Life in a Muslim country

Other, Arab World

I get woken up at 4:30 in the morning… was it too much coffee or a bad dream? No, it is my neighbour’s door slamming below my window as he heads out to pray at the mosque nearby. I don’t bother to go back to sleep as he will be back again in just fifteen minutes, and will slam the door again.

Everyone is up and about early, getting off to work before 8 am. The school bus picks up the kids at 7.30 am. We always have a parent on the bus, as we live in a country where there is an ever-present risk of the unexpected.

If I go on the bus, I need to be dressed in very conservative, long clothes, and it is hot. My scarf slips off my head, and I somehow need to keep it readjusted without starting all over again. Thankfully there is no safety belt – that would just cause it to slip off more. But showing a bit of hair is okay, as I want to emphasise I am not a Muslim.

I’m thirsty: the rush of the morning meant I couldn’t wait for my hot coffee to cool. I have a muffin in my bag, and water. But because I am a woman, it would be very shameful for the driver if I was gulping water or nibbling on the muffin as we drive around. So I will wait the half hour or so in the heat until I get to school to drink and eat the rest of my breakfast.

There are many restrictions on women, but after a couple of years you don’t notice your invisibility attempts. The men still seem to shout out at any person walking down the street, though. Reminds me of how workmen used to wolf whistle back in New Zealand.

The kids come home at 1:30pm for lunch – the lunch-time prayer was a good hour before this. Their school day has finished. Everything goes quiet as most people rest or sleep during the hottest part of the day.

You know when the siesta has finished, another loud call of the mosque… who needs a watch? We slowly get busy again, time for visiting the neighbours and catching up with the family news. Again, I will dress conservatively with long sleeves, long skirt or trousers. Really I should be in the black covering because then I can wear what I like underneath. My girlfriends are dressed “to the nines” with makeup and jewellery and brightly coloured clothing. Because I walked to their house I couldn’t wear make-up… I don’t wear the face covering. And my white skin with make-up might give the local guys the idea that I am someone from “Hollywood” (the best and the worst).

My ‘alarm clock’ goes off again at 6pm-ish… the next mosque call. Told you I don’t need a watch. It is dark now and time to go home. I need to feed the kids so they can go off to bed for the early start tomorrow.

But we might get a visit after the last mosque call of the day from a local “believing” family – their kids are hopeful that they will have some playmates for soccer outside in our courtyard. I have to explain regretfully to them why my kids can’t play… they are asleep!

It is lovely to sit down with the family and chat. I kiss the woman on the cheek and hold her hand, and my husband gives a similar kiss to the man, and then shakes his hand. I must quickly go and make a sweet tea with some type of snack. I don’t ask them what they want… I just put it in front of them.

They will leave about 10pm. We will drive them home in our car as all the public transport has stopped. The area around us is silent. The shops closed at 9pm, although we live in a large village of over 500,000 people, but I think this is the way it has been done for centuries.

Living in a Muslim country affects our lives in many different ways. Each of my day’s activities and the way I go about each activity are guided by the surrounding religion and culture. They are so richly intertwined it is hard to know if anything is not touched by Islam’s reach.

/작성자:

Opening Doors in the Arab World

Education, Arab World

It was almost midnight when the knock came at my hotel door. “The political security police are downstairs, wanting to question us,” my colleague informed me, looking very worried.

I was leading a team of eight Aussies, of diverse ages, occupations and ethnicities, and we’d been invited to teach at a university in this North African country. But it looked like we were now in big trouble, and I prayed silently as we walked down the stairs.

The plain-clothes policeman greeted us while his partner looked around. Then he asked (in Arabic), “Why have you come to our country? What are the objectives of your visit?”

My colleague, an Australian citizen who had been born in this country, answered him in Arabic: “We came to teach English at the university.”

“Is that all? What else have you been doing? Where have you been going?” the policeman demanded.

My colleague was very astute: “We’ve been sightseeing, and went out for dinner in your lovely town. Tonight we were the guests of the Dean of Engineering, Professor Ahmad.”

The policeman jerked backwards as though he had been hit. Professor Ahmad was politically powerful in this town, and we were clearly people not to be messed with. His attitude immediately changed. “Of course we are only concerned for your safety: we need to know your movements so we can protect you… we are sorry to inconvenience you.” He excused himself and they departed.

This event typified many aspects of our short-term trip. Every time we hit a dead-end or a crisis threatened, God opened up an unexpected door.

Even before we left Australia, the university that originally invited us pulled out, leaving us in the lurch two months before we were due to depart. A “chance” visit to a friend in another city in Australia landed me in the house of some Muslim friends of his. I mentioned my disappointment about having to cancel our trip. He immediately phoned his brother-in-law, who worked at a university in the country we’d been planning to visit. “They would love to have you,” he informed me, after he’d hung up the phone. A new door had opened.

