30
DEAR ADDIE
The next few days were nerve-racking. There was a story in one of the local newspapers about a twenty-three-year-old Sudanese woman, Meriam Ibrahim, a Christian who chose not to follow the tenets of Islam and was sentenced by a lower court to death by hanging for committing apostasy, defection from Islam. This sentence was in keeping with the interim constitution of Sudan, which was drafted in 2005 and didn't allow for freedom of religion in Sudan. Meriam Ibrahim was given three days to renounce the Lord. In May 2014, while shackled in prison, she gave birth to a daughter. Only with international pressure was she freed the next month. She was rearrested the day after her release, freed again, and then she and her family took refuge in the United States embassy in Khartoum. After tense negotiations she and her family were allowed to travel to Italy and then on to the United States. The story in the local paper showcased what she was doing with her life in New Hampshire and her new liberty. It was a good read.
“Faith means life,” Meriam had said upon her release from prison. “If you have faith, you are not alone.” Faith was the main support that had sustained me in the aftermath of the loss of my wife and the children. I knew exactly what she meant.
A message came through one of the medical staffers at the camp that Bishop Obote wanted to see me the next day. The bishop said that there was no problem with the transportation, that he would provide me with a car and an armed escort. He was going to be at a camp near the White Nile, midway between several rebel strongholds and the bases for government troops. I prayed that night for everything to go well.
That next morning the car arrived with two armed guards to take me to the man who would possibly free Addie and the others. The drive was long and hard, the driver sometimes detouring around spots where there were mines and booby traps. A large part of the journey took us through the thick bush, and we motored into areas where ambushes and sniper attacks were highly possible. Eventually, we arrived at a camp, where the driver pulled alongside a large tent that was being guarded by a group of government soldiers.
I climbed out of the car and was quickly ushered into the tent. Inside it Bishop Obote sat on his throne, regally dressed in formal ministerial garb. He was a stout, dark man. His stubby fingers glittered with jewelry, and he had fashionable Italian shoes on his feet. His face resembled that of the noted late jazz trumpeter Clifford Brown, down to the pug nose and the proud mouth.
“I guess I asked you this before, Reverend Winwood, but why did you come to Sudan?” the bishop asked after he invited me to take a seat across from him.
“I came to Africa because I wanted to see the glory of the motherland,” I replied. “In Harlem I saw a presentation on the troubles here in Sudan shortly before we left, the struggles between the Islamists and the Christians, the displaced refugees, the dead and the injured. First, it was the Congo, now this Sudan mess. My friend Addie first got the idea of coming here after going to a lecture on Sudan at Symphony Space in Manhattan. I came along to see that no harm came to her.”
“Am I hearing you right?” he asked me. “You both came here as tourists, like on a sightseeing tour? Are you crazy?”
“No. That's not true.”
The bishop leaned forward, his eyes blazing at me. “Then what is true? Please tell me.”
“I was not an activist in the civil rights movement in the United States, nor was I a wild-eyed radical during the Black Power movement,” I explained, looking at the bodyguard on the bishop's left. “I take pride in my past. Still, I plead ignorance. Most black Americans have little knowledge of Africa, and very few know any Africans, unless they're cornrowing their hair. In my youth I read with great interest about the emergence of the African nations and their push for independence. I loved the fact that Kenyatta, Nkrumah, Senghor, and others led their lands to freedom. I witnessed these facts with so much pride.”
“But why did you come here?” the bishop asked angrily.
“I came here to see what I could do for Sudan,” I answered. “I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to be a witness.”
“What is your relationship with Addie, your friend?”
“Addie is my friend, and I am my sister's keeper,” I replied.
“What is she to you?” the bishop asked. “Is she your lover?”
“No. I've not touched her.”
“Is Addie a part of your ministry team, Reverend?”
“No. She's just a friend,” I said. “I know her from New York, but you know all this. I've heard that you know all my history.”
“Who told you this?” He pretended to be shocked.
“I can't tell you that,” I countered.
Bishop Obote summoned a staff member to bring him a cool drink. He offered me one, but I declined. I could feel his eyes take my measure.
“What is your relationship with God?” he asked me.
I waited to reply until the staff member, who had returned with the bishop's drink, left the tent. I watched the bishop take several sips. He must have been roasting under those robes, but they made him look very imperial. He had to be sweating like a pig.
“I believe the history of the Christian church is a proud one when the church has fought for freedom and justice,” I said firmly. “I believe God came among us in the person of Jesus Christ. I believe He died for our sins. I don't believe that Christianity has failed.”
“Do you believe in miracles, Reverend?” the bishop asked.
I grinned widely. “I believe in miracles. Miracles happen every day. I believe in the miracle of God's love for His children. Many miracles have happened in my life. I don't question them. Miracles happen when a big obstacle is overcome without me taking any action. That's God's will. That's a real blessing from God, who loves us.”
“What do you think is going on here?” he asked. “Be honest.”
“The battle in Sudan is very complex, very complicated,” I replied. “Those who are the faithful must wake up to the rising hostilities in the battle between good and evil. Christians who are strong in their faith will be punished and will suffer. The armies of evil are becoming stronger every day.”
Now it was his turn to smile. His was a cruel smile. “Would you die for your God?”
“Yes, without hesitation.”
The bishop ordered a man to bring him a tray of sandwiches, a plate of pastries, and another icy drink.
“Reverend, I think you're being dishonest,” he said with an edge to his voice. “You're an American, and all that matters to you is making God obey your demands. You would love to overrule God's choices. You don't want to leave total control to God. That's just an American trait.”
