The Rooster

The country we work in has seen a lot of violent conflict.  Many lives have been lost in the waves of conflicts, and much destruction has been done.  The destruction is still evident, but it has faded in the 10+ years of reconstruction.  A person who has not lived through the years of fighting can easily forget all the damage that has been done to the hearts of the people that walk this land.  A person who did not lose a loved one in the conflicts here does not know what sort of pain lies in the historical narrative of this land. 

I am one of those persons who does not know the extent of damage or depth of heartache done in recent years.  Sometimes I forget this.  I like to think that I have learned a little bit in the 5 years we’ve been here.  For that reason, I bought this rooster, as a reminder to myself.

This rooster was made in the late 90’s.  It was hand carved from a single piece of lapis.  Birds are a loved animal here, roosters included.  This rooster was carved to a high enough quality that he was sold and moved along to one of the premier shops in the biggest city in the northern region.  He sat on the shelf with other fine hand carvings in a beautiful display case.  Then one day in the year 1999 or 2000, someone who was guided by religious extremism; someone possessed with the task of enforcing his ideals, came and broke this rooster.  He smashed the display case with the intent of destroying all the carved images.  They were, in his mind, idols that were an abomination to God. 

I don’t know why the shop owner saved the broken rooster.  He had to throw away most of the hand-carvings because they were broken beyond recognition.  Perhaps he saved this one because, although broken, it could still stand.  For whatever reason, he saved it. 

For about 12 years this broken rooster sat on the shelf unappreciated.  When I spotted him he was laid down among other dusty, junky, antique trinkets.  I asked about it, and the shopkeeper told me the story that I’ve told you.  When asked how much he would sell it for, the shopkeeper shrugged and said, “take it for $5.”  I gathered that it had much more value when it was first finished and put on display.

What’s the use of a broken rooster, and why did I bring him home?  He’s a survivor.  He’s beaten up and broken, but he’s a survivor.  He didn’t get thrown away or buried under dirt when so many other things like him did.  Still he did not have enough value to be sold, so he sat uselessly on the shelf.

How many poor people of this land have been like this rooster?  How many people were beaten and killed by foreign invaders in the 80’s?  After that how many were caught in the crossfire of a civil war that wreaked of evil?  After that how many were oppressed and impoverished as religious fundamentalists laid the culture and the economy to waste.  In each phase of conflict poor bystanders of the fighting parties were beaten and killed, but others survived.  Some have weathered through all of those waves of conflict.  They show the weight of those hardships in wrinkles on their brow.  They are the survivors.

Surviving hasn’t been easy; those that have survived have not been untouched.  No one can undo all that the wars have done to them, just as I cannot put the smashed and lost legs of the rooster back on.  We cannot quickly make this people what we want them to be: peaceful, world-servants, a democracy.  We cannot do anything with them until we realize who they are and how they got to be that way.  We fail if we view them as broken objects that we will quickly fix.  We can get hurt if we don’t realize that they may not play well with others, because others have not played well with them.  We might be tempted to just leave these broken people on the shelf, hoping that someone else will come along and deal with them.

Looking at this rooster today, it’s not very attractive, but try looking at it through a different perspective.  Imagine how it looked when it was first made.  Think of the value the creator saw in it.  Consider the care that he used in carving and polishing it.  If we see the value that the Creator saw, then why won’t we take them, dust them off, set them upright again and say: you’re worth something, even after what you’ve been through, there’s a dignity about you; you can still do what you were made to do. 

In the case of the rooster, he can still stand on my shelf and make a curious decoration piece to admire and talk about.  In the case of this people, they can still discover and serve in the Kingdom.  They just need us to care enough to come and work with them, and to point them in that direction.

Who forgives?

If you follow my blog then I assume that you are at least somewhat aware that last week a soldier went off base and murdered multiple villagers, mostly women and children.  I don’t know what that story has done to your heart.  From the news coverage from the soldier’s country I gather that there is a sense of sadness for this soldier and his family.  Perhaps everyone finds it hard to believe that this man committed these awful acts, after all, he was raised in a country with higher standards, part of a fighting force with strict orders about the treatment of civilians.  To that end, it might have been encouraging to read the articles in the past 2 days, after the soldier’s name was revealed.  Along with his name, several stories were told about this man’s past traumas, and his current family.  By the time I finished reading those articles, I saw him as a man, not just a murderer.  Perhaps the same has happened for you, and perhaps we would agree that this information and perspective change helps us not lose hope in the war, in our soldiers, etc.  Pause for a minute, however, and consider the remaining family members of the murder victims.  They have just buried their wives, daughters, and children, including a child the same age as my boy that you all love so much.  There wasn’t a makeup artist that could hide the bullet hole in that child’s head; that is the last thing that the remaining family members saw when they put that child in the ground.  Pause.  What does that family feel?  Does that family care about the story behind that soldier? 

If only, right?  If only we could explain to this family that the soldier had suffered head injuries, and been on too many tours, and was wading through some family troubles back home.  If only we could help them see the man, as his loved ones knew him, before he became known to the world as a murderer.  Wouldn’t that somehow provide some solace for their broken hearts?  Maybe not.  Maybe their wounds are too raw. Maybe for a while the only thing that makes sense to the families of those victims is violent revenge.  That’s unfortunate isn’t it?

