Wayfarer By Faith

Every day, we see around us countless reminders of brokenness in our world. The first reminder lies within ourselves. The most frustrating reminders lie within our own mind and body. Even our emotions are not spared. Take anger, for example. It is a powerful emotion originally reserved for the sake of righteousness, but in the fallen human soul it can morph into a monstrous emotion that is often dictated by self-centered and self-righteous motives. Another difficult emotion is sorrow. It can be found in a heart of godly repentance, or it can spiral its way into the heart of darkness in self-obsessed depression and despair.

In the endless wreckages of human relationships, we see very painful reminders of brokenness that cuts deep to our human experience of living and loving in an unforgiving world. Sometimes in the midst of laughter and mirth, an single unexpected moment of disappointment, unmet expectation, or judgment triggered by a loved one’s words or actions can turn into agonizing hurt. Afterwards, the inward turmoil of accusatory ruminations reminds me of my own brokenness and the many times I have failed in my life to reconnect, reconcile, and forgive wholeheartedly.

When I find myself disturbed by the brokenness in the world and its endless wars,

When I am furious at the brokenness in those very close to me because I expect more of them,

When I become weary of the brokenness in culture and society that spawns injustice,

When I feel helplessness amidst things that cannot be changed and are out of my control,

When I grow angry and impatient at the brokenness of failed systems and corruption,

I have no other choice but to cry out to the perfect Maker. I cry out to God, who is my rock and refuge even when I do not understand my very own emotions. I cry out to the One who will make all things right. I cry out to Jesus who walked in humanity’s skin and bones, who had a heartbeat, and a nervous system that gave him emotions, pain, sensations – and yet who never sinned in experiencing all of it. I can’t imagine. But I need His Spirit’s help to recover from my bout of anger, or impatience, or fear, or distrust, or despair, or heartache, or distress.

My prayer to Him in this moment:

Lord, I bring before you my sadness that I can’t be in two places at once – that I can’t be close to my family in Australia while being in Rwanda with my husband and living life here for this season. I bring to You my frustration at the feeling that there’s never enough time for us to spend together, even as a couple. It seems to me that we’re always out of time because we enjoy each other’s company so much, but these are all the hours in the day we have, all the days in a year, and all the years ahead – of which we don’t even know how many there are left! It’s ridiculous, but with life’s demands and busyness in a foreign land, as expected, not all my unspoken expectations are met in different times and places. It makes me feel anger and distress sometimes when things are out of my control – for example, when the brutal illness of a parent comes unexpectedly and there is no room for negotiation, relief, or escape.

I bring to You my solitary self, that lonesome part of my character that has brought me joyous solitude many a time, and also tears many other times. I bring to You my sense of inadequacy, or the feeling that I am never doing enough in this life, especially here in Rwanda. I bring my frustration of desiring to do more, but feeling weary of trying to. I bring my grievances of all the difficulties that come with transition, adapting, reintegrating across different places and seasons. I bring my deep pain at the reminders of brokenness within and without that we all have to endure, so much so that I sometimes despair of life.

To whom shall I turn in my solitary moments such as this? Even in my writing, I have to reach out to God because He’s the only one who has seen me through all these years, writing or no writing. Music or no music. Mission or no mission. Give me the strength to endure when my own strength is gone. Give me peace even when there is war all around. Give me assurance when there is unfixable brokenness everywhere. Amen.

“We don’t know what to do but our eyes are on You.” (2 Chronicles 20:12)

It has been a long time since I sat down to write. I am home, seated at my desk by the windows, overlooking the hills of Rwanda. I have a hot mug of sosoma beside me, a thick concoction of Rwandan ground sorghum, soy beans, and maize. It is raining outside. The rainy season has begun. The air is cool and damp. I am trying to quiet myself. And so I pray and ask God, “Where do I start? What should I write?”