“That's bull,” I retorted. “My belief in God has nothing to do with being American.”
“I don't think so, Reverend.”
“Here, I'm seeking your help to free my friend,” I said. “You're telling me what I must do. I don't know what I should do. If I'm faced with a no-win situation, I'll pray and wait until the Lord speaks to me. When He speaks, I'll act on this crisis, and I'll know I'm doing the right thing.”
Again, the bishop grinned cruelly. “How do you know it is He who speaks?”
“I know Christ speaks to me. That I know,” I replied, fed up with him trying to get my goat. He really wanted to get under my skin.
The bishop snapped his fingers and whispered into the ear of one of his bodyguards. I couldn't hear his words.
“Reverend, do you know your Bible?” he asked.
“I do.” What game was he about to play now?
“This is from Hebrews eleven, six,” the bishop announced with a wry voice. “But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.”
I sat there, waiting for the punch line. When the bishop remained silent, I said, “What are you saying, Bishop Obote?”
“Can you wait, Reverend?” He motioned again to the bodyguard.
“Yes, I can.”
“Waiting means more than being patient. Waiting means that your time means nothing and that you are on God's clock. You can't make things happen according to your own timetable, Reverend.”
I was so tired of his mind games. But I knew Addie's life depended on how well I indulged his whims. I had to endure this fool.
The bishop was handed a newspaper. It was in Arabic. He read aloud a story, translating it into English for me, about one of the local militias executing several of their men whom they suspected of collaborating with the South Sudanese government. A group of masked gunmen had yanked the supposed informants from a truck in the middle of a small town. They had ordered the alleged informants to lie facedown on the road and then had shot them one by one. The gunmen had later watched while a mob stomped and spit on the bodies and hacked them up with machetes. One of the so-called informants, supposedly the ringleader, was tied behind a car and dragged.
“Why are you telling me this, Bishop Obote?” I was alarmed, but I couldn't show it. I put on my poker face.
“I'm telling you so you know these people are not to be toyed with,” the bishop said. “They are serious Islamists. They believe in their cause. Also, I read in the newspaper that Addie's aunt has gone public in the American media. She's stirring up a hornet's nest.”
“I've not seen the papers or watched any television, so I don't know what she is saying,” I said. “I cautioned her not to go to the media. I told her to leave the matter to the government.”
“The government?” the bishop asked, snarling.
“Yes, I said that. I told her that I would do everything to get her niece home. I feel I'm responsible.”
The bishop threw up his hands in disgust and then read something from a clipped article one of his bodyguards had just handed him. “Addie's aunt wrote this. âI am sending you this message of hope and mercy. I don't know who is holding my beloved niece, Addie, but as her aunt, Gertrude Watkins, I pray that you show her mercy. I ask you to order that her life be saved. Addie did you no harm. She was doing humanitarian work in Sudan. She was helping the people in need. As her aunt, I ask your mercy. I ask that you not punish my niece for actions by our government or yours. She has always had a good heart and has always been willing to do for others. Doesn't the Prophet Muhammad say to reward good deeds? Doesn't Islam teach that no person should be held responsible for the sins of others? Isn't your God merciful? Please show mercy. We miss our Addie. Please let her come home.”
I was furious. I had told her not to do this. I had told her that her big mouth could make matters worse.
“There is more,” the bishop said in a mocking tone. “Aunt Gertie says she is very depressed. She told
CBS News Sunday Morning
that she sleeps in a darkened room, crying constantly. She can barely leave the bed and cannot eat. She said in the interview that she wants to die.”
I kept shaking my head.
Such drama!
All she was doing was trying to get her niece killed for her moment in the limelight.
Satisfied that he had made his point, the bishop folded his hands and began his lecture. “The people who took Addie will test you. They will test your confidence, your faith, your courage. They will test you as a man and as a man of the Christian God. And every failed test will be taken again.”
“I'm not some schoolboy,” I blurted out.
“Didn't the great American minister Billy Graham once say, âCloseness with God often means suffering with God for humanity'?” the bishop said. “I think he said that. If not, Reverend Graham should have said that.”
“This is a joke to you,” I said.
“No, it is not. We have one mission, and that is to get Addie and the others home. Alive. But, Reverend, do you think you have bitten off more than you can chew? Isn't that what Americans say?”
“No, I don't. I want to get Addie freed.”
“We all do,” the bishop said, grinning.
“Bishop Obote, can I ask you a question?” I asked. “Can I ask what faith you were raised in?”
“Good question. I spent my early years in Sudan, but my parents took me to Cairo, the Islamic world's largest city, and there I learned about life. My father was an aide to President Nasser and later an adviser to President Sadat, before he was killed. I became friends with the Islamists at Alexandria University and later at Cairo University. I followed the teachings of Prophet Muhammad strictly. However, something happened to my life, and I found Christ.”
I was very curious. “What happened?”
The bishop was mum about that. “I don't discuss that.”
“How did your father respond to your change of heart?”
“He didn't like it,” the bishop said. “It caused a rift between us.”
“It must have been difficult to go against your father,” I said.
“Maybe I was never a Muslim,” the bishop said. “Maybe I've always been a Christian in my heart. Some of my former friends consider me a traitor. Some say I should be put to death because I left Islam. However, I know it's my right to follow the religion of my choice. Everywhere you see this injustice. Look in Sudan and throughout the world. Leave Islam and die. I've put my life at risk for the Christians of Sudan. I know their suffering.”
“How can you help me?” I asked him. “You're on the outs too.”
The bishop took a sip of his beverage and smiled. “I can help. I still have friends here in high places. I still have friends among the rebels and the government. My name carries some influence.”