If only.  If only we in the west would inquire and learn more about the lives of the people that are labeled terrorists.  If only we would sort out the differing motives of the different organizations, to see that few are a global threat, and the rest have only domestic agendas.  If only we would ask questions about the situations into which these organizations were birthed, and understand the amount of turmoil and traumas those people have been through.  If only we would see them as people: husbands, fathers, brothers of people that would probably break our hearts if we met them face-to-face and heard their stories.  Wouldn’t that somehow make us more concerned about the amount of civilian causalities our troops cause there?  Maybe not.  Maybe 9/11 wounded us too much to see other perspectives.  Maybe for a while the only thing that makes sense is violent revenge.  That’s unfortunate, isn’t it?

Forgiveness sucks.  I mean it’s hard.  Much easier to believe our rightness and our victimization justifies our unforgiveness.  If the other side can’t see us as human, why would we bother to see them as human, right? 

Then one day a man came along and told people, “love your enemy.”  Some of his listeners blew wine out of their noses when they heard him make that joke.  Wait, he wasn’t joking.  In fact, he lived love for his enemies.  Take these examples:

He empathized with the sinner.  He knew why people did what they did, and addressed their hearts rather than punishing their sins.

He walked with the people that did the very sins that He commanded them not to.  He gave them a chance; He got to know them.

He forgave everything that they backwardly, purposely, spitefully, ignorantly did to Him, even though it literally killed him.

Who then is more equipped to forgive an enemy?  Followers of this man, or those that don’t yet believe or follow Him? 

Yes we would all love our enemies to come groveling to us, and we can try to force that with all the wealth and might of the world, but how can we say we follow the Savior if we don’t obey his commands?  How can we say we obey his commands if we don’t love our enemy?  How can we love our enemy if we don’t try to understand them, empathize with their traumas, and forgive them for their offenses to us?

2 updates to "Collateral damage has a face"

Before reading this extra comments, read "Collateral damage has a face," posted earlier.

Monday morning I was in a field just outside of town, for an agricultural demonstration put on by another NGO.  I was the only foreigner among the 40 or so men there.  There were lots of long beards and tall turbans, but I was confident I was safe.  Some insurgents waffle back and forth between between being pro  and anti government, but on days when NGOs come with something to offer (this day it was tractors), these fellows will swing to the pro-government side, leave their weapons at home, and come participate like the common villager they are, in the event in hopes of getting something nice from the NGO.  My sense of security was rattled by the approaching sound of Apache helicopters.  These 2 choppers buzzed right over our heads.  I could clearly see all the artillery on these huge war machines.  They passed us quickly, then swung to the left and made another pass over our heads, this time slower.  I started to think myself, "I wonder who is here that they've been looking for."  The choppers passed us a second time and made another bend to the left, slowing and coming around for a third pass over us.  This time they really slowed to a near hover, making the dust in the field fly everywhere.  I had no idea what was going to happen next.  The possibility of the helicopters opening fire on us right there crossed my mind.  What could any of us do about it?  We were all sitting ducks, in a field, watching tractors complete a direct-seeding test plot.  They didn't open fire or drop missiles or anything like that.  Maybe it was impossible for them to do that, I don't know.  It seemed pretty possible for them to "kill them all, let God sort them out" (a slogan and bumper sticker I have seen several times in America).  It really would be a shame if I were killed by the military of my own country, because I was confused to be a bad guy, wouldn't it?  Do you feel that pain?  This is how I feel about the civilian casualties here.

And today I read an article titled "The forgotten wages of war".  It is relevant to the topic of civilian casualties, and I recommend you read it:

Click here to read the article

Collateral damage has a face

 We were just outside the NATO camp last week when a local family came up to us and asked us for help getting medical care from the hospital within the camp.  We honestly have no contacts with that hospital, so there was nothing we could do.  The woman showed my wife her bandaged arm, and said she had been shot during a joint-military operation 5 nights ago.  The woman appeared about 20 years old and had a 3-year-old child beside her, and the man must have been at least 60 years old.  We understood them when they spoke in the language we know, but they would also drift into their village dialect that we don’t understand.  What we did understand, from looking at their eyes, was that they were exhausted, scared, and just plain sad that they were going through this.  The woman had been wounded in her home village, 2 districts away.  Since she was wounded by soldiers, she was entitled to medical care at one of the army camps. 

I hate war.  The longer I am here, the more I hate it.  I hate what it does to humans. 

I hate when life is reduced to a tolerable proportion of loss, in the achievement of a stated mission.  I hate that people like this 20-year-old woman are nothing more than a statistic.  Where was she supposed to go, when soldiers descended on her house in the middle of the night?  How is she to know who the “good guys” are, when they storm into her house and she is accidently shot?  How should she feel when she has to accept medical care from the very men that shot her, even though it brings great social shame on her to be touched by these strangers.  They tell her to come and get follow-up medical care at the army camp.  Is she supposed to be relieved by that?  Now she has to choose: does she risk infection in the wound if it goes untreated, or does she risk her family’s safety traveling a full day, outside of her tribe’s land, to reach the army camp?  If she can reach the camp, does she really want to face the foreign soldiers again, remembering their faces when they burst through the door of her house?  Would her family even let her get this medical care at the camp, knowing that the insurgents are hunting and killing anyone that associates with the army? 

Next time you hear about civilian casualties in this country, think of this girl, and think of the amount of courage it takes for any of the common, neutral people of this country to just live here.