I feel slightly overwhelmed by all the things I want to write: stories and lessons from the past weeks, months, and two years of living in Rwanda. A huge chunk of which would involve fond memories and piercing reflections on our first year of marriage – my husband Baraka, and I. Yes, marriage – wow! And digging further into my mind, recalling insights from the crucial time that I moved out of Afghanistan in June 2021 and closed – or rather, attempted to close – that immensely difficult, rewarding, and viscerally memorable chapter in my life.

Where indeed, do I begin, when I’m beginning to write again?

A thought comes to mind: “Start with Jesus.”

I am here because of Jesus. I am writing because of Him. All the difficulties in tough places, all the pain and injustice witnessed, all the times I have struggled to make sense of brokenness within and around me, are eclipsed by His truth, His love, His voice, His glory.

Salvation is in Jesus Christ. Because of the sweet salvation I have received, experienced, journeyed with, I am able to write again. I am able to enter a time of rest and waiting on Him. If it weren’t for the spirit of the Lord beckoning me to rest, I would be a frantic person running around trying to do the next thing. As much as I am still doing ministry and mission in Rwanda, and now with my husband Baraka, I also sense Him calling me to be in a restful state of mind. I have come to learn that resting does not necessarily mean to sleep, or sit around and do nothing.

To rest is to be present to the Lord, to be present to Him when there is not a lot of activity and busyness to occupy you. To rest is to say ‘no’ to unessential things and even good opportunities. But one should ask, what is considered unessential? I think the unessential things are those things that Christ does not require of me to do or be involved in. They could be good things that are mere distractions which hinder me from doing the essential things.

And what are the essential things? I am trying to figure that out day by day. I suppose they differ for person to person, because each of us is going through a unique season or phase in our lives. God only knows what we really need to do and be at a given time, because He is the source of our lives. (When I say God and Jesus, I say it interchangeably because I believe Jesus is God in the flesh, He who walked among us, and made the way of salvation and reconciliation with Himself and man possible.)

So, as I write again, I am trying to start with Jesus once more. Everything in my life started with Him. My mission journey started with His voice, His heart, and His tears for the lost. Even my marriage began with Him – His love, His covenant, His revelation of intimacy and relationship. If you find yourself in this life living, but feeling utterly lost – like you don’t know where you came from, or where you’re going, and where you’re ending up when your last breath is drawn – then I have three words for you: Start with Jesus.

Afghanistan was always going to be a bittersweet chapter in my life. It was difficult but utterly divine for me to have lived there for three years from 8April 2018 to 18^th June 2021. A few months before I completed my teaching mission at the Afghanistan National Institute of Music, I was burdened by the pervasive sense of foreboding that surrounded everything and everyone in Kabul. We felt that the Taliban were at the gates of the city. They were already in control of many provinces in the country, by early 2021, almost 70 percent of Afghanistan was theirs.

I left Afghanistan in June. 15 August just two months later, the Taliban took over. It was shocking but I was not shocked. Many friends and colleagues both local and foreign were holding out hope that things would not end this way. But it did. Before I left, I remember feeling strongly that this isn’t about being positive or hopeful. Sometimes when darkness comes, it feels inevitable, unstoppable. Being hopeful does not stop the darkness from coming.

I believe in being hopeful. I believe God is sovereign and is still working in this land of endless war.

I knew that I would be in Afghanistan for one to three years. I never imagined I could have stayed as long as I did. I knew it was a temporary assignment, after which God would open a door for me (finally) in Africa, where I knew I would probably live and serve for longer periods of time. Temporary as three years in Afghanistan felt, it still feels like a long time to be in a place where as a young woman you cannot let your hair down, wear the clothes you like, and walk around or laugh aloud the way you could in freer places. Being a follower of Jesus in such context makes it even harder, the level of spiritual oppression you experience is incomparable to anywhere else in the world (unless you’re talking about another similarly oppressed country like Somalia or North Korea).

