Asha

I had very few specific expectations when I arrived in Pakistan but I did hope to attend a village wedding so that I could experience Pakistani dancing. As time went by in Pakistan, I visited villages but only experienced funeral rites without celebratory dancing. When I mentioned my hopes to Pat, she explained to me that summer is not wedding season in the Sindh region. Paul suggested I pray that somebody gives birth to a son; that would be the most likely way to experience a celebration. Thus, whenever I’ve thought of it over the past seven weeks, I have been hoping that God will send us a baby.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of sitting in on one of the training days for the Village Outreach Project evangelists. At first I sat with the wives and listened without comprehension as a Bible story was told in Urdu. After lunch I joined the evangelists for their session. I was seated next to the first and only female member of the evangelist team. Ratna, an aging but vigorous woman, enthusiastically participated with the 28 other (male) evangelists as they discussed the scripture, told testimonies, and reported prayer requests.

Ratna told us all how her daughter had recently given birth to a miracle baby. Ratna’s daughter has a heart condition that couldn’t be corrected with surgery because of her pregnancy. Because of this, all the doctors expected her to die in childbirth. In fact, no hospital would allow her to give birth there for fear that her family would sue when the girl died. Ratna eventually took her pregnant daughter home saying, “God is the great physician; He can take care of my daughter if it is his will.” Finally, a local hospital allowed the girl to come there for the birth on the condition that she signed a form saying she was giving birth against medical advice. By the grace of the Great Physician, the birth was entirely normal and the baby was born unusually healthy.

There was one catch; the child was a girl. After seven daughters this baby had been the family’s last hope for a son. While the mother was in the hospital recovering from labor and from a hysterectomy to prevent further children, she feared to tell her husband about the gender of the baby. After eight daughters and no sons, many men in Pakistan would be ready to divorce their wives or to hope that she would die in childbirth so they would be free to remarry. In tears for fear that he would never love her again, Ratna’s daughter handed her husband their last child. His response? To host a celebration thanking God for sparing the life of the mother and to make a statement to the Hindu community that God loves baby girls as much as baby boys. In this way, God answered my prayers to let me witness a village celebration, a Satti, a baby naming ceremony.

Two days before leaving the country, I found myself trying on brightly colored skirts and headdresses in preparation for attending the event that I had hoped for so long. The first several outfits I tried on were too small in one respect or another or were of the wrong tribe. Eventually I had to borrow a generic, shiny, yellow tribal blouse from one of the Stocks’ tribal neighbors, match it to one of Pat’s yellow-flowered, magenta skirt, and to fudge on the length of the magenta headdress. This problem solved, I enjoyed sweeping around the house to make the sea of skirt swish while Paul braided Jodie’s hair and Pat urged Joel to take a shower before putting on his best shalwar chamise.

We left only an hour so late for the two hour drive to the village. I sat in the front seat, my hand out the window, drinking in the sight of the country side. I was all too aware that this was my last village visit, one of the last car trips I would experience in the crazy, beautiful, dusty, vibrant, chaotic, exotic land I had come to love. While I watched the road roll by, Pat read aloud from The Hobbit and we enjoyed time together as a family. We arrived to the place where we had to leave the car and continue on foot just as dusk fell. We were met by smiling villagers who escorted us past fields of towering sugar cane, muddy lanes, and shadowy buildings to the heart of the village.

After the customarily joyful greetings and hearty congratulations to everyone in the village, the ceremony got underway right away. It turned out that though the village had been waiting for us, it was traditional to complete the naming ceremony before sunset. While Ratna, the esteemed grandmother, prepared a manger-esk pedestal for the baby, other family members asked us our input on what to name the baby girl. I was surprised that the family hadn’t chosen a name in the 20 days since the baby was born. They wanted our input first. Pat wanted a name that would indicate how valued the baby was, something that would translate into “Gift”, but she couldn’t think of any names like that in their language.

“How about Hope?” I suggested. “What is their word for hope?”

“Asha…” Paul responded meditatively.

“That sounds a little like they were hoping that she was a boy.” Pat added hesitantly. But a village member had already heard the suggestion and was enthusiastically repeating the name to other villagers. It turned out that Asha fit phonetic theme that the family used for their names. As the news of the name spread throughout the village with growing excitement, Pat turned to me. “How does it feel to know that you have named a baby? She will have this with her for her whole life.” I had asked God for a baby and He had personally delivered one that even doctors didn’t expect to live. Now I had also been allowed to give the child the first building block of her identity. I sat silently as the significance of it sunk in. As I sat still, I felt my heart grow very warm and full to overflowing.