Our two-week course, aimed at helping the university faculty teach English effectively, was very well received, and on the final day they held a celebration for us, and issued a heartfelt request for us to return. From the first day they knew that we were all followers of Christ, so we had opportunities to talk about our faith, and pray for course participants.

We also attended several churches, and were even able to bring a word of encouragement to some of them; however, it was mostly ourselves who went away encouraged. We visited various projects, including a medical clinic, a home for street kids, and a theological college, and were moved by the faith and courage of the Christians we met, both local and expatriate, who are serving Christ in very challenging and sometimes dangerous situations.

In this part of the Arab world where, as recently as ten years ago, Christians were being crucified in the streets, the church is growing. Christ’s followers are taking advantage of the (relative) political stability to share their faith with those who persecuted them. In places where unspeakable atrocities are taking place, the word of God is taking root, and it is bearing good fruit. Please pray for this country and its people: it faces a very uncertain political future, and desperately needs the peace only Christ can give.

/작성자:

Opening Doors in the Arab World

Education, Arab World

It was almost midnight when the knock came at my hotel door. “The political security police are downstairs, wanting to question us,” my colleague informed me, looking very worried.

I was leading a team of eight Aussies, of diverse ages, occupations and ethnicities, and we’d been invited to teach at a university in this North African country. But it looked like we were now in big trouble, and I prayed silently as we walked down the stairs.

The plain-clothes policeman greeted us while his partner looked around. Then he asked (in Arabic), “Why have you come to our country? What are the objectives of your visit?”

My colleague, an Australian citizen who had been born in this country, answered him in Arabic: “We came to teach English at the university.”

“Is that all? What else have you been doing? Where have you been going?” the policeman demanded.

My colleague was very astute: “We’ve been sightseeing, and went out for dinner in your lovely town. Tonight we were the guests of the Dean of Engineering, Professor Ahmad.”

The policeman jerked backwards as though he had been hit. Professor Ahmad was politically powerful in this town, and we were clearly people not to be messed with. His attitude immediately changed. “Of course we are only concerned for your safety: we need to know your movements so we can protect you… we are sorry to inconvenience you.” He excused himself and they departed.

This event typified many aspects of our short-term trip. Every time we hit a dead-end or a crisis threatened, God opened up an unexpected door.

Even before we left Australia, the university that originally invited us pulled out, leaving us in the lurch two months before we were due to depart. A “chance” visit to a friend in another city in Australia landed me in the house of some Muslim friends of his. I mentioned my disappointment about having to cancel our trip. He immediately phoned his brother-in-law, who worked at a university in the country we’d been planning to visit. “They would love to have you,” he informed me, after he’d hung up the phone. A new door had opened.

Our two-week course, aimed at helping the university faculty teach English effectively, was very well received, and on the final day they held a celebration for us, and issued a heartfelt request for us to return. From the first day they knew that we were all followers of Christ, so we had opportunities to talk about our faith, and pray for course participants.

We also attended several churches, and were even able to bring a word of encouragement to some of them; however, it was mostly ourselves who went away encouraged. We visited various projects, including a medical clinic, a home for street kids, and a theological college, and were moved by the faith and courage of the Christians we met, both local and expatriate, who are serving Christ in very challenging and sometimes dangerous situations.

In this part of the Arab world where, as recently as ten years ago, Christians were being crucified in the streets, the church is growing. Christ’s followers are taking advantage of the (relative) political stability to share their faith with those who persecuted them. In places where unspeakable atrocities are taking place, the word of God is taking root, and it is bearing good fruit. Please pray for this country and its people: it faces a very uncertain political future, and desperately needs the peace only Christ can give.

/작성자:

The Unwilling Diaspora

Community Development, Arab World

Refugee. The word itself conjures up a variety of impressions and interpretations. The legal definition used by countries for over 50 years comes from the 1951 Geneva Convention on Refugees which states, “A refugee is a person who owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality, and is unable to or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country…”. 1 However, there are many unprotected people in our world today who do not exactly fit this legal definition yet have had to move from their homes in fear. To that end, related terms such as asylum-seekers, forced migrants, internally displaced and stateless people have arisen.

The largest city in North Africa with a population of roughly 20 million people is home to one of the world’s largest populations of urban ‘refugees’ in the world today. This area has a long history of hosting refugees. Two thousand years ago Joseph, Mary and the Christ child fled to escape persecution in Israel. In the last century, 1 The 1951 Geneva Convention relating to the Status of Refugees. thousands of Armenians and Palestinians sought refuge when war broke out in their homelands. Since the early 1980s, African refugees, the majority from the Horn of Africa and Sudan, and most recently Iraqis, are refugees in this region. According to United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), the international body for determining refugee status and protecting refugees, at the end of 2007 there were over 100,000 individuals considered refugees here. However there may be hundreds of thousands more here who do not fit the official definition.