Before Afghanistan, I travelled on mission to places like Zimbabwe, Rwanda, Kenya, Uganda, India, and the Philippines. I reached out to young people and families of refugee backgrounds from countries like Afghanistan, Iran, and South Sudan in my home city of Melbourne. But I had never lived or worked anywhere alone and away from my family at length. In 2018 when God was soon about to answer my prayer for an open door work as a teacher in a country beyond Australia, I honestly couldn’t have imagined Afghanistan to be the answer. But I always wanted to go there because of the many books I had read about the country’s history and the plight of women, and also because I had come to know some good Afghan friends who were refugees settling in Australia.

Before Afghanistan, there were a few practical things I was yet to learn. Who knew? At 24 years old, I would get the opportunity to live alone, work full-time as a teacher in a foreign country that is current war zone, and experience life in a place where church and the Christian community was not a seen reality. My new work did not provide me with health insurance. I could not find any reliable or reasonably-priced insurance company for living in a war-affected country. Unimaginable things. I would live, dress, and reach out to people very differently than I normally could in Australia.

Before Afghanistan, I had always lived with my parents and sisters. I never had to cook for myself. I would soon have to learn to do that and buy groceries in a place where markets were deemed dangerous for foreigners and where mini-market shops were guarded by guards carrying AK-47 rifles, where speaking English on the streets would draw too much unwanted attention. How much did living in Afghanistan for 3 years change me and teach me things that made me change the way I used to be? What did I change that was good for my personal growth and character? What did I change that wasn’t so good, but that was inevitable due to the circumstances I lived in? What did I change that I did not realize then, but that now I realize when I no longer live there? What changes am I unhappy about and that now as I live in Rwanda, I would like to undo?

March was a significant month for me at work in Kabul. A mere two days after International Women’s Day, a shocking announcement was made by the Afghan Ministry of Education: Girls over age 12 are banned from singing in school and performing songs or anthems in public and male teachers are forbidden to teach girls to sing.

I posted publicly on social media my thoughts:

“This is going backwards beyond backwards. Are we living in the same century as the people who are making this decree? What is their vision for Afghanistan’s future generation if they are stopping children and young people - girls and women especially - from the simple act of singing? A girl at 13 is still a child. A girl at 14, still a child. Only girls below 12 are allowed to sing?

I can’t even believe that this question must be asked, but how can anyone truly stop anybody from singing? It’s madness. Beyond logic. It is stopping the rights of a child, a girl, a person with gifts and the breath of life, joy, freedom, creative energies.

Can anyone truly stop anybody from the God-given right and gift of singing? I believe the answer is simple: They cannot.

On the surface these rules may be there to suppress and silence the young and free. But the only way forward is to keep singing.

As long as I’m here, I’m alive, I will sing.

Dear girls out there, know that you’re not alone. And you cannot be silenced.”

At my work in the music institute, the only music school in Afghanistan, we are what I call the ‘frontline musicians’ of the land. We have to publicly make our stand because we are often the only ones to do it. I have always told my students that they are the frontline musicians of Afghanistan. It is obvious that as the Taliban are gaining ground (over 60 percent of the country is taken over by them), and with the US troops leaving in the coming months, there are people in the ministry of education (and all other sectors of the divided Afghan government) who are preparing for the Taliban’s return and they want to make sure they keep their positions by making decrees such as this one.

It is completely against human rights and the rights of a child (a girl especially). Our school became known for making a public statement to media outlets, and we even wrote a formal letter to the president’s office. We ended up starting a global campaign with the hashtag #IAmMySong, encouraging people to raise awareness and support our cause by posting a video of them singing any song or playing a piece of music with the hashtag.

