pose. But as he strolled by this time, he heard the infant whimpering. He glanced in that direction and immediately sensed that something was wrong. The tiny child cried and squirmed in its mother’s arms, but the woman seemed oddly still. For just a moment Omar assumed that the woman was asleep. As he stepped toward her, however, he realized the truth. In the time since he had last walked down this street, the young mother had died! He walked over to the woman, bent down to gently lift the baby from its mother’s arms, and tried to comfort the child.

He could find no identification papers for the woman, so Omar walked around the neighborhood, knocking on doors, searching in vain for someone who might know her. He managed to round up enough people to help give the woman a proper burial, but no one seemed to know her well enough to take the child.

By this time tears were streaming down Omar Aziz’s face again as he said, “I don’t know what to do with the baby!” Then he exclaimed in an anguished voice, “My poor country! What is going to become of us?”

(What became of that baby made for a happier-than-expected ending to a tragic story when Omar Aziz found another nursing mother whose baby had just died. That woman was thrilled to care for this child.)

I knew that Omar had witnessed many scenes that were more shocking than the one he encountered that day. But when people are forced to deal with a daily barrage of human suffering and inhumane violence, the emotional response is never predictable. Sometimes, it is possible to remain calm and relatively detached. At other times, sometimes without warning, the dam breaks and there is emotional turmoil. The trigger for these emotional floods is not always dramatic. It might be something as simple as seeing yet another orphaned baby. At other times, it is the cumulative result of countless microscopic nicks and cracks caused by the constant reminders of brokenness all around. Sometimes we would be moved most by small deeds of kindness or tenderness.

When the pressure and sadness became unbearable, I knew that it was time to get out and spend time in Nairobi with my family. Our staff rule was to not keep spouses apart for more than a month at a time. Ruth and I tried to live by that same rule. I knew that Ruth was my anchor.

And I needed an anchor more than ever to protect me from a serious danger that is probably intrinsic to professional relief work. I was often forced to choose which villages we would go to, and where we couldn’t go because of limited staff and resources. Many of my daily decisions determined who lived and who died. These decisions were weighty and terrifying. It was an overwhelming responsibility. Our projects were affecting thousands of people. There was always a latent temptation to lose perspective and think about the power that we held in our hands. But we worked hard to remember—and to remind one another—that only our Creator God has ultimate power over life and death. We knew that such authority was never ours to assume.

All the same, if there was food and water for ten villages—and there were twenty desperate villages in the area—choices were required.

Quickly, I learned that I could never divorce my decisions from my prayer time and my relationship with God. I guarded against assuming a level of responsibility and authority that was not mine to assume.

No matter how consumed I was with the incredible opportunities and overwhelming demands in Somalia, it was that essential connection with Ruth and the boys that helped keep me grounded. The way they welcomed me home every time I landed in Nairobi reminded me that my God-given roles as husband and father were essential to my ministry too.

Ruth was an equal partner in our venture. When I was away in Somalia, I devoted my full attention to our relief work. Back in Nairobi, Ruth had become the ultimate multi-tasker. In my absence, she mothered and fathered our three boys and assumed responsibility for maintaining a busy household. She did all of that while running our base of operations.

When we lived in a Somali area of Nairobi early on, four times a week Ruth made a ten-mile round trip by car to purchase enough drinkable water to fill four twenty-gallon plastic tanks that she then transported back home for our family. While she could fill the tanks right in the car with a hose, she could not lift the twenty-gallon water tanks out of the car when she got home. So she would siphon the water into smaller containers that she could carry and store in the house. Securing water was just one of many logistical challenges that had to be dealt with day after day.

Our home was more than a household. It was eventually an operational hub and international headquarters for a multi-national company engaged in corporate business activities conducted in four different countries. Ruth kept it all running smoothly by acting as lead encourager and mentor for those who came to function as our company’s CEO, COO, CFO, Personnel Director, Chief Communications Officer, Senior IT Manager, Executive Secretary, Corporate Travel Agent, and Head Maintenance Department Engineer. (In the early days, she performed all of those jobs herself.)

The most important role she played for me was that of a wise and trusted counselor, a personal therapist who offered spiritual support, encouragement, a listening ear, and much more of what some organizations now lump together and call member care.

The Kenyan Church where our family worshiped in Nairobi served as another spiritual harbor where I could safely anchor and unload whatever emotional and spiritual baggage I had brought home. A small accountability group of four believing brothers who regularly met with me whenever I got back to Nairobi served much the same purpose.

During my recovery periods in Nairobi, Ruth would also bring me up to date on the most pressing company business, financing, and logistic and personnel issues. We would try to strategize and set priorities for the next few weeks. Then she would drive me to the airport and put me on a plane heading into a war zone once again—knowing that all she could do was pray and trust God with my care for however long it would be before I returned home again.