8. Shadows and Light

I always loved making discoveries in the village and the fields nearby. There were so many interesting things to look at. A little birds nest, the view over the next hill, sheep shearing and watching the shepherd calling his sheep with his reed pipe; each activity would fascinate me. I loved watching the time for gathering olives or following the donkey carrying pockets of fresh olives to be taken to the stone press at the next village, Ainab.

However, there are certain discoveries that no seven-year-old child should make. Village life also had its dark side, as I discovered first-hand. Even now, sixty-five years later, it is not easy to express those events. As a young boy of six or seven I had no awareness of danger and I trusted those around me. It did not occur to me that I was being purposefully led further and further away from the safety and security of the community. Only as an adult looking back can I observe the classic signs of abuse, and the long preparation involved in that. The shepherd’s son, a young man, took particular interest in me and would offer rewards suitable for a young boy. “Do you want to go and see the frogs at the dam?” “Shall we go shooting birds?” Slowly he would isolate me from the company of my family and friends. Promises of secrecy were extracted as somehow part of the ‘friendship’ and there was nothing to alert me to the fact that what he eventually did to me was neither right nor appropriate. There was even a time when I was offered as a ‘gift’ as it were, to another man. A young child does not know how to process such things, and at the time I simply knew there was shame in talking about it to anyone else. This would be a hidden part of my life that I would bury as deep as possible, but the impact of that abuse, repeated a number of times over the course of a couple of years, was deeply felt.

There must have been something in my demeanour that troubled the Mission ‘Aunties’ enough to talk to my Dad. “Les, Brian needs more time with you. You need to spend more time with him.” My Dad was jolted enough out of his focus on the training of the Bible Institute students to plan a three day hike up the river with me. Our family was a busy household in general, with a sister and two brothers at that stage keeping my Mom busy. She also had numerous responsibilities, together with Selwa, for housekeeping for the students. I could not believe that my Dad would spend three whole days with me.

Dad’s packing was meticulous and I watched in awe. I can still remember the small tent, the rucksack and billy can that fit neatly into the side pockets of the rucksack. He packed some oats, raisins, apples, oranges and flat Lebanese bread, saying gaily, “We’ll catch fish in the river and get more things along the way.” When the day arrived, we took a Mercedes taxi, a ‘Service’ to the village of Jisr El Khadi and began making our way on the south side of the river towards its source near Ain Zhalta. The joy was in the journey of jumping from rock to rock, going at a pace that was not too strenuous for me, occasionally swimming and talking to Dad. It was mostly small talk and listening to some of his stories. It was new; it was relational, spontaneous and surprised me with the pleasure of it. There was a measure of softness and belonging that I had not really known up to that point. These three days were very significant for me and marked a turn in my activities in the village, and I no longer wandered far afield anymore. I was thus out of reach of the shepherd’s son. Dad and I repeated the ‘river trip’ the following year, reversing our direction, going towards the sea. And the year after that Graham joined us. Dad was still very busy with his work, but at least I had some precious memories to hold on to. Some of those are expressed more fully in the next chapter.

I never talked about any of these negative events until they were virtually forced out of me as various occurrences pried the lid open, when I was in my mid forties. It was a cover I had kept in place for many years, and revealing the turmoil seemed to test all my loyalties. I loved our village, and I fought against consciously admitting that not everything was perfect. I also greatly admired my father, and was proud of his position and standing as the Principal of the Bible Institute. Over the years, the way I solved this enigma was to find fault in myself and personally accept the shame of the abuse. I also somehow sensed that I had no special claim on too much time and attention from my Dad.

As events from my childhood were uncovered, I understood how the loss of trust, innocence and security were bound up with confusions about my own identity. I recognized the roots of some lifelong questions concerning my being. As a child, I needed childhood, but I had learned some things beyond me that I had no way of evaluating or understanding.

In the intervening years, I learned to forget. Having not remembered or understood the source of my fears, I constantly felt vulnerable. I often reacted inappropriately or aversely to situations that were quite benign. Once I began examining those hidden events and my responses to them, I tentatively began to formulate questions. It troubled me to think that perhaps the mothers in the village had known about my abuse and said nothing. I remembered my Mom telling me that Aunty Molly had told Dad he needed to spend more time with me. Perhaps the village mothers had spoken to her, I don’t know. I would like to think so.

