I first published this post on August 26, 2017 and I took it down the same day. It was simply not safe to declare all this so publicly while we were still engaged in missions work in country, which is straight-up illegal activity there. Since then, our hearts have been broken as we were forced to leave, to flee from this land that we love, from our home of nearly twelve years. Since the original post, I've added a few details about the most recent forces at work in our province, the terrifying and unjust oppression that has ramped up under Chen Quan Guo's leadership since mid 2016.
We've been gone for almost six months now and we are certainly not yet through the deep waters of grief although our own trauma is in the process- the long process- of healing. But when the grand scale horror of the government's oppression continues to swell, our sorrow does as well.
This post is a long one, but if you can spare a few extra minutes to read any of it, please skim the lengthy bulk and don't leave without reading the end. Some of it I wrote as a record of our experiences there- may i never forget!- and to delete it now would break my heart even more. This whole thing is a mess of emotion. Our joys and our sorrow and anger all swirled into one swirling story.
Thank you for treading through this, for letting me share so much of our heart of the love the Father has put in us for His people and the story that He wrote of His faithful care for us....
... here.
I'm from the sixth floor, 98 steps into the sky, #612, where you'll probably be stopped for a chat with a neighbor, or maybe two, on your way up. And from the patio on the seventh floor with the chimney that delivers the smell of six floors of neighbors below and their tasty, oily cooking. And if you stand by that chimney, you can see "The Drill Building" far off, tiny, in the distance, and you-can't-beat-'em beautiful sunrises and sunsets. The pollution accent on those colors sometimes intensifies it, sometimes dulls it. And there's the brightest moonlight I've ever seen anywhere. (Really, is it the northern latitude? Something about this city sees glitteringly bright moonlight. Another magnificent gift.)
I’m from the dan yuan (stairwell) with the gladdest giant flowers (Hollyhocks!) I’ve ever seen. Our door’s got the best in the whole complex and we're rightfully proud. Dark pink, and some almost wine-black, and seven feet tall. (Or more?) A whole garden patch full.
And the crabapple trees across the driveway. And the apple trees that line the street out front that bloom in May. The trees whose fruit is regularly picked by ours and all the neighborhood kids and happily devoured- however ripe or unripe.
I am from an all wool traditional carpet (that smelled like a petting zoo for the first few weeks) on the floor of our living room, and a dear friend cross-stitching the same pattern framing Scripture written in it for our living room wall.
From Polo (the rice dish) and Laghman (the noodle dish) and Kava Manticie (steamed buns with pumpkin and lamb). And the always staple of nan and tea, boiled lamb meat and spicy kabobs.
I’m from the street with a handful of butchers who keep their motorcycle truckbeds filled with the next meat still "bahhhhing", on the sidewalk where we walk by. And only occasionally, from flocks of sheep marching down the street like they're center stage on a parade.
And the fruit and veggie vendors who are always too close to the carcasses for my taste. But our veggie "boss" (that's what he's called) is always a cheer to the whole neighborhood... he didn't grumble even when he could barely speak for a severe toothache.
I’m from the grocery store, the one on my street that's Halal (Muslim clean food only) that's got refrigerators where I can buy frozen chicken (usually, hopefully!), where the local music is always playing loud, and the cashiers all wear the traditional hats embroidered with flowers that too few people wear on the streets anymore.
And from the big grocery store (that's certainly not Halal) by the Bazaar that sells all the majority people's food... all the squid and fish and shrimp in their shells and more noodles and soy sauce and vinegar varieties and more meaty animal parts pickled and packaged than I know how to describe.
And spices. Everywhere spices.
I'm from "we grow the best watermelon on the planet... and the best cantaloupe and honeydew too." And surely no other place could be quite so proud of their melons and fruit and food in general. (Even though there's mainly just three or four meals you'll ever find around here.)
I'm from old ladies, all dressed up, chatting on benches in the center of our complex... enjoying the sunshine together and watching all the kids. Where the ladies sometimes like to match with their grandma friends and wear sparkly things, and leggings with pantyhose on top.
And old men who gather 'round for a good, high-stakes, battle of Chinese checkers. And by high-stakes, I mean probably a few dollars.
I’m from water outages for a few hours or maybe a few days... "for the subway that’s being built" or "for the crack in the pipe" or "for security reasons maybe" or who knows….