While working with refugees, I see and hear how they are suffering. For some, what they left behind is traumatic and has caused great pain, and yet it is with sadness they leave what they know as familiar and ‘home’. The past is often bittersweet. The present situation for them in this city can also be a source of daily pain and suffering. Camps are not allowed so these urban refugees try to find their way along with millions of locals who are also just getting by. Refugees however are on the fringe, limited by language and cultural differences, unequal access to social and health services, education and few job opportunities. They often find the new environment unwelcoming and complex, causing frustration and distress.

According to a UNHCR report from 2002, “eking out a livelihood in a teeming city is vastly different from the life in a refugee camp, where services are freely provided by relief agencies. In this city, families are evicted from their homes because they cannot afford rent, children are denied an education because they cannot afford school fees, and the general health situation of refugees is deteriorating due to their often poor nutrition and lack of adequate living conditions.”

The refugee diaspora is extensive; families are often spread out over different countries, some have stayed behind in the home country and others have made it to North America, Europe or Australia. One of my colleagues lives with his uncle here while his mother is in Kenya, his father in Sudan and a brother now in Israel. Some of the refugees are eager to go back and help to rebuild their country. They embrace the perspective of having a goal for their lives, something to live for. But the situation for example in South Sudan has not improved much since the first step towards independence, neither in opportunities for work nor in safety. Many places are still ruled by bands of thugs who fight each other and rob travellers. Others here dream of going to a Western country although many hardly know what to expect besides what they see on TV or hear from friends or relatives. Often the stories of refugees who travelled are like fairy tales. They are too ashamed to admit that life on the other side of the ocean is not all they expected and even more strange than being here.

Refugees are also anxious about their future. Joseph was told in a dream that it was safe to return with Mary and Jesus to his homeland. Most refugees do not have such clarity or guidance about their futures. For example, before the long awaited peace agreement between north and south, Sudanese refugees could apply to the UNHCR here for refugee status with the prospect of being resettled to a Western country but since the agreement this is now almost impossible. Repatriation, or returning to one’s home country, is still not a viable option since most of their home countries are still unsettled. Refugees say they feel ‘stuck’ here. One program aims to reach out to refugees, offering opportunity and hope amidst the challenges of life in this city. This refugee ministry opened its doors almost 20 years ago under the Episcopal Church. The program now offers a variety of services to refugees in their first few years in the city, including health care, emergency assistance, self-reliance programs, education opportunities and spiritual encouragement. The majority of the staff are refugees themselves, who work alongside other national staff and a variety of international volunteers.

At present, some 30,000 refugees use the services of this program, a significant number being of the majority faith in this region. On any given day in the main city centre premises, there may be groups of ladies waiting for their antenatal appointment, children playing during their school break, youth waiting for their English class to start and young men and women enrolling in a vocational training course. There are so many refugees that need a safe place to come to; a place that listens to their concerns and tries to help. Of course there are frustrations and challenging situations each day. But as one colleague tells me, after graduating from a Christian counselling course offered by the church, “I learned how to deal with people and understand how I can diffuse anger and tension, when people become highly agitated. We seek to treat refugees in a manner of dignity and respect so they can feel what it means to be valued…”. It is our hope that we can offer a helping hand, to do it in love as Christ would, and share some of the hope we know about our certain, future home with our Lord.

/작성자:

The Unwilling Diaspora

Community Development, Arab World

Refugee. The word itself conjures up a variety of impressions and interpretations. The legal definition used by countries for over 50 years comes from the 1951 Geneva Convention on Refugees which states, “A refugee is a person who owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality, and is unable to or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country…”. 1 However, there are many unprotected people in our world today who do not exactly fit this legal definition yet have had to move from their homes in fear. To that end, related terms such as asylum-seekers, forced migrants, internally displaced and stateless people have arisen.

The largest city in North Africa with a population of roughly 20 million people is home to one of the world’s largest populations of urban ‘refugees’ in the world today. This area has a long history of hosting refugees. Two thousand years ago Joseph, Mary and the Christ child fled to escape persecution in Israel. In the last century, 1 The 1951 Geneva Convention relating to the Status of Refugees. thousands of Armenians and Palestinians sought refuge when war broke out in their homelands. Since the early 1980s, African refugees, the majority from the Horn of Africa and Sudan, and most recently Iraqis, are refugees in this region. According to United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), the international body for determining refugee status and protecting refugees, at the end of 2007 there were over 100,000 individuals considered refugees here. However there may be hundreds of thousands more here who do not fit the official definition.

While working with refugees, I see and hear how they are suffering. For some, what they left behind is traumatic and has caused great pain, and yet it is with sadness they leave what they know as familiar and ‘home’. The past is often bittersweet. The present situation for them in this city can also be a source of daily pain and suffering. Camps are not allowed so these urban refugees try to find their way along with millions of locals who are also just getting by. Refugees however are on the fringe, limited by language and cultural differences, unequal access to social and health services, education and few job opportunities. They often find the new environment unwelcoming and complex, causing frustration and distress.