Without waiting for me to process my contribution to the occasion, the ceremony began. Ratna sat at the head of the baby laid on the pedestal and chanted blessings over Asha while an aunt scooped celebratory sweet wheat kernels and chickpeas onto large leaves to be distributed to the guests. Soon significant women in the tribe started approaching the foot of the baby, tucking money into the cloth under the child, and scattering grain over her after cracking their knuckles on their own foreheads in blessing. Bashfully, I allowed myself to be pushed to the front where I clumsily imitated the motions of the other woman while the crowd laughed good-naturedly. After a while, Ratna finished her declarations over the baby and the crowd began to disperse.

Pat helped me to my feet and led me into the main hut; before I knew what was happening, someone had placed in my arms the bundle of swaddling clothes that was baby Asha. I was transfixed by her beautiful big eyes, her soft dark hair, and her small button nose. My baby. While people bustled around us I began to sing over her gently every hope I could have for her. I repeated over and over her name in the context of hoped for favor with God and man, strength of character, life success and every other blessing I could think of to hope for her. I only stopped when I was called to bring the baby over to be in a photo with her family. I held Asha there surrounded by her seven sisters, her young mother, her kind father; someone snapped pictures while others, aunts, friends, and even the Stocks took turns crowding into the picture frame. But for me, the only thing that mattered was the baby in my arms. Eventually someone took the baby from me. I sat down in a corner to scribble down the song I had poured out over Asha. Later I gave the poem to Paul to keep for Asha until she was old enough to understand that someone had loved her and prayed this hope for her on her naming day.

The rest of the evening went by around me as a pleasant whir of activity. We ate dinner of curry that once would have been unbearably spicy for me. I sat at the front of the company of woman and sang along to once foreign Urdu praise songs and watched eagerly as Paul sprinkled baptismal water over the heads of eight to ten children and women. As the baptisms finished and people began to prepare chai, I was growing sleepy. It was after 11:00 as I fell under the spell of the warm evening, the good food, and the warm contentment that had filled me since holding Asha. I lay down on the soft dirt floor of the hut and lazily watched the colorful forms flitting around in the dark village center.

Then I remembered, I hadn’t done any dancing yet! A young man soon pulled out a large drum and positioned himself in the center of the courtyard. As he began to beat a brisk tempo, Paul led about ten other men in a song about parenthood that we had learned earlier and the men began to dance. I watched eagerly, no longer tempted to sleep. Paul led the men in an acrobatic circle dance that involved sudden leaps in the air, flailing arms, and low hops along the ground. Pretty soon Ratna and Pat joined the circle of men. They maintained a steady pattern of sidesteps, clapping with the beat of their movements. The steps were simple and didn’t vary so I soon joined them.

At first I had to think carefully to not get out of sync with the other women. But pretty quickly I was able to sing along and watch the antics of the men while staying on beat. As the novelty wore off and the night wore on, the steady movements round the circle became almost hypnotic. Eventually I retired to watch from the sidelines. I watched the colorful skirts swishing past in time to the drum until the lateness of the hour overcame me. The last thing I remember is someone gently tucking a cloth under my feet, which were dangling off the blanket spread on the smooth hut floor, to protect me from the ants crawling around in the dirt. Thus cared for and content, I drifted off to sleep, grateful for having experienced a celebration and also aware that I had received so much more than I had hoped for.

Believer's Baptism

I woke up today, June 2nd, as though it were my first day in Murree. I was still insecure about my place and shy about mixing, but at least I felt awake and alert, able to smile and think clearly. The first order of business was to have breakfast. Since we were too late to have breakfast with the high school boys at their dorm (walking distance from our cabin) we walked down to the town at the base of the hill. All five of us, (Mr.S, Mrs.S, Joel, Jodie and I,) shuffled into a tiny café to order fried eggs, fried bread, and chai. I was acutely aware that, other than Pat and I, the café was patronized only by men who were staring at us subtly. I felt better when it turned out that our booth was equipped with curtains to shield ladies from indiscreet glances.

After the meal, we were picked up by a missionary couple who offered to drive us up to the school. It was very challenging to maneuver the car out of the town and up beyond the military barricade surrounding the school. People were milling around in the streets which were otherwise filled with parked cars. I found out from Pat that people were uneasy because the demolition that had been clearing one side of the street was about to take down the final building, a mosque. It turns out now, later in the day, that people are protesting by burning tires in the road and have cut the lines which provide internet to the school.

