13

Broken and Poured Out

The violence in Somalia increased in 1993. The situation seemed to grow more chaotic with each passing month. In early June, twenty-four Pakistani peacekeepers were killed. In August of 1993, in an effort to regain control and squelch the growing violence, the United States Army Task Force Ranger was dispatched to Somalia to root out rebel forces. Task Force Ranger’s assault on the Olympic Hotel in pursuit of the rebel leaders in a seventeen-hour battle in October resulted in the loss of eighteen American soldiers. Eighty-four American soldiers were wounded. (We later learned that over seven hundred Somalis were also killed.) This engagement—which could be heard from our headquarters a mile away—was later named the “Battle of Mogadishu” and made famous by the book and movie entitled Blackhawk Down.

The frequency and intensity of violence waned for a time following that tragedy. Prospects for peace and any hope for a final resolution of the conflict, however, seemed hopeless. After repeated failed attempts to bring the warring clans together, the United Nations began to question the wisdom of involvement in Somalia. From my point of view, their message was clear: “Somalis are not worth the effort, the cost or the lives. The price is simply too high to save people who do not even know how to say thank you.”

We were most concerned about the 1.7 million people who had been displaced by years of brutal civil war, drought, and famine. They were now being victimized further by anarchic clan violence, political turmoil and complete societal collapse. Because of the United Nations relief resources and the work of many relief agencies, most of the refugees who had flooded into Mogadishu were now receiving the necessary nutrition required for survival. But that was only short-term progress. Somalia would obviously require enormous resources to recreate a functioning nation again—and that process would clearly take a long, long time. Even while the United Nations was tediously deciding to extend its Somali commitment for another six months, our organization committed to continue with our work as long as we were able to get into the country and as long as the violence didn’t escalate to the point where we could not do our job. We were determined not to let evil overcome good.

A short stateside furlough for our family from December of 1993 into the first few months of 1994 gave us a respite from the physical fatigue and the emotional stress of almost two years of living in the Somalia crucible. This time of rest once again provided us with the opportunity to connect with our supporters and to consult with advisers.

When we spoke about Somalia during our time in America, we felt intense, and often conflicting, emotions. I was resolute in my commitment to respond to the suffering of Somalia. Clearly, the needs of Somalia were immense, and I was passionate about what we were doing. I was also intensely proud of our efforts. We had started our team from scratch, and we had quickly become an effective international relief organization. We had employed significant numbers of Somalis, and we had distributed millions of dollars’ worth of aid to meet the survival needs of tens of thousands of desperate families.

In terms of the physical needs of Somalia, our team was having an amazing impact! When I considered the spiritual needs of the Somalis, however, my assessment of our efforts was not as positive. In fact, other than the personal relationships that we had established with our Somali friends and coworkers, there was little that I could point to that I would call “success” in the realm of meeting spiritual needs. I felt deep concern—and even guilt—about that.

The Jesus who I encountered in Scripture taught His followers to provide food for the hungry, water for the thirsty, healing for the sick and wounded, and care for the suffering and persecuted. That was our explicit purpose in Somalia, and I felt that we had done those things well.

At the same time, Jesus also instructed His followers to go into all the world and make disciples. We had done well with the “going into all the world” part of His assignment. But when it came to the “making disciples” part of our purpose, we had failed.

We could not find a way to tie together the two great themes of Jesus’ call. As strange as it might sound, it was easy to meet physical needs in Somalia. Addressing the spiritual needs, however, seemed impossible. Sharing Jesus with people was our deepest desire. That was both our passion and our goal. That was at the very heart of our assignment—and that was our God-given task. Yet, often, it seemed impossible to overcome the barriers that stood in our way.

Even today, I admit that there are no easy answers to this crucial struggle. How is it possible to give bold verbal witness to Jesus in a country where sharing Jesus is against the law? How is it possible to lead friends to become followers of Christ knowing that their newfound faith could lead to their deaths? We had debated questions like these long before we ever got to Somalia—but, suddenly, they were not theoretical questions any longer. Suddenly, we were talking about real people and real lives. If sharing with a friend could lead to my friend’s death—will I share my faith anyway? And am I willing to live with what might happen next? These questions were profoundly disturbing, and we fought with them night and day.

From the time Ruth and I had felt called to Somalia, we had sought insight and wisdom from anyone and everyone. We talked with leaders of large relief organizations. We spoke with believers from a variety of agencies. We talked with people who seemed to know about prayer and the ways of God. Time after time, we would ask: “How can we effectively demonstrate and share the love of Christ with people who have no idea who Jesus is? How do we make a spiritual impact in a place so hostile to the faith? How do we exhibit a winsome witness for Jesus among people who feel justified in reviling and persecuting His followers? How will people recognize the love of Christ in us if we never tell them whose love it is that motivates us? How can God’s love overcome their hate?”

Most of the people that we talked to had very little to offer. Some said they would think about it or pray about it—and get back to us. Clearly, we were not the only ones disturbed by the questions. And we were not the only ones without good answers.