According to a UNHCR report from 2002, “eking out a livelihood in a teeming city is vastly different from the life in a refugee camp, where services are freely provided by relief agencies. In this city, families are evicted from their homes because they cannot afford rent, children are denied an education because they cannot afford school fees, and the general health situation of refugees is deteriorating due to their often poor nutrition and lack of adequate living conditions.”

The refugee diaspora is extensive; families are often spread out over different countries, some have stayed behind in the home country and others have made it to North America, Europe or Australia. One of my colleagues lives with his uncle here while his mother is in Kenya, his father in Sudan and a brother now in Israel. Some of the refugees are eager to go back and help to rebuild their country. They embrace the perspective of having a goal for their lives, something to live for. But the situation for example in South Sudan has not improved much since the first step towards independence, neither in opportunities for work nor in safety. Many places are still ruled by bands of thugs who fight each other and rob travellers. Others here dream of going to a Western country although many hardly know what to expect besides what they see on TV or hear from friends or relatives. Often the stories of refugees who travelled are like fairy tales. They are too ashamed to admit that life on the other side of the ocean is not all they expected and even more strange than being here.

Refugees are also anxious about their future. Joseph was told in a dream that it was safe to return with Mary and Jesus to his homeland. Most refugees do not have such clarity or guidance about their futures. For example, before the long awaited peace agreement between north and south, Sudanese refugees could apply to the UNHCR here for refugee status with the prospect of being resettled to a Western country but since the agreement this is now almost impossible. Repatriation, or returning to one’s home country, is still not a viable option since most of their home countries are still unsettled. Refugees say they feel ‘stuck’ here. One program aims to reach out to refugees, offering opportunity and hope amidst the challenges of life in this city. This refugee ministry opened its doors almost 20 years ago under the Episcopal Church. The program now offers a variety of services to refugees in their first few years in the city, including health care, emergency assistance, self-reliance programs, education opportunities and spiritual encouragement. The majority of the staff are refugees themselves, who work alongside other national staff and a variety of international volunteers.

At present, some 30,000 refugees use the services of this program, a significant number being of the majority faith in this region. On any given day in the main city centre premises, there may be groups of ladies waiting for their antenatal appointment, children playing during their school break, youth waiting for their English class to start and young men and women enrolling in a vocational training course. There are so many refugees that need a safe place to come to; a place that listens to their concerns and tries to help. Of course there are frustrations and challenging situations each day. But as one colleague tells me, after graduating from a Christian counselling course offered by the church, “I learned how to deal with people and understand how I can diffuse anger and tension, when people become highly agitated. We seek to treat refugees in a manner of dignity and respect so they can feel what it means to be valued…”. It is our hope that we can offer a helping hand, to do it in love as Christ would, and share some of the hope we know about our certain, future home with our Lord.

/작성자:

Life in Arabia

Other, Arab World

Arabia. The name invokes memories of fables about a mystical land of sweeping, soaring sand dunes, desert date-palmed oases, Ali Baba, Aladdin and flying carpets. My husband and I have lived in this far-away, beautiful part of the world for many years, among people who are so very different from us, and yet not so different at all.

While the dominant religion is Islam, there are many here who do own Jesus as their Lord. However, they must do so in secret, as apostasy (conversion from Islam to another religion) carries serious social and legal consequences: the annulment of marriage, the removal of children, and the loss of all property and inheritance rights. Apostasy is also punishable by death.

One day a Western friend, who is married to a local Muslim, shared with me that her husband was suspicious of their eldest daughter. The daughter did not pray five times a day nor did she want to go on the Hajj, the traditional pilgrimage to Mecca. The husband suspected her of following his wife, and believing as she did. But when the questioning got a little out of hand, in anger and frustration he put his open hand in my friend’s face, and said, “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know!” He did not want to fulfil the duties and obligations required of him if his daughter was bringing dishonour to the family. My friend and I cried and prayed together over her situation: how does a woman be a wife to a man who she knows would kill their daughter if he knew the truth?

We had been in the country for less than a year when I realised just how closely our family was being observed by our neighbours and our community. I was approached by a neighbour, covered in black from her head to her toes, shaking her finger at me as she insisted that I come to her home: she had been watching us and she wanted to know why we were so different.

I was asked about my children, and why my sons treated their sisters the way they did. The women could not understand why my sons were considerate, loving and protective toward their sisters, because within a Muslim family, regardless of age, a daughter is there to serve her brother. It was a great opportunity to explain that as we were Christians, our family relationships were based on love for each other. And that men and women, sons and daughters, are equal in God’s eyes. As parents we were equally proud of both our sons and our daughters: they were not worth more (or less) because of their gender.

While I was talking with these mothers I was watching their children playing outside in the courtyard. The boys were kicking a soccer ball around, and when it hit one of the girls in the stomach, she doubled up in pain. But the boys did not show the least concern for their sister, and she received a severe rebuke from her mother for interrupting the game.