When we did manage to get up the steeply winding road to the school, I enjoyed a quiet morning of much needed reflection. I listened to worship music on my i-pod and finally took time to write in my journal. Because I had been saving my sights and experiences to share with you, I hadn’t journalled at all since leaving the country. I found great relief in writing about my surroundings, my immediate feelings, the bird calls that I’d noticed etc. without having to feel that I was composing for an audience. After journaling in the sun for a while, I moved inside the church where students were practicing music and read the book Alessandro lent me, “Biblical Inner Healing”. By the time lunch came around I was thoroughly refreshed.

Today at Murree there was only one scheduled event. I had the distinct pleasure of attending the baptism of eight students. We sat outside and sang songs and heard a message about the events that lead up to the baptism of the Ethiopian by Philip the Evangelist. But the really moving part of the ceremony was when each student solemnly declared that they believed that Jesus was the son of God, that he had died for their sins and that they dedicated their lives to him; then each student briefly told their testimony. After this, the child’s mother prayed for them and the child’s father baptized them in water while the priest held the microphone. It was very moving to see the young people so earnestly explaining why they wanted to be baptized and to see their parents ministering to them. I wondered how these children, raised in missionary families that place such an emphasis on Christianity and conversion, had gotten to the age of 10 or 12 without being baptized.

It made me think about my own infant baptism. I know I was baptized, though I don’t remember it. And I know that I am Christ’s own, though I have never officially declared it with a believer’s baptism. I listened as the children answered “yes” with varying degrees of vigor to the priest’s questions: Do you believe with your heart that Jesus is the son of God? Do you feel assured that he has washed away your sins? Do you desire to live for him forever? One boy answered, “pretty much” and the priest laughed, replying, “well that is a step forward”. I wondered what I would be able to respond in all honesty to these questions. Do I believe with ALL my heart that Jesus exists as the son of God? Do I feel ASSURED that my sins are washed away? I know at least that I do desire to serve him forever, whoever he is.

Then I realized that baptism is not the same thing as salvation or conversion. Baptism is a public commitment. It is a declaration of decision and allegiance. Just as the sacrament of marriage is not synonymous with being in love, it is the public demonstration and formation of commitment to this relationship, wherever it may lead or whatever it may involve. Though I was baptized into the church as an infant and have quietly grown in my relationship with God the Father, Christ the Son, and the active Spirit, the day may come when I also wish to publicly and officially declare with a believer’s baptism my allegiance once and for all, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death and beyond.

Fun in the sun cleaning clothes by hand

Today (June 18) I washed clothes in the local manner with my children friends from the hostel. I was having my quiet time when I heard a knock on the door of my room. It was Martha, the most beguiling of the group of girls who follows me around. “You with Rani walking?” She asked with the irresistible cock of the head that people here use so often. While waiting my answer she wore her characteristic look of gentle bewilderment. What she meant was, “Would you like to go on a walk with Rani and me?” But it came across as, “What are you doing in here reading? I thought you were going to take a walk with us!” When I tried to explain that I was reading the Bible, even pronouncing Bible in the Urdu way, she continued to stare at me with the same look of confusion until I sighed, put the book down and took her hand, signaling that she could lead me wherever she wanted.

It turned out that it was actually Shanti, Rani’s little sister, who wanted to walk with me. She wanted to go up onto the roof of the hostel to watch Martha and Rani washing clothes. But I was so intrigued by their chore that I insisted on going down to watch more closely. I maneuvered Shanti over to the pavilion where Rani was enthusiastically pumping water from an iron spout into a blue plastic tub. I watched as Rani squatted, submerged five or six pieces of clothing in the water, pulled one out, slapped it on the hot concrete and started vigorously scrubbing the cloth with a yellow bar of soap. After a few minutes of lathering, Rani threw the soap aside and commenced scrubbing the cloth with a stiff brush. After brushing, Rani kneaded the cloth like bread dough and then began to thwack it with a wooden club. After five or six hefty blows, she pushed the cloth aside and pulled out another item of clothing.

At this point, I squatted down beside her in the blazing sun and pulled out a sopping pair of pants to work on myself. “You want to wash the cloth?” She asked, incredulous. When I nodded and began furiously lathering, Shanti gave up on our walk and pushed a brick over for me to sit on while squatting. It was hot work and I was glad that water was involved. I found that Rani made the process look much easier than it really was. The soap slipped out of my grasp, the cloth bunched in the wrong places, and my thwacks with the club didn’t make the same juicy resonant sound that Rani’s did. Pretty soon I was stiffly shifting my position and trying to ease my aching arms.