I also wondered if my Dad had noticed anything. I recalled the time when he took me to see a doctor friend, Dr Peter Manooghian, for an examination. They asked me some awkward questions. The burden of secrecy for me was heavy and, at the time, I vehemently denied that anything had happened to me, so the matter was dropped. It was only as an adult that I reflected on what might have led Dad to take me to the doctor. He died before I was even close to personally addressing the fact of my abuse, so the subject was never discussed again. Even though Dad did not, in general, talk about emotions and feelings, he did take me on those camping trips down the river, which affected my relationship with him for the better. It took me many years to recognize that Dad’s decision to ‘always put the work of the mission first,’ was detrimental to me (and likely others in the family, but I cannot speak for them) and contributed to my vulnerability to a certain kind of predator. In my healing process, I had to recognize that some of my anger had its source in the unmet needs of a young boy for his father’s regular attention and care. Once I recognized that, I could take steps to specifically forgive him, and found not only healing, but also deeper understanding of Dad as a human being with strengths and weaknesses. He was no longer a Hero on a pedestal, but that was not a very healthy position anyway. From the vantage point of many years, I now realize that he did not have a framework to know how to help a young boy in such circumstances, and there were limited resources available for help in dealing with such issues. He did his best with the understanding he had.

It also grieved me to think that perhaps my own mother never felt that young boy’s pain. I talked with her many years later, and she had no idea what I had experienced. We shared some anguished tears together, which was part of my journey of healing. In my mind’s eye, I could see her hands constantly tending her little flock, busy with knitting, darning, ironing, caring for Brenda, Graham, Howard and Joan and of course the catering needs of the students and Dad’s work. I could feel her hands occasionally stroking my hair, telling us all a bedtime story and those touches were priceless.

Ultimately, my biggest struggle was with someone who did know all that had happened, and in fact had the power to prevent it happening. “Oh Lord, where were you? Didn’t I matter to you?” This struggle was not a simple or straightforward thing, and even identifying my deepest fear was fraught with confusion, often masked by anger. Two intimate experiences helped my heart to understand something of God’s love for me.

Facing a significant crossroads at one point in my life, my biggest concern was whether God would be with me in this course of action or not (a course of action we believed He had led us in). Things were falling into place for me to accept a position to serve as a pastor of the Maseru United Church in Lesotho. My question was whether God would leave me, as I felt He had done before? I set aside some days to pray in my Mom’s empty apartment, while she was away. In that quiet space, it was as if God invited me to sit on his lap, put my head on his shoulder and rest in him. Feeling rather self-conscious, I did this. I wept with him, and he wiped my tears away. “I know, I was there,” was his whisper. Without words, I understood his sorrow at the devastating effects of sin, and the awareness of his constant, living presence became my deepest reality. “I will be with you,” were his words of reassurance. Those close me to me noticed the difference in me afterwards.

Another experience, that I am almost embarrassed to mention, took place a few years after this one. I had cause to process the events of my life and began to feel rather sorry for myself. I understood the Lord to tell me to take off all my clothes and lies on the floor. Rather startled, I locked my office door, drew the curtains and quietly obeyed. He pointed out all my scars and wounds, visible and invisible. There was the scar on my inner arm when I fell out of the pine tree near Feraya, and another one where I cut my chin falling out of the guava tree. At that time Dad was lecturing and my fall caused a stir, but he carried on, feeling sure the scouts would look after me. He might as well have stopped as none of the students could concentrate. “I wasn’t too busy to be with you,” was God’s clear comment to me. The litany of ‘wounds’ went on, and I came to the realization that he knew it all and took delight in me as a person. I was His and He was mine. It took me a while to tell anyone about this, not because it was a shameful secret: being fully known and yet loved for my own sake was comforting, empowering, and inwardly treasured.

I have been able to ‘tell my story’ and found healing in the telling. Over the years, I have needed to re-evaluate both my perceptions and my responses. Choices have been made and I have found freedom in knowing that I am not compelled or caught by some unknown forces to respond in a certain way. So much more could be said, but my deepest gratitude is to God, who is my creator, sustainer and the one who walks with me.