In this Muslim land we are watched because we’re different, and that works to our advantage because it opens up all sorts of opportunities to share about God and His love. A group of married women from my work once asked me to explain my ‘love story’. They had been watching my husband and me for many months. They saw the consideration my husband gave me in the simplest of things, like opening the car door for me (an Arab man would never do this for his wife, as it would be considered demeaning), and walking beside me when we were out at the Mall, instead of requiring me to walk behind him. So the next day I brought my wedding album into work, and explained how our marriage was based on the fact that we loved each other, and wanted to spend our lives together. I showed them photos of the church and the ceremony, and explained that the vows we made were a sacred promise before God and the community: my husband promised to love, honour and cherish me for as long as he lived, and I promised to love, honour and obey him.

Women in this country do not marry for love. They do not even get to choose their own husbands. While they are still very young, their parents choose their groom for them, from amongst their first cousins (which later often leads to major health issues in their children). In Arabia, the legal marriage age is 14, but I know women who were married and mothers by the time they were 11 years old. The formalities are completed at the courts by the fathers, and then at a later date set by the couple themselves they have the celebration.

There are actually two separate wedding celebrations: one for the groom and one for the bride. At the celebrations they dance and party until at least midnight, then the groom and his wedding party go across town to the bride’s celebration, to claim her and take her to his home. When he and his wedding party enter the wedding hall of the bride, within the twinkling of an eye the room becomes a sea of black, in stark contrast to the music and dancing, eating and laughing, gossiping and talking that the bride and her guests had been enjoying up to that point. This is a very sad analogy of how marriage is viewed. The bride should not have to hide herself from the bridegroom, but these brides are not loved, and they know that.

I remember being shocked when a young local woman told me that it was not right to seek love from her husband, that the object of life was to become wise so that Allah would accept them into Paradise. To believe it is unacceptable to seek love within marriage, when it is the one thing they desire above all else, leaves both men and women empty, angry and deeply lonely.

My husband was approached in the supermarket one day by a stranger, who hesitantly asked him, “Do you love your wife?” My husband arranged to meet him later for coffee in a more private setting, at which time the man explained he was deeply troubled because he was being forced into a marriage he didn’t want. My husband was then able to share with him that God’s plan for marriage includes love, and that He instructs men to honour and cherish their wives, and even be willing to lay down their lives for them, as Christ did for us. We have no idea why he approached my husband except that God obviously wanted him to speak with a follower of Christ and learn a little of what he himself knew was very different from his culture and religion.

Although many are hungry to learn more of this God who is so different from the harsh taskmaster of Islam, it is almost impossible for them to understand His love because of their cultural background. Because they do not understand love, they cannot accept God’s love, and they sincerely struggle to understand why He would do such a thing as allow His Son to die for them. Only the working of the Holy Spirit within the hearts of these people will make them truly believe that God loves them unconditionally, and give them the courage to become seekers of the Truth. Please pray for the land and people of Arabia. We come from two different worlds, two different theological frameworks, but we share the same longings: to be accepted and to be loved.

The author and her husband are Kiwi partners, serving within their professions in Arabia. They have five children, who are now all adults.

/작성자:

Life in Arabia

Other, Arab World

Arabia. The name invokes memories of fables about a mystical land of sweeping, soaring sand dunes, desert date-palmed oases, Ali Baba, Aladdin and flying carpets. My husband and I have lived in this far-away, beautiful part of the world for many years, among people who are so very different from us, and yet not so different at all.

While the dominant religion is Islam, there are many here who do own Jesus as their Lord. However, they must do so in secret, as apostasy (conversion from Islam to another religion) carries serious social and legal consequences: the annulment of marriage, the removal of children, and the loss of all property and inheritance rights. Apostasy is also punishable by death.

One day a Western friend, who is married to a local Muslim, shared with me that her husband was suspicious of their eldest daughter. The daughter did not pray five times a day nor did she want to go on the Hajj, the traditional pilgrimage to Mecca. The husband suspected her of following his wife, and believing as she did. But when the questioning got a little out of hand, in anger and frustration he put his open hand in my friend’s face, and said, “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know!” He did not want to fulfil the duties and obligations required of him if his daughter was bringing dishonour to the family. My friend and I cried and prayed together over her situation: how does a woman be a wife to a man who she knows would kill their daughter if he knew the truth?

We had been in the country for less than a year when I realised just how closely our family was being observed by our neighbours and our community. I was approached by a neighbour, covered in black from her head to her toes, shaking her finger at me as she insisted that I come to her home: she had been watching us and she wanted to know why we were so different.

I was asked about my children, and why my sons treated their sisters the way they did. The women could not understand why my sons were considerate, loving and protective toward their sisters, because within a Muslim family, regardless of age, a daughter is there to serve her brother. It was a great opportunity to explain that as we were Christians, our family relationships were based on love for each other. And that men and women, sons and daughters, are equal in God’s eyes. As parents we were equally proud of both our sons and our daughters: they were not worth more (or less) because of their gender.