As I have been here the last three years, I see it is truly timely and God-planned that I have my final months here as things get worse and the Taliban’s return (or a full-on civil war) seems imminent. I always tell my friends who cover me from near and far, that the only way I can be here is that I fight the real enemy through my singing, my worship music, and prayer in the secret place. Wherever I am, I believe our hope is not in the government or even the people, our Hope is in Jesus. Therefore, even if the worst should happen and death or oppression consumes our reality, our hope will burn ever brighter. We will continue to reach broken and lost people in dire need of forgiveness, reconciliation, and resurrection power through a Saviour who died for them.

12:00pm, 2nd November, Kabul – I was giving a young student his first piano lesson when someone barged in saying there’s been an attack on Kabul University nearby. All the students were soon sent home. Our lesson was cut short. My heart sank to see the hasty way in which my poor student stood up from the piano and grabbed his schoolbag to join the leaving bus with his classmates. The teachers were also soon told to go home as soon as possible. I went to grab my bag and laptop. I was alone in my piano room when I let out an expected yell of frustration: “Aggghhhh!” I turned around, almost wondering whether it was me or someone else. I felt embarrassed to have let it out. But there I was, feeling the frustration at another day interrupted, at the possibility that just five minutes away, people were dying. And my students can’t learn properly.

Everyone was trying to get home, or at least avoid the main road that led to Kabul University. The traffic was at a standstill, as the few roads that remained open were congested. Hordes of people on the streets – mostly school students, university students, and day workers – who were walking instead of taking the local minivan or bus taxis due to the blocked roads. The gun-battle between Afghan police and attackers were still ongoing at the time I left work. It distressed me to see a photograph posted on social media of young men clambering desperately over the university walls (and barbed wire!) to try to escape. The first thing I did was to check on my friends, some of whom I knew would have friends studying at the university.

To take a life that God has given, to rob someone’s right to life and learning is evil. These evil acts are not only against others, but a searing of the attackers’ (and those who plotted this attack) own conscience before God. It will be taken into account. Someone posted these heartbreaking words: “As Kabul University is under attack, a friend called. His voice was barely coming out. ‘This country, at work you can’t go. To the hospital, you can’t go. To school, you can’t go. At home, you can’t go. Where... where can we go, where...”

I woke the next morning heavy with the thought of families who have lost their children. School classes for our morning shift young students were called off. There was a demonstration happening on the streets about the attack. Honestly, since the Doha ‘peace talks’ began earlier this year, there has been an upsurge in violence more than ever. University teachers also lost their lives. I’ve had conversations with colleagues who lived and taught through the Taliban times. They cannot imagine going back to those dark days. The Taliban denied involvement in the attack, and ISKP (Islamic State Khorasan Province) was the one who claimed responsibility for it. But there remains dispute over whether there is any difference, whichever name these insurgent radical groups call themselves. Whether it was the Taliban or ISIS, it is obvious that things are getting more and more out of hand in Kabul. I can’t even imagine life for those in the provinces, as their towns are being taken over, or turning into frontlines overnight. By the end of this first day of the incident and even throughout the next day, I did not cry.

However in the evening, on 3rd November, I saw a post that broke me. It was made by one of the university teachers, Sami Ahmadi – who was devastated by the brutal point-blank killings of sixteen (yes, sixteen!) of his fourth-year Public Policy and Administration students in the Law department... It was reposted by war journalist Lyse Doucet with the caption: “A teacher’s pride, a teacher’s pain.” Reading that phrase, especially the word ‘teacher’, and seeing the mundane photo identification pictures of these students, just triggered something in me. I let out an unexpected gasp, and cried. I broke down weeping inconsolably. It was only a fraction of what the mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and friends of these students must be feeling now.

I was supposed to have a call meeting with a dear friend that evening. But when I saw the post and started weeping, I thought I wouldn’t be able to speak with anyone intelligibly. Fortunately, some forty minutes later, though I was still crying and praying with groanings, I felt like I needed to call this friend. I made the call, and I was still crying. It is the first time that I have done this. But it was good to be able to share with someone, though my words were failing me. I was encouraged to have someone there on the other end of the line. The unexpected weeping surprised me because since yesterday I had not felt the urge to cry. Even after seeing the horrific photographs that were circulating on social media – bloodied classroom floors, even dead bodies of the students, the pockmarked walls, shattered windows, spent bullets, and charred notebooks.