After cleaning all the clothes, we had a pile of sudsy laundry. We dumped it back in the plastic tub and hauled it over to the pump. There I pumped while Rani rinsed, squeezed out excess water, and handed the item to Shanti to put on the clothes line. After all the clothes had been rinsed, Rani and Shanti took turns rinsing themselves off under the water. While they were doing this, I turned to help Martha who had just begun her family’s load without the help of sisters. Sopping wet, Rani and Shanti joined me and the four of us made short work of Martha’s laundry.

With the work done, the girls were all free to play and together we went up onto the roof to enjoy the breeze while the clothing dried in the sun.

Friends Forever

Last night (July 2) I accepted an invitation to have dinner with my friends Razia and Sunila. Sunila had been at Pat’s house working on translating a timeline of the Old Testament into Urdu when she asked me if I would come to eat dinner at her house at 8:00. At five of 8:00 I put on bug spray, shouldered my purse, and struck out into the pitch black, electricity-free night. I had never gone walking alone at night and I was glad to count off the three gateways down the path to the one that opened into her courtyard.

I poked my head in and saw, by the light of a cook stove and various flashlights, dark shapes lounging around on four or five charpai beds, sitting on the courtyard walls, and peeping down from the roof. The place was alive with music from cell phones, children chattering, and the harsh sounds of the grandmother trying to keep order. Seeing my pale face peering around the gate, Razia’s two 10 year old nieces, Sanovu and Sanovia, took my hands and eagerly drew me inside. I went over to the gas stove where Razia was preparing dinner. I sat on the edge of a charpai and chatted with her while she sliced garlic and dried red chili peppers to make a flavorful stir-fry to add to the lentil sauce.

The little girls hung on my arms and begged me to sing songs with them and play little games. Eventually, they asked me to come with them up the rickety ladder made of wooden planks lashed to long poles and onto the roof. They led me up and out onto a roof that felt alarmingly spongy under my feet. On closer look, I saw that the roof was made of a layer of cracking mud spread over thatch! I could feel the material shifting under my feet. Then Razia’s head popped up over the side and she indicated that I move up from this level of the roof to one of the higher roofs.

There the floor was more solid, though I could still dig my toes into the soft dirt. We set up a picnic dinner spread out on a reed mat. Sunilia and their brother Raju joined us and by flashlight we served each other rice, lentils, eggplant curry, and a “salad” made of chopped onions and tomatoes. After the main course, we sliced up mangos for dessert and the little girls produced a Tupperware of chips. During the meal we talked about how the little girl’s mother, Razia’s sister, Nasreen, had been married at age 16 but that Sunila (age 22) and Razia (age 19) were being allowed to complete their education before getting married. When I asked why, they answered that it had been the strict grandfather who had insisted on Nasreen’s marriage but that he had died before Sunila reached marriageable age. Their father, Unice, is not like the grandfather; he is gentle, kind, and humble. Now that he is the patriarch, he allows his daughters to study and work and isn’t pressuring them to marry. After eating, the little girls wandered away and I was free to spend time with my friends.

I lay on my back, looking at the stars and enjoying the night breeze. The constellations here are the same, Orion’s belt, Big Dipper, Venus, the North Star, but the sky is darker and larger. After a while, I sat up and looked at my friends.

“When you come back to Pakistan?” Razia asked, cuddling her head on my shoulder. I leaned my cheek on her head and sighed.
“I don’t know…”
“You will send me to come to your marriage?” Sunila asked playfully.
“And I do the mandi!” Razia added eagerly. I assured them that I would see them at my wedding, if not before. “You make for me American boy to marry.” Razia said decidedly. At that I started volunteering and describing the various eligible young men in my acquaintance while Razia and Sunila laughed, rejecting some and agreeing to consider others. In this way we happily talked and conspired together under the stars.

“You give to us pictures and we choose.” They eventually said.
“Ok, lets go to Mami Pat’s (Aunty Pat) house and look at pictures.” I agreed. So we slid down the ladder, handed down the dishes, and said goodbye to the family members settling down to sleep outside on the charpais.

“But this is secret,” Razia muttered to me earnestly as we walked up the lain to the Stock’s house. “You no tell Pakistani girl you look for me husband. We not speak of it. Only you go in America and talk.” I responded gaily that I intended to shout it out from the rooftop and pretended to start to do so, at which both Sunila and Razia squealed and laughingly squelched my feigned attempts to proclaim their secret.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to show them any pictures of my friends and family that evening because the internet was too slow. “That ok.” Sunila assured me. “You send in mail to me and I see your family picture.” I said I would. At that point, Sunila wanted to go back to her house to catch her favorite Indian soap opera so she waved goodbye. Before following her, Razia leaned on my shoulder and I put my arm around her warmly. “You my best friend.” She said warmly. Hugging her a little tighter I returned, “You are my best Pakistani friend. “Yes,” she smiled happily, and waved goodbye.

