Editor's Column by Carolyn Stent The events of the Gulf War seemed very distant from my life on a mission hospital compound.

Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index Previous Editor's Columns | Send mail to The Voice Talk of war brings two worlds together The last time the United States threatened war, I lived in Pakistan with my family. Instead of watch-ing television reports, I listened to missionaries discuss news gathered from the local newspaper. During a sleepover at my friend's house, I sat at the dining table and listened to her parents explain that President Bush had declared war on Iraq. The Gulf War seemed distant from my life on a mission hospital compound. My parents continued their daily routines. I viewed any affects on my life as mere interruptions and adjusted with youth's innocence. Clues around the house hinted at the conflict. Suitcases my Mom had packed for possible evacuation stood in a corner of our guest-room. Each day someone fiddled with the tuner on a short-wave radio until we heard, over the static, faint news reports by the British Broadcasting Corp. The local police asked missionary families to move to houses on the hospital compound. They also posted several policemen outside the gates to the hospital. In Islamabad, Pakistan's capital, people hung banners painted with anti-American slogans. Piles of burning tires blocked traffic along major roads. One day, bizarre rumors hinted at an Anti-American rally planned for outside the gates to the mission hospital. Missionary families and hospital staff prayed. We awoke that morning to a steady rain that continued all day. The street, washed clean of garbage and dirt by the downpour, remained empty and quiet. The United States' embassy encouraged all foreign citizens to maintain a low profile. I remember missionaries joking about sudden desires to shop, to visit friends and to travel simply because of the forced confinement. One day, my family, eager to escape the compound walls, decided to eat at a nearby Chinese restaurant. We anticipated a quiet meal at a table away from the windows. When we walked into the restaurant, other mis-sionary families greeted us. We laughed because we had all had the same idea. My parents decided to cancel our family vacation at the beach. Instead, we stayed in the capital at a friend's house. We rented movies and ate imported food such as processed cheese and a tin of hoarded ham. One afternoon we sat, tense and expectant, and watched as Sean Connery made a desperate bid for freedom in the "Hunt for Red October." Suddenly the overhead fans stopped whirring and the actors and colors disappeared from the screen as the electricity supply clicked off. Hours later it, and we finished the movie. Now the United States is talking about war again. This time, seven years after the Gulf War, my family lives in Oregon. This time I listen as newscasters and experts discuss Pakistan's role and response to the situation -- Pakistan, the land I called home for 18 years. Pakistan, a country in which many of my friends lived and worked. Most of these friends have evacuated now. The boarding school I had attended from first through 12th grade closed indefinitely. I received an email from friends about their plans to evacuate. They wrote the following: "If I didn't look at the news on the television or read the newspapers, I would think everything is fine. It was a beautiful sunny day today. We had lots to do: packing, organizing lessons that we will continue by email with the kids scattered in different countries, farewelling friends and saying some other goodbyes." This time, while I cried for the victims of the destruction in New York, I also cried as I thought about what this war might bring. I prayed for my friends who do not know when they will see each other again. I prayed for Pakistan, a nation torn between the demands of the United States and its citizens' loyalty to the religion that shaped their culture. I pray because I know and understand the people on both sides of this issue. My childhood innocence has faded to adult understanding. And that understanding won't give me the luxury of not knowing. Back to Table of Contents | Back to Main Index Previous Editor's Columns | Top Of Page Send mail to The Voice| Journalism department website © 2001 The Voice. No part of this publication may be reproduced in written or electronic form without prior written consent from the journalism adviser of Multnomah Bible College. All rights reserved.