Now in hindsight, it amazes me that it wasn’t the gruesome photos of the attack that made me cry. It was these ordinary headshot photos of the students and the fact that their teacher had posted it, that made me weep truly. It got to the heart of my affections as a teacher myself. I could sense a small portion of the sorrow and loss of this teacher, Sami Ahmadi. I thought about my own students.

Looking at the students’ faces several more times left me breathless in my weeping. Winded. Like someone was knocking the breath out of me with a sharp stab. Yet still, it is only a tiny fraction of the agony that is now felt by the families and friends of these lost sons and daughters. They will probably live with this scarring heartache all their lives.

Over twenty students were killed, and I have no doubt that there are more that were not reported. There are those that are battling for their lives in the hospitals. I know someone whose brother is recovering in hospital. I have a very good friend who lost two of her girlfriends in this attack. One was her fellow scholarship classmate in an English and business course, another was a member with her school debate team. One of these girls’ names was becoming widely spread on the internet even while the gun-battle between the police and the attackers was going on for almost 6 hours. It was because of a photo that was posted by someone fleeing the scene. Her face was on the ground, lying beside a textbook. It is a terrible, terrible photo. I thought of these students, some in their 4th year, about to finish – they were also especially targeted because they would be future builders, lawmakers, policy-makers, and public leaders in Afghanistan. Some of them may do things very differently from former leaders if given the chance.

One of them is a young man – only 22 years old – named Mohammed Rahid, who earlier in 2020 started an initiative called “Learn to Live”. He recently posted a video on the social media page talking about the importance of forgiveness! Oh how my heart weeps for this city. This evil, and injustice.

I recalled the words that Jesus said in the famous Beattitudes verse, “Blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called sons of God.”

The third day following the incident, 4th November, I was miserable throughout the working day. I felt like I could cry any moment. It took at my strength to make it throughout the day going about my responsibilities and teaching music. I messaged a few friends to pray for me. When I got home, I made a pot of tea and sat down with my ukelele to sing. I finally let out the tears and cried for what I had to hold in throughout the day. A dark cloud of sorrow hangs over Kabul. I could feel it the entire day. It wasn’t just me. The pain of all these people, was amplified by the special significance of these lives that were lost. They were future leaders. Some were already examples of peacemakers in their communities. As a teacher here, I thought of my own students, and I wept even more. I know how difficult it is to be a student here. I can imagine what kind of obstacles that both these young men and women had to face in order to reach their final years of university. They are also mostly likely students from families that are not affluent, since they could not afford a private university or go overseas to escape this place.

How easy it is to destroy what has taken years to build, cultivate, and nurture. When you plant a seed, it grows. That’s what it does. It lives. That life, how does it happen? Is it man? Is it God? One thing is for sure, it is not an accident or a fluke in the universe. You cannot dare destroy a living thing without suffering the consequences of that destruction yourself.

When there is perpetual bloodshed and violence, when there is disregard for life and for stewardship of the good gifts that God has specially bestowed on each land and people, you find the earth becoming barren, dry, a wasteland uncultivated, full of thorns. It happens spiritually, psychologically, and manifests even physically. You see it with your eyes. It breaks the heart because that is not how it’s meant to be.

In this country there are people trying to build and rebuild, they are trying to grow something. But they get cut down. There are also always many who are not building or growing. They may be surviving, languishing, stunted by pain or oppression of various kinds. Or they may be contributing to the destruction and corruption.

We can never stop building, we can never stop speaking up, we must be resolute in our purpose. That purpose is the seed that will grow by the grace of God alone. May you discover it with the time that is left.

Photography by Najiba Noori.