Boko Haram

Here’s some advice for you early risers out there. Don’t start reading through news headlines before having your first cup of coffee. There I was a few days ago waiting for mine to brew, scrolling through the headlines on Drudge. I saw the big screaming letters but didn’t believe it could possibly be true. I mean, sometimes you see some weird stuff on Drudge, but this was off the chain weird. Procol Harum had gotten back together and kidnapped 300 Nigerian girls? The band that gave my generation, “A Whiter Shade of Pale” had turned into a terrorist group? For crying out loud, has the world gone mad? Then I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a freshly brewed cup of Gevalia traditional roast, sat back down and read the full story. It was actually a legit group of Muslim thugs called Boko Haram who had kidnapped 300 Nigerian girls. What a relief!

Now that Terry Reid and the boys had been exonerated, I could concentrate on the actual story. So, apparently this Boko Haram bunch is a charming collection of Muslim men who desire to create an Islamic State in Nigeria dedicated to Sharia law. Their particular area of grievance is over “western education” and the pesky western habit of allowing girls into the classroom. The preferred strategy of guys who dress like this:

 

usually involves violence of some sort, so as sure as night follows day, a girls school was attacked and nearly 300 girls disappeared. It took Hollywood and the rest of the left several days to get around to registering its outrage, being as how they were all busy turning on Donald Sterling. But once they did, their response was both powerful and profound:

The millions of Nigerians who have Twitter accounts have surely felt the love and concern of everyone from Michelle Obama to Angelina Jolie. Now that they know that Progressive America is on the case, surely it’s just a matter of time before the kidnappers are brought to justice. Once your cause has an official hash tag, you’ve hit it big. Pretty soon someone will organize a benefit concert to raise awareness. Hip Hop artists who have made millions writing lyrics that objectify woman will be transformed into concerned members of the artistic community, performing in hastily arranged 24 hour telethons dedicated to #BringBackOurGirls.

Meanwhile, Boko Haram turned up its charm offensive with the release of a new video claiming that Allah had commanded the group to sell the girls into slavery. Now, far be it from me from my position of western privilege to criticize Boko Haram or any other group caught up in the struggle against western education, but I thought that slavery was a uniquely western pathology?

The thought does occur to me that this latest tactic opens up an opportunity for Bill Gates, or Warren Buffet or even Oprah Winfrey to add a Nobel Peace Prize to their mantles. If Boko is looking to sell, why can’t one of these billionaires swoop in and offer top dollar, then grant the girls their freedom in a ceremony at the United Nations?

When I read a story like this one, it cuts into me. The thought of 300 innocent young women being held hostage in some hell-hole by the likes of Boko Haram all because they had the audacity to try to get an education is the sort of thing that takes a little bit of the life out of you. I try to imagine what it would be like if it was my daughter and I simply can’t. The very idea is preposterous to the mind of this southern man a mere 150 years after raging battles were fought not 20 miles from my house to end slavery. That’s a lot of progress in a relatively short period of time. But the Boko Harams of the world remind us that we’ve got a long way to go.

Cowardice

If I were to write a book entitled, “Fun Times with Dad at the Nursing Home” it would be a short book indeed, something like, “Famous Jewish Athletes” or “Greatest French Army Battles of World War II.” But last night, I actually got a joke out of him, a brief moment of warmth and humanity. Looking back on it, it wasn’t much of a joke, but it came from my Dad and it made him smile so it’s worth repeating.

I arrived just as the nurse was exiting his room. She had been attempting to get him to eat his dinner without much success. I took a look under the brown plastic dome and saw that he had made only a small dent into his mashed potatoes and that was about it. But in fairness to Dad, the rest of it didn’t look fit for human consumption. Since my brother had spent much of the day with him, I had learned that he had eaten two big meals earlier in the day so I wasn’t too concerned. Still, I rummaged around in his “pantry” and found some Ritz crackers with peanut butter. He ate a few of those with some grape juice and seemed content. Then I probably did the wrong thing by asking him if he wanted me to round up something sweet for dessert. He looked over at me and with a clear, relatively loud voice said, “I need all the sweetening up I can get.” Then he smiled broadly and a twinkle came to his eyes. Those nine words redeemed the entire visit.

Most of the time when I’m with Dad his eyes seem vacant, like he’s never entirely in the room with me. But last night was different. We sat and chatted back and forth about normal things and he added remarks here and there and smiled a lot. In a season of defeats, this felt like victory.

After our visit, my task was to escape the “gauntlet” that is the long hall between Dad’s room and the lobby. Tonight the halls were more full than usual, with wheelchairs filled with some of the most heart-wrenching people I’ve ever encountered. I don’t know them or their stories, but I’ve learned not to make eye-contact. To admit this shames me. I should have a bigger heart than that. But, it’s the only way I can deal with this one particular woman. During one of my first visits I noticed her bright, alert eyes. She looked younger than the rest of the patients, and there was the unmistakable evidence that she was once quite beautiful. I made the mistake of smiling at her and saying “hello.” Suddenly she shouted out with a young sounding voice, “Are you going to take me home with you?!” Temporarily horrified, I stammered, “No Ma’am, not this time.” Then she let out an anguished scream as if I had shattered what was left of her heart into a million pieces. I quickly moved along down the hall and out the door. Later I was told she asks everyone she sees this same question and responds the same way to everyone. This was supposed to make me feel better, but all it did was make me avoid eye contact with everyone in the place, probably the worst, most un-Christian coping mechanism in history. Whatever gets me down the hall in one piece is my preferred approach, an embarrassing utilitarian refutation of Christ’s command to care about the “least of these.”

Maybe I’ll get better at this. Maybe with experience, these visits will become easier. Maybe at some point I’ll be able to overcome my cowardice and look these people in the eye.