|
By Lausanne Ham
I WAS BORN in Baghdad in 1972. I grew up in a family that was Muslim but did not
practice the religion; rather, it was a way of life, part of our culture and
tradition. I am the fifth of 10 children, eight girls and two boys.
Dysfunction and abuse
Despite the crowdedness, dysfunction and craziness of my family, the bond of
love kept us together. Being physically abused was part of the experience of
almost every Iraqi child I knew. There was emotional and psychological abuse
too. Deep inside, I knew this was not the way it was supposed to be, but I had
nowhere to go with my thoughts, only to cry them out each night.
My mom is an excellent cook, and she kept the house running like a clock. My dad
worked very hard to provide for all of us, and despite his absolute disregard
for the authority of Saddam Hussein’s regime – at the time, a very frightening thing – he managed to keep us and himself alive. That is a miracle by itself.
We rarely had a meal alone as a family because there were always people at our
table. Hospitality is woven into the fabric of Iraqi culture, so I grew up in a
very crowded house. But I was lonely. I never hated my family, but I wondered
why I was there. Did I matter? Did anyone care? Did anyone love me? Was there a
God, and did he know about what was going on inside me and around me?
Brutal regime
Living under Saddam’s brutal authoritarian regime was frightening. The authorities would force us
out of class or out of the house in order to witness the public execution of
young men accused of deserting the army or being traitors. Friends would vanish
and never come back, and we did not dare ask about them.
Everyone thinks getting picked on is just part of growing up, a stage you go
through, but with me it was very painful. I did everything I could to correct
my faults and please those around me – from cutting my hair very short so no one could tell I had curly hair to tying
a bandage around my chest so no one would make fun of my changing body. I was
lonely and desperate and prayed tearfully to God.
One night during the Gulf War in 1991, I felt hopeless and decided to end it
all.
There were about 50 people in our house, all asleep, and I was upstairs alone in
the darkness in the hallway, trying to be quiet. I was sitting with my knees to
my chest writing a goodbye letter to a family that I thought would be better
off without me.
I convinced myself that one less person would be no big deal. I already knew
what I was going to use to end it, and I had the items with me as I wrote that
letter. It was dark in the house with only the moonlight coming through the
laundry room window to lighten my page, but it was much darker inside me.
I prayed one last time for a miracle, crying out, “If you are truly there, God . . .”
At this time, I had never read, heard or even seen the Bible. I knew nothing
about love whatsoever.
Light and a voice
Yet, in that darkest moment, I felt a light. It was not shining on me, I cannot
explain it, but there was a light. And I heard a voice say to me, “I love you, Lausanne. I love you more than any man could ever love you on this
earth. I love you more than your dad or mom could ever love you. I knew you
before you were born.”
I kept wondering about those words that I had never heard before – never, not in romance novels, not in love story movies. Nowhere had I ever
heard such sweet words. I cried bitterly after that and whispered, “Who are you? Where are you?” I flushed the letter down the toilet and tossed the items I had gathered to end
my life.
Continue article >>
|
A few days after that night, the uprising began in the northern part of Iraq,
Sulaimaniyah. For us, as Kurds, that meant a lot of hiding in the basement and
fleeing our homes to take refuge in the mountains. It was spring 1991.
After the war, after the looting and bombing were over, I went with some friends
to see our school. There were a few people there with the United Nations who
were giving boxes of gifts to the kids, shoeboxes that
I later learned were from Operation Christmas Child. We were there, so they
called us over and gave me one.
I had received a gift – from someone who did not know me but cared about me? It was so neatly packed
that my heart leapt with joy. I kept wondering: Why would anyone do this for
me?
The forbidden news
A few weeks passed, and it was summer when a couple of missionaries came for a
visit and told us that they were there to give us some good news. This was
remarkable because direct evangelism was forbidden and missionaries had been
banned from Iraq since 1969.
“Good news,” we thought. “We sure need it now...”
The missionaries came with a guitar and a book of worship songs and a thick book
called the Holy Bible. They opened the Bible and read to us:
• “If . . . you seek the Lord your God, you will find him if you look for him with
all your heart and with all your soul.” (Deuteronomy 4:29)
• “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but
will have the light of life. (John 8:12)
• I offer you more than your earthly father ever could. (Matthew 7:11)
When they read the next verse, I cried so hard that I had to leave the room. The
wife of the missionary came to me and prayed for me. That verse was: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you
apart.” (Jeremiah 1:5)
God was talking to me. I had heard those words before. I had found the light of
the world. The Lord had sent his people to me and used them to do his work.
After hearing more stories and parables and truth from the Word of God, I
accepted Jesus into my heart in December 1991.
The missionaries provided tangible expressions of unconditional love in the name
of Jesus Christ. One little shoebox had opened the gate and brought the light
and love of God almighty into my life.
Lausanne Ham, her husband Tom and their two sons now live in Maple Ridge. For
information about Operation Christmas Child, contact: samaritanspurse.ca/occ.
November 2009
|