While I was talking with these mothers I was watching their children playing outside in the courtyard. The boys were kicking a soccer ball around, and when it hit one of the girls in the stomach, she doubled up in pain. But the boys did not show the least concern for their sister, and she received a severe rebuke from her mother for interrupting the game.

In this Muslim land we are watched because we’re different, and that works to our advantage because it opens up all sorts of opportunities to share about God and His love. A group of married women from my work once asked me to explain my ‘love story’. They had been watching my husband and me for many months. They saw the consideration my husband gave me in the simplest of things, like opening the car door for me (an Arab man would never do this for his wife, as it would be considered demeaning), and walking beside me when we were out at the Mall, instead of requiring me to walk behind him. So the next day I brought my wedding album into work, and explained how our marriage was based on the fact that we loved each other, and wanted to spend our lives together. I showed them photos of the church and the ceremony, and explained that the vows we made were a sacred promise before God and the community: my husband promised to love, honour and cherish me for as long as he lived, and I promised to love, honour and obey him.

Women in this country do not marry for love. They do not even get to choose their own husbands. While they are still very young, their parents choose their groom for them, from amongst their first cousins (which later often leads to major health issues in their children). In Arabia, the legal marriage age is 14, but I know women who were married and mothers by the time they were 11 years old. The formalities are completed at the courts by the fathers, and then at a later date set by the couple themselves they have the celebration.

There are actually two separate wedding celebrations: one for the groom and one for the bride. At the celebrations they dance and party until at least midnight, then the groom and his wedding party go across town to the bride’s celebration, to claim her and take her to his home. When he and his wedding party enter the wedding hall of the bride, within the twinkling of an eye the room becomes a sea of black, in stark contrast to the music and dancing, eating and laughing, gossiping and talking that the bride and her guests had been enjoying up to that point. This is a very sad analogy of how marriage is viewed. The bride should not have to hide herself from the bridegroom, but these brides are not loved, and they know that.

I remember being shocked when a young local woman told me that it was not right to seek love from her husband, that the object of life was to become wise so that Allah would accept them into Paradise. To believe it is unacceptable to seek love within marriage, when it is the one thing they desire above all else, leaves both men and women empty, angry and deeply lonely.

My husband was approached in the supermarket one day by a stranger, who hesitantly asked him, “Do you love your wife?” My husband arranged to meet him later for coffee in a more private setting, at which time the man explained he was deeply troubled because he was being forced into a marriage he didn’t want. My husband was then able to share with him that God’s plan for marriage includes love, and that He instructs men to honour and cherish their wives, and even be willing to lay down their lives for them, as Christ did for us. We have no idea why he approached my husband except that God obviously wanted him to speak with a follower of Christ and learn a little of what he himself knew was very different from his culture and religion.

Although many are hungry to learn more of this God who is so different from the harsh taskmaster of Islam, it is almost impossible for them to understand His love because of their cultural background. Because they do not understand love, they cannot accept God’s love, and they sincerely struggle to understand why He would do such a thing as allow His Son to die for them. Only the working of the Holy Spirit within the hearts of these people will make them truly believe that God loves them unconditionally, and give them the courage to become seekers of the Truth. Please pray for the land and people of Arabia. We come from two different worlds, two different theological frameworks, but we share the same longings: to be accepted and to be loved.

The author and her husband are Kiwi partners, serving within their professions in Arabia. They have five children, who are now all adults.

/작성자:

Life in Arabia

Other, Arab World

Arabia. The name invokes memories of fables about a mystical land of sweeping, soaring sand dunes, desert date-palmed oases, Ali Baba, Aladdin and flying carpets. My husband and I have lived in this far-away, beautiful part of the world for many years, among people who are so very different from us, and yet not so different at all.

While the dominant religion is Islam, there are many here who do own Jesus as their Lord. However, they must do so in secret, as apostasy (conversion from Islam to another religion) carries serious social and legal consequences: the annulment of marriage, the removal of children, and the loss of all property and inheritance rights. Apostasy is also punishable by death.

One day a Western friend, who is married to a local Muslim, shared with me that her husband was suspicious of their eldest daughter. The daughter did not pray five times a day nor did she want to go on the Hajj, the traditional pilgrimage to Mecca. The husband suspected her of following his wife, and believing as she did. But when the questioning got a little out of hand, in anger and frustration he put his open hand in my friend’s face, and said, “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know!” He did not want to fulfil the duties and obligations required of him if his daughter was bringing dishonour to the family. My friend and I cried and prayed together over her situation: how does a woman be a wife to a man who she knows would kill their daughter if he knew the truth?

We had been in the country for less than a year when I realised just how closely our family was being observed by our neighbours and our community. I was approached by a neighbour, covered in black from her head to her toes, shaking her finger at me as she insisted that I come to her home: she had been watching us and she wanted to know why we were so different.

I was asked about my children, and why my sons treated their sisters the way they did. The women could not understand why my sons were considerate, loving and protective toward their sisters, because within a Muslim family, regardless of age, a daughter is there to serve her brother. It was a great opportunity to explain that as we were Christians, our family relationships were based on love for each other. And that men and women, sons and daughters, are equal in God’s eyes. As parents we were equally proud of both our sons and our daughters: they were not worth more (or less) because of their gender.