I’m from a police station every 500 meters across the city. Five of them within sight of our seventh floor patio. I’m from spot checks and phone checks and bag checks and sometimes pat-downs at the fastfood, the cell phone shop, and Daddy’s office building all done because China thinks this is how they'll prevent Xinjiang from becoming the next Syria- ISIS disaster. And this is just the tip of the iceberg of China's deception that grows far deeper and fouler from here.
I’m from VPNs for American websites and all our homeschool online sites better run or we’ll have to wait til the middle of the night to talk to customer service about that. So we’ll probably just drop that class option because this mama is not staying up til the middle of the night for a web site.
I’m from “pay-for-your-electricity in advance” where you put credit on a card and charge up your meter in the hallway downstairs, and in eleven years of this system we still have blackouts that are entirely our own dumb fault because we waited and let it run dry again, and then again. (Seems like it's usually in the evening, when the shop to recharge is closed.)
I’m from mamas hollering for their kids to come home for dinner after playing all afternoon and they holler like opera singers performing on stage…. “Isai-YAH!!!!” with the last syllable an octave higher than the first and held five times as long.
From where so many children are doted on with all the parental affection you could dream to see.... even though it usually includes love in the form of candy and ice cream from morning til night and not too few local kiddos have black and rotten teeth for all the love. From where bigger kids (maybe seven years old on up) play outside all day long, all summer through, and often fend for themselves til evening.
From where animals are usually treated with very little compassion or consideration, and often downright awful: rabbits picked up and tossed by their ears, cats and dogs kicked and hit. And it's normal here and it makes me cry.
I’m from the land of little emperors, the one-child policy, and I have four children. Some people look at us as if we’re a non-possibilitiy, a non-reality. But it’s true, and I love to remind them, “I have four kids and your grandma probably had twice that, am I right?"
And from a few neighbors who have more kids than I do... whose kids are unregistered, might not go to school and most probably won't ever get a passport (unless they pay the enormous fines for having or for being a 3rd, 4th or 5th child...). But all Uyghur passports are being held by the government now, for so-called "safe-keeping" which shows another loss of their universally declared human rights.
From where we're sought out as alien/exotic subjects for onlookers’ photos because of hair and skin and eye color and for our big noses- just like every westerner- and it still disturbs me even though they mean it as a compliment almost every time. And I hate that it makes me timid to take photos of my neighbors even though they'd probably think I was heaping up compliments if I did. I'd feel like a hypocrite.
I'm from two languages to learn. One that I could use to communicate well after five months of study (Mandarin) and one that leaves me grappling for meaning and shaking my head after many more years of work.... I'm seven years in on this second language and I still sound like I'm three years old. I have a Master's degree but having the language level (and it feels like also the intelligence level) of a toddler, is good, haaaard humbling.
Where I'm from, I daydream of eavesdropping on English. But what I really hear from voices outside is long shouted-calls for knife sharpening and degreasing stove vents, and early morning and sometimes afternoons- soldiers shouting a block away, obedient replies to commanding officers. And always I hear The Propaganda Song that is played ev.er.y.where (at the bank, office buildings, restaurants, on loud speakers from the police stations on every street corner, on the phone while you should hear ringing...)
I'm from pigeons flying overhead, over the patio when we have dinner up there on summer evenings. And from the two guys on the building next to us that wave and shout and call their dozens of pigeons home from stretching their wings every morning and evening, snow or shine.
I'm from oppression and racial tension, general hatred, loathsome injustice and smothering, powerless fear. I'm from tyranny that overrides a constitution and gets himself to be the leader for life. I'm from approximately one out of ten of the people in our province being detained either in prison or in political re-education centers with no charges, no sentence, no known end date. (And the number is only increasing.) I'm from living terror. And yet life must go on and everyone has told me that on the streets, they pretend to be happy, to try to look normal (for surveillance cameras) and in messages on We Chat that are as broadly known and read like billboards.
I'm from "Our lives are not as good as animals. We live in such fear of being called on the phone or hearing a knock on the door when we will be taken away." Husband taken. Father gone. Brother, mother taken away. Fear and powerlessness.