During this time in the States, however, some of my mentors provided tremendous help when they said, “Nik, we have seldom, if ever, encountered a place like Somalia. Living for Christ in that kind of world is something that we have never attempted. I guess that’s why we have left you on your own out there. Together, we need to figure this out.”

Oddly, I was not disappointed to hear my mentors and colleagues admit that they did not have answers to my questions. In fact, I found it liberating. I felt that we had been given the freedom to go out on our own to explore possible strategies needed for people of faith to live and work in a place like Somalia. Since there was no strategy that we were required to follow, we felt free to make our own way.

At that moment, Ruth and I felt free to dream about finding, or if necessary, developing discipleship materials and practical guidelines for people like us—people who were living and working in some of the world’s most difficult places—people who were desperately wanting to share God’s love in those places. On the one hand, there were no easy answers. On the other hand, we were thrilled to have the opportunity to try to find some of our own.

Before acting on that newfound freedom in Africa, we spent a little more time in Kentucky with family. After my experience with my dad on our last visit, I thought that maybe I would have time now to talk more with him about Somalia. I knew that he would be interested given the “Blackhawk Down” incident and America’s recent withdrawal of most of its military forces from Somalia. I asked my dad what he would tell his friends now that the United States military had been forced out of Somalia.

Dad gave a sad shake of his head and replied, “I’ve already told them. I said that if the United States military had just listened to you, they would still be there, they probably would not have gotten kicked out, and everything would probably be settled there by now!”

I had to laugh. Once again I hesitated to burst Dad’s bubble of fatherly pride, so I didn’t tell him that some days I still wondered if anything I had done in Somalia or with Somalis had made any difference at all.

I noticed little change when we returned to Kenya and I made my next trip into Somalia early that spring. Needy people still required assistance. Opposing clan leaders still were not willing to reconcile. Despite the horrible sameness of the situation, the United Nations had authorized another six-month extension of its relief operations. That meant that our organization still had plenty of work to do.

I did see more ships in the harbor and more traffic on the streets. More trade goods were arriving. A few shops had even opened for business. At the same time, things seemed much less secure now that the United Nation’s military footprint in the country had been reduced by more than half. As a result, the areas where we could safely travel and the places where our work was approved were fewer in number. I sensed that we might have only weeks or months before the United Nations would pull out of the country. It seemed clear to me that there wasn’t much hope left for Operation Restore Hope.

Of course, our work did not require a United Nations resolution. No earthly authority had sent us to Somalia. And no earthly power made it possible for us to be there.

We were obeying a higher directive.

Still, we appreciated and benefitted from the international aid that had poured into the country. Sadly, that aid disappeared almost as quickly as it had come.

We thought that we had everything we needed when, almost overnight, the United Nations finally took notice of Somalia. We were hopeful when the United States and coalition troops showed up in force. Now the whole world seemed to be slinking away quickly and quietly from this still-broken land and its devastated people.

Even people of faith seemed to be losing interest in Somalia. Evidently, it is hard to maintain commitment in the face of failure and loss and sacrifice. We could feel our support slipping away.

Yet God was not finished with Somalia.

I had not been back in Africa long when I received an invitation that led to one of the most meaningful spiritual experiences that I ever had in Somalia—in my entire life actually. It came about when a good friend working with another organization invited me to participate in a special service with four Somali believers who worked for various relief organizations.

Seven of us, three Westerners and those four local believers, met at a pre-arranged time in the privacy of an abandoned, shelled-out building in the heart of Mogadishu—each of us coming alone from different directions. Once we had gathered and affectionately greeted one another, my friend led in a time of prayer and fellowship. We shared a light meal together. Then, as Jesus’ followers have done for almost two thousand years, we shared the Lord’s Supper in remembrance and celebration of Christ’s willing and sacrificial death on the cross in our place, in atonement for our sins.

We ate the bread in memory of His body, broken for us. I wondered how often, down through the ages, believers had broken bread together here in the capital city of this now-broken country. I had no way of knowing, but I suspected that this hadn’t happened there for years. (And looking back nearly two decades later, I believe that it is altogether possible that the Lord’s Supper has not been observed in Mogadishu since.)

We drank the grape juice in remembrance of Christ’s blood, shed for us. I wondered how many unnamed and unknown Somali believers had faced persecution, suffering, and death in this country for their faith. I felt honored to worship at the Lord’s Table with these four brothers who were willing to risk their own blood, their own bodies, and their very lives to follow Jesus among an unbelieving people group in this unbelieving country.

Never before had I felt the true cost and significance of Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples. This was a high and holy moment. It was also a moment that raised serious concern for our four believing brothers. The furtive and wary looks on the faces of my Somali friends served as a powerful reminder for me—a reminder not just of our Lord’s death and sacrifice two thousand years ago, but also a reminder of His continuing and constant love, His faithfulness, and His presence in the lives of brave and faithful followers today.

Unfortunately, that meaningful Lord’s Supper experience took on even greater emotional poignancy for me not long after that on a horrible August morning.