While I was talking with these mothers I was watching their children playing outside in the courtyard. The boys were kicking a soccer ball around, and when it hit one of the girls in the stomach, she doubled up in pain. But the boys did not show the least concern for their sister, and she received a severe rebuke from her mother for interrupting the game.

In this Muslim land we are watched because we’re different, and that works to our advantage because it opens up all sorts of opportunities to share about God and His love. A group of married women from my work once asked me to explain my ‘love story’. They had been watching my husband and me for many months. They saw the consideration my husband gave me in the simplest of things, like opening the car door for me (an Arab man would never do this for his wife, as it would be considered demeaning), and walking beside me when we were out at the Mall, instead of requiring me to walk behind him. So the next day I brought my wedding album into work, and explained how our marriage was based on the fact that we loved each other, and wanted to spend our lives together. I showed them photos of the church and the ceremony, and explained that the vows we made were a sacred promise before God and the community: my husband promised to love, honour and cherish me for as long as he lived, and I promised to love, honour and obey him.

Women in this country do not marry for love. They do not even get to choose their own husbands. While they are still very young, their parents choose their groom for them, from amongst their first cousins (which later often leads to major health issues in their children). In Arabia, the legal marriage age is 14, but I know women who were married and mothers by the time they were 11 years old. The formalities are completed at the courts by the fathers, and then at a later date set by the couple themselves they have the celebration.

There are actually two separate wedding celebrations: one for the groom and one for the bride. At the celebrations they dance and party until at least midnight, then the groom and his wedding party go across town to the bride’s celebration, to claim her and take her to his home. When he and his wedding party enter the wedding hall of the bride, within the twinkling of an eye the room becomes a sea of black, in stark contrast to the music and dancing, eating and laughing, gossiping and talking that the bride and her guests had been enjoying up to that point. This is a very sad analogy of how marriage is viewed. The bride should not have to hide herself from the bridegroom, but these brides are not loved, and they know that.

I remember being shocked when a young local woman told me that it was not right to seek love from her husband, that the object of life was to become wise so that Allah would accept them into Paradise. To believe it is unacceptable to seek love within marriage, when it is the one thing they desire above all else, leaves both men and women empty, angry and deeply lonely.

My husband was approached in the supermarket one day by a stranger, who hesitantly asked him, “Do you love your wife?” My husband arranged to meet him later for coffee in a more private setting, at which time the man explained he was deeply troubled because he was being forced into a marriage he didn’t want. My husband was then able to share with him that God’s plan for marriage includes love, and that He instructs men to honour and cherish their wives, and even be willing to lay down their lives for them, as Christ did for us. We have no idea why he approached my husband except that God obviously wanted him to speak with a follower of Christ and learn a little of what he himself knew was very different from his culture and religion.

Although many are hungry to learn more of this God who is so different from the harsh taskmaster of Islam, it is almost impossible for them to understand His love because of their cultural background. Because they do not understand love, they cannot accept God’s love, and they sincerely struggle to understand why He would do such a thing as allow His Son to die for them. Only the working of the Holy Spirit within the hearts of these people will make them truly believe that God loves them unconditionally, and give them the courage to become seekers of the Truth. Please pray for the land and people of Arabia. We come from two different worlds, two different theological frameworks, but we share the same longings: to be accepted and to be loved.

The author and her husband are Kiwi partners, serving within their professions in Arabia. They have five children, who are now all adults.

/작성자:

A Muslim wedding

Other, Arab World

The women bent over my hands and feet as I reclined on cushions on their visiting room floor. They made elaborate designs in henna, wanting me to look beautiful as I attended my first wedding in their country. They talked and laughed, anticipating the celebration that would take place in two days as their neighbour became a bride.

The preparations reminded me of Jesus’ story about being ready for a wedding: Once there were ten young women who took their oil lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom.

The next day, the feeling at the house of my new friends is one of expectation – today is the big day! The anticipation intensifies as we spend several hours dressing and perfuming our clothing and hair with incense. Finally we are ready!

As my friends and I arrive at the wedding hall, I discover that in spite of their efforts, I am underdressed.

My best dress is nothing compared to those around me! Women who normally look like black ghosts are now wearing dresses of every colour imaginable. Sequins and jewellery glitter everywhere. How beautiful the women are! Their laughing faces reflect their inner strength. Their lives are so difficult, yet they find such pleasure in dressing up and even more, in simply being together.