And from "Will you store this artwork I painted? Authorities told me that a still life with an ancient book or ancient coins or ancient musical instruments is too provocative and unsafe. Will you keep it for me? I don't want it to be destroyed. But I don't want to go to prison for it either." She said it to me, just like that, trembling. (And not it hangs in our living room, the prized possession of our home.)
I'm from villages abandoned and schools turned to orphanages because so many parents are gone. I'm from some towns where the only people around are grandmas and little children. Injustice. God will repay.
I’m from towns in the south where some girls are still married off in their early teens, where they might be afraid to tell their moms or aunts that they’ve begun to have a period because that makes them marriageable age. From where very few people boast of having sex outside of marriage but a dozen (or even two or three dozen) marriages in a lifetime is nearly normal... at least it's not unheard of. From where a young bride may find out after her wedding that she’s a second or a third wife. (And it’s illegal, to be sure, but it still happens.)
I've given birth to three of our four babies here. The fourth came at home and it was my scariest, loneliest birth even though my best friend-husband and one more precious friend were there with me, and a sweet midwife who flew in from the states. And although she was the only fair-haired child for as far as the eye could see, it took days of city-searching and finally a DNA test in the upper chambers of an odd old building just to prove she was ours.
I'm from more scolding than I can recall or retell... for all the times I showed my ankles, brushed my teeth, drank cool water, ate ____ or stood and walked around in the first weeks after giving birth. Who else would care for my big kid? I have no family here. They had no idea...
I’m from mud walls built generations ago in all the towns around this city. And from the high-tech modern speed train that zooms through the desert and passes a few nearly modern small cities on its way to the east, where modernity increases considerably.
From endless, countless grapes growing in the lowest elevation city on earth, where you can cook an egg in the sand of the desert as you're surrounded by snow-capped mountains not far in the distance. From the buses that zigzag the city carrying everyone everywhere. And from markets of Turkish food imports and Pakistani, Afghan, and Iranian carpets and wooden carvings and glamorous sparkling tea sets.
I’m from locked gates at every apartment complex and police checkpoints whenever, wherever they deem. I’m from thick stacks of visa paperwork and health checks and tax documents verification needed every year… from where everything culturally is opaque to our eyes and understanding. Be our Help, Lord!
I'm from a land and a people that I deeply, dearly love! I'm from a people that were made by You, for You.
I’m from more than 99% Muslim.
From more than 99% who have never heard the Gospel, never known that the Bible exists in their language, never met a Christian or seen a church. Never heard a promise of God that is good and true and written for them, to them. Never known a God who is Love. Never known the Savior.
I'm from "Only one life, twill soon be past. Only what's done for Christ will last."
I’m from “my sheep hear my voice and I know them and they follow Me" (John 10:27) and the wake-up-to-the-alarm truth "No one comes to the Father except through me" (John 14:6).
From the privileged* commission "Go and make disciples of all nations"
and the call “let us go to him outside the camp and bear the reproach he endured." (Hebrews 13:13).
I'm from the promised presence: "I am with you always."
I'm from the eager expectation of the consummation of all eternal joy: "Let the peoples praise you, Oh God, let all the peoples praise you!"
From the graced position of His ambassador with the astonishing appeal of God being made through us: "Be reconciled to God." And from Spurgeon's reminder "If God calls you to be a missionary, don't stoop to be a king."
I'm from the peace that all humanity craves: "He will wipe every tear from their eyes and there will be no more death or mourning or pain." (Revelation 21:4)
And from the certain hope "Behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, "Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!" (Rev 7:9-10)
And the heritage "May the Lamb of God receive the reward for His sufferings."
I'm from the assurance that "Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved" (Acts 2:21) and the conviction that eternity is real and that the Judge will be just according to His promise in the Word and His provision in the cross.
I'm from the certainty that the glory of God is worth all that we could possibly dare to give from the fallen brokenness of here and now.
Which is all
why I’m here,
this land that I love,
that I’m not
really
from.
Which is all
why I’m here,
this land that I love,
that I’m not
really
from.
* Regarding our privileged commission: David Livingstone said " If a commission by an earthly king is considered an honor, how can a commission by a Heavenly King be considered a sacrifice?"
(Inspired by a post from Ann V who first introduced me to all the beauty of where she's from.)
No comments:
Post a Comment