Receptivity to Christianity and about burqas

A friend of mine from the states responded to my request for questions with a string of interesting ones for me to answer. Here are her questions and my responses.

“How do people react to the fact that the Stocks are Christians? Do they even know, mostly? You said that Paul prayed at the end of the visit with Golden, but that was in a place where you said people worship other gods every day... did those listening receive it, act like they didn't like it, seem curious, have no idea what was going on, or what? Are non-Christians in Pakistan generally anti-Christian, or more open like in the U.S.?”

Hindus tend to be pretty tolerant (Golden and most of the people the Stocks work with are Hindu.) Hindus have a "cover all your bases" policy and are often happy to have Christian's pray for them and worship in their villages. Some are very friendly and worship our God themselves on a regular basis. What they don't like is the Christian concept of "one true God". Missionaries have to develop relationships with them, and hopefully demonstrate some of the power of Christianity, before they are open to offending their own gods by exclusively worshiping the Christian God.

I haven't had much interaction with Muslims here. Most of the people in the towns and cities, the ones who aren't wearing tribal clothes, are Muslim. They stare at us sometimes, because we are western, but don't seem particularly hostile to our Christianity. There are many churches here, three close to our house, though there are many more mosques. Christianity isn't underground here and seems to be considered a legitimate option by the Muslim majority. But, as I've said, the Stocks work almost entirely with Hindus, so I don't know first hand what it is like to share the gospel with Muslims.

Pat adds that Muslims are very interested in religious conversations. Muslims here are offended by Godless, hedonistic America but respect God-fearing Christians and respect the development work missionaries are trying to do. As opposed to feeling hostile, they pity Christians for not having the full revelation and for following such a minor prophet as Jesus Christ. Pat says that her approach with Muslims is to encourage them to read the Bible for themselves. She reminds them that the Quran actually proscribes reading the Bible and that the Bible supplies many details about our prophet that are not included in the Quran. The scriptures speak for themselves, she told me, if they would just read it.

It seems to me, in a way, that Pakistanis are MORE open to Christianity than in the US. Pakistan is a deeply religious nation. All people believe that god(s) exist, are powerful and important. People are eager to know your understanding of the truth and to put it to test in real life. There isn't a scorn for Christians as ignorant and backward here. Christians often bring education, compassion, and medicine. The big barrier is the fact that, since religion is so very ingrained in the cultural practices of these people, to change your religion affects every part of your life. That is one reason why many people practice Christianity but do not make a public confession of faith.

“Also, do women wear burqas there? Do you ever?”

Many women wear burqas but so far I have not. When walking around the bazaar, I’ve seen a great variety of women’s clothing from fashionable shalwar chamises with head scarf on or off, to various tribal outfits, to burkas. It seems to be up to you what you want to wear. Many older women wear the burqas, perhaps because they're tired of dealing with the extra vigilance you need when you wear more attention-getting clothes. Burqas give you a comfortable anonymity which lets your go about your business in peace. Younger or less traditional women can choose to work the more fashionable alternatives the way American women can choose to wear flashy advertisement-style clothes if they think they can pull it off. It’s up to you.

Only children or men, however, wear western style pants and shirts. It would be considered pretty immodest for a woman, sort of like a girl showing mid-drift, cleavage, and wearing heavy makeup would look in the US. Still, my friend Lily told me that she and her city friends in Hyderabad sometimes wear pants and shirt and that it is not scandalous. In the picture she showed me, the clothes were so shapeless that she and her friends really looked like boys.

For me, I wear a tribal outfit if going to a tribal worship service or funeral. The rest of the time, I wear loose shalwar chamises, the cultural equivalent of loose jeans and a loose t-shirt, moderate and accepted. I keep my head scarf strictly over my head when in public or when praying, a gesture of being conservative and not interested in attention. When with friends or at Christian events, my scarf stays draped across my shoulders like a backwards shawl. Around the house, with the children and the household help, neither Pat nor I feel the need to wear the scarf at all. I do not feel any angst to wear western clothes while here. The shalwar chamises come in every color and design, are comfortable for the temperature, and do not reveal the flaws in my figure.

Thanks for the questions, Annie!