Kingdom Beyond Borders: Finding Hope Along the Refugee Highway

Part I

1.

Home

Then he said to them, Whoever welcomes this little child in my name welcomes me; and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. For he who is least among you all — he is the greatest.

Luke 9:48, NIV

From as early as I can remember, I have known nothing but sadness and trouble.

Hakim, Afghanistan

Hakim – Wise

I

My name is Hakim and I was born in Afghanistan in 1988. I am the youngest of four children. I know my father only from pictures. Though all my family were Muslims, my father was a committed communist. He lived in Russia and had been trained there as a pilot. After my three older siblings were born, my family lived in Russia for another six years. By the time I was born, my father was a high-ranking officer in the Afghan military, and he was head over all the airports in Afghanistan. He was of the Khalqi political party, while the president of the country at that time, Najibullah, was a member of the Parcham Party. He and several other Khalqi leaders were invited to Kandahar to attend a government meeting. En route, their plane exploded in midair. Fifty-seven people died, including several key Khalqi leaders. We believe it was no accident.

My mom somehow blamed me for being bad luck.

My mom somehow blamed me for being bad luck. Several years before my father’s death, one of my mom’s brothers, a commander of security guards in Kabul, had been gruesomely killed by the mujahedeen, Muslim warriors engaged in a jihad — a holy war. Now, her grief was overwhelming, and she was in no shape to care for a baby, so I was reared by my mother’s parents. I became very close to them, especially to my grandfather. He was the strongest influence in my early childhood. I miss him very much.

I lived with my mother, my sister and two brothers, my grandparents, my mother’s two brothers, and their wives and children. When we sat down to a meal, it was a large group of people. Sometimes it was quite noisy. I remember once that one of my uncles and his wife had a disagreement over disciplining one of their children. He told her not to beat the child but she did anyway. He then started beating her, chasing her all through the house. Another time, one of my aunts dared to gossip about my mother in the presence of one of her younger brothers. In defense of my mother’s honor, she had boiling water thrown on her face, and you can see the scars to this day.

I was a very quiet kid, but I had some friends that I played with. We played with knives and slingshots, fighting against other teams of boys. I helped prepare the stones. Some of the boys even made their own guns. At the arranged time, we would gather and shoot at each other, but because we lived in an area where there were terrible dust storms, you couldn’t even see the other boys. If anyone got hit in the face, no one knew who threw the stone. It was a very rough game.

When I was nine years old, I broke my arm at school. A couple of older boys had been taken out into the school yard to be disciplined. We crowded around the window to watch their punishment, which consisted of being beaten with a rod on the bottoms of their feet. This was to set an example to the whole school. Since I was small and the window was high, I climbed up on the window sill; I fell backward and landed awkwardly on my arm.

I was raised Muslim, and my mother and grandmother considered themselves devout. We used to get up at 5:30 a.m. to go to the mosque to read the Koran at six. I used to pray to God and ask for His help when something happened or I wanted something. Sometimes I went to the mosque to pray. But to be honest, I only wanted to impress people and let them see what a good person I was.

He had a special book that he kept with his Koran. My mom believes it was a copy of the Injil [New Testament].

Although my grandfather wasn’t a mullah, a Muslim trained in the doctrine and law of Islam and the head of a mosque, he knew the Koran better than the Islamic teachers. He had a special book that he kept with his Koran. He wouldn’t allow anybody to look at it or touch it, but he would read it and kiss it, then carefully put it back. My mom believes it was a copy of the Injil [New Testament].

My mother’s side of the family claims direct descent from the prophet Mohammad. When my grandfather went out in public, people came up to him and called him Sir, and kissed his hand. He even had an official document verifying his genealogy. He was quite a character and loved making people think he was crazy by the way he dressed or the way he wore his beard. Yet he was highly respected by the people. He was a friend of the king, Zahir Shah.

In 1997, we moved to Mazar-e-sharif. We could have had a very good life if not for the constant fighting around us. There was always a cloud of uncertainty that hung over us. The house we lived in was nice. We had lots of land and hired help to care for five hundred sheep, goats, cows, donkeys, and chickens. Before we left, we sold all our animals to help finance our trip. My grandfather also owned a cave that had been fixed up like a house. I remember we hid there. I was scared because it was dark, and there were terrible noises all around us. A bomb was dropped near the opening of the cave, but, fortunately, it didn’t go off.

The Taliban came to power, but the northern areas were not under their control yet. There was heavy fighting. We constantly heard the sounds of shooting. One of my uncles was a commander with the mujahedeen. Another of my uncles was a Talib. Amazingly, they lived under the same roof.

Most households stored weapons and munitions. In our home there was a shelf with a bread basket on it. It held eight hand grenades. One day, I was playing with my cousins, and we hit the shelf. The basket of grenades fell over and rolled on the floor. We could have been killed. My brothers handled guns on a regular basis; once, one of them fired the gun inside the house. The adults scolded him and said, Go outside to play with that!

Later that year, after the Taliban had finally taken control of Mazar-e-sharif, Hazara forces combined with Uzbeks and other groups, trapped and killed around five thousand Taliban soldiers. It was a terrible slaughter. There were rotting corpses in front of our house and in the streets. Blood ran everywhere. The dogs were eating the bodies. When I looked down our well, I saw at least fifteen bodies.

The new local government was now controlled by the Hazaras. When the soldiers arrived at our home, they banged loudly at the door, and then they rushed in. There was a lot of yelling and screaming. My grandfather held me tightly to his side. They forced us out of the house at gunpoint. I was really scared — I thought that they were going to kill us. They confiscated all of our property, but let us live. We briefly stayed at my aunt’s home, and then moved back to Samangan.

Soon I understood that my two older brothers, ages nineteen and twenty-one at the time, had been kidnapped by the Taliban forces while they were outside. We never heard from them again.

One day when I came home from school, everybody was crying. I asked what happened, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. Soon I understood that my two older brothers, ages nineteen and twenty-one at the time, had been kidnapped by the Taliban forces while they were outside. We never heard from them again.

The Taliban regime was now in complete control. Afghanistan was a nightmarish place to be. My uncle who was a Talib told us we should flee. This uncle had actually been visited in Samangan by Mullah Borjan, a high-ranking Taliban member and close friend of Osama bin Laden. He came to thank my uncle for his service to the Taliban cause. I remember he presented him with a briefcase full of American dollars.

Once the decision to leave was made, things happened quickly. We sold all our livestock and many of our possessions. We buried a box under the floor of our house containing some important documents and pictures. We left in a great hurry at 1:00 a.m. There were thirteen of us in all, including my mom, sister, and me, my grandparents, two uncles and two aunts, along with four cousins. We made it to Kabul, then to Kandahar. We changed cars and drove to Pakistan. The next day, we arrived at Quetta. We lied to the border guards, telling them we were crossing the border to go to a wedding. They let us cross and our journey as refugees began. It was about a month past my tenth birthday.

Rear-view Mirror

This is a story of Afghanistan told through the eyes of a ten-year-old refugee boy. How much evil can a child witness? Yet, God, in His ultimate mercy, can find a way into the heart of a small boy or a girl the same way he can penetrate the heart of a hardened man or grieving woman.

Through Jesus, God offers His love and salvation to our hurting world. He often does this through the work of missionaries and their faithful supporters, who dedicate their time and resources to His service. They fight evil on the front lines of His Kingdom, but these Kingdom fighters don’t carry heavy weapons; their war is often waged on their knees, through tears and whispered prayers. Through His Son, God gave us the ability to reach out and help to rescue lost souls. Jesus came so that all of us may have life. He came so His sons and daughters would be able to find their way to our loving Father. Please, continue to reflect His image to this hurting world, and help the lost souls navigate their way home.

1. How unique, in your opinion, is this child’s story?

2. What do you value the most about your home?

3. What is the estimated number of refugees in the world?

Reflections

2.

The Journey

And so I tell you, keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives. Everyone who seeks, finds. And to everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.

Luke 11:9-10, NLT

As of the end of 2007, roughly one-third (an estimated 3,825,200) of all refugees and persons in refugee-like situations, as recognized by the UNHCR, were residing in countries covered by the UNHCR’s Asia and Pacific region; 80 percent of them were Afghans. Pakistan (1.7 million), Iran (1 million), and Syria (1 million) host the largest number of refugees in the world. Taken together, these countries plus Germany and Jordan host 47% of the world’s refugees. The Americas had the smallest share of refugees (9