I happily join my friends on cushions on the floor. Music, provided by a band in another room, blares from loudspeakers. Women dance, as their mothers and grandmothers did before them. Finally an announcement is made and the bride arrives, with much fanfare! She wears a western style gown with a hoop skirt at least three feet wide; every inch is covered with sequins. She proceeds slowly up the aisle in the middle of the hall, surrounded by young women who chant blessings and hopes for many sons. Once in front of the hall, the bride sits on an ornate, throne-like chair. And the sense of anticipation grows. The climax is yet to come. The music, dancing and visiting isn’t our reason for being here. We’re waiting for the groom to come! I think again of Jesus’ story. He told the story of the wise and foolish virgins because he wanted his followers to be ready. These women (and I!) have spent days getting ready for this wedding, but they don’t even know about the one to come. How can they possibly be ready when they have no way of knowing the Bridegroom?

The hours stretch on. The conversations grow increasingly desultory and fewer and fewer women dance. My head pounds from the loud music. Four hours have passed and still we wait! In Jesus’ story, the waiting women fell asleep. They must have booked a different band, because surely no one could sleep surrounded by music at this decibel level!

Suddenly, the music stops. My ears ring in the silence, and then, over the loudspeakers a voice announces, “The groom is coming!” All around me is a whirlwind of activity. Reclining women suddenly leap to their feet and fly into their overcoats and veils, changing back into black ghosts. Here is the groom! Finally, the days of preparation and waiting are finished!

In the middle of all the rejoicing, my heart is heavy. My friends here are not ready for the wedding that’s to come. They’ve never met the Bridegroom. Seeing them with covered faces reminds me again of how it veils their hearts and makes it impossible for them to see God clearly. They cannot understand how He loves them and longs for a relationship with them. I look forward to a wedding feast with Someone who calls me His beloved. All they have is a set of rules to try to keep, and a faint hope that a capricious judge will be kind.

In spite of the stranglehold of Islam in the country, I have hope that God is working here and that my friends will be part of the final marriage celebration. Please join the work here by praying that hearts will be open to the wooing of the Bridegroom.

Susan is an IS Partner from the USA, currently serving in the Arab World.

/작성자:

A Muslim wedding

Other, Arab World

The women bent over my hands and feet as I reclined on cushions on their visiting room floor. They made elaborate designs in henna, wanting me to look beautiful as I attended my first wedding in their country. They talked and laughed, anticipating the celebration that would take place in two days as their neighbour became a bride.

The preparations reminded me of Jesus’ story about being ready for a wedding: Once there were ten young women who took their oil lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom.

The next day, the feeling at the house of my new friends is one of expectation – today is the big day! The anticipation intensifies as we spend several hours dressing and perfuming our clothing and hair with incense. Finally we are ready!

As my friends and I arrive at the wedding hall, I discover that in spite of their efforts, I am underdressed.

My best dress is nothing compared to those around me! Women who normally look like black ghosts are now wearing dresses of every colour imaginable. Sequins and jewellery glitter everywhere. How beautiful the women are! Their laughing faces reflect their inner strength. Their lives are so difficult, yet they find such pleasure in dressing up and even more, in simply being together.

I happily join my friends on cushions on the floor. Music, provided by a band in another room, blares from loudspeakers. Women dance, as their mothers and grandmothers did before them. Finally an announcement is made and the bride arrives, with much fanfare! She wears a western style gown with a hoop skirt at least three feet wide; every inch is covered with sequins. She proceeds slowly up the aisle in the middle of the hall, surrounded by young women who chant blessings and hopes for many sons. Once in front of the hall, the bride sits on an ornate, throne-like chair. And the sense of anticipation grows. The climax is yet to come. The music, dancing and visiting isn’t our reason for being here. We’re waiting for the groom to come! I think again of Jesus’ story. He told the story of the wise and foolish virgins because he wanted his followers to be ready. These women (and I!) have spent days getting ready for this wedding, but they don’t even know about the one to come. How can they possibly be ready when they have no way of knowing the Bridegroom?

The hours stretch on. The conversations grow increasingly desultory and fewer and fewer women dance. My head pounds from the loud music. Four hours have passed and still we wait! In Jesus’ story, the waiting women fell asleep. They must have booked a different band, because surely no one could sleep surrounded by music at this decibel level!

Suddenly, the music stops. My ears ring in the silence, and then, over the loudspeakers a voice announces, “The groom is coming!” All around me is a whirlwind of activity. Reclining women suddenly leap to their feet and fly into their overcoats and veils, changing back into black ghosts. Here is the groom! Finally, the days of preparation and waiting are finished!

In the middle of all the rejoicing, my heart is heavy. My friends here are not ready for the wedding that’s to come. They’ve never met the Bridegroom. Seeing them with covered faces reminds me again of how it veils their hearts and makes it impossible for them to see God clearly. They cannot understand how He loves them and longs for a relationship with them. I look forward to a wedding feast with Someone who calls me His beloved. All they have is a set of rules to try to keep, and a faint hope that a capricious judge will be kind.

In spite of the stranglehold of Islam in the country, I have hope that God is working here and that my friends will be part of the final marriage celebration. Please join the work here by praying that hearts will be open to the wooing of the Bridegroom.

Susan is an IS Partner from the USA, currently serving in the Arab World.

/작성자: