How Did Moses Cross the Red Sea - Part II

Originally posted: March 10th, 2008

I wish that I had some news to share about Moses, but we haven’t heard a word from him or about him since Tuesday two weeks ago. I want to keep the situation in Zimbabwe alive in your prayers, though, so I’m going to tell you about my friend “Marty.” She is the girl who came to visit me two weeks ago when she first arrived back in Botswana. She was upset that day, because the Immigration official at the border had given her only two weeks to stay. She knew that she couldn’t earn even her bus fare home in two weeks, much less enough to take anything back to her family.

Last Friday Marty went to the Immigration office here in town to request an extension of the two weeks. She and 300 other Zimbabweans apparently all had the same idea. She said that she was number 200-something in line and that there were over 300 there altogether. According to her they all got the same response to their request: “No. Go home and vote and change your country.” That’s a pretty calloused comment, considering that elections in Zimbabwe have been a farce for the past many years. You can’t blame Zimbabweans for being cynical. Everyone I’ve spoken to firmly believes that the votes for the upcoming election have already been counted.

Marty came by here after she left the Immigration office. She looked exhausted and broken. She told me that her 14 days would be up on Monday and that she had no choice but to leave by then. “If I overstay my days, they will take away my passport, and it could take me two years to get another.” She said that she’d found only two “piece jobs” since she’d seen me last. One paid $3 and another paid $6. I knew that she didn’t begin to have enough money for her bus fare home, and with only two days left before she had to leave, she had no hope of earning it. I addressed her fatigue first. “Have you had lunch?” I asked. “No,” she said. “Let me fix you something to eat,” I said, and while I worked, I prayed. I just happened to have enough money in my purse to pay for her bus ticket home, plus extra for buying some soap, oil, and other necessities to take with her. I wrestled, though, over whether I should just give it to her. She would likely think that I’m made of money, and that could lead to all kinds of problems for me.

I tried to stall for time by asking her where she was staying. I thought that if I knew where she was staying, I could run by there before she left town, after I’d had time to talk it over with Mark and decide what to do. “Over there,” she said, and she pointed past our front gate. “What’s the plot number?” I asked. “I don’t know,” she said. “You don’t know the plot number?” I asked. “Well, can you tell me how to get there?” Her face crumpled when I persisted. “You don’t want to know where I’m staying,” she said. “I do!” I said. “I promise you, you don’t. It’s really bad,” she said. “Go ahead and tell me,” I said, “I want to know.” “Well, there are about 40 of us staying in an unfinished house. It has a roof, but it doesn’t have windows or doors, and it doesn’t have a toilet.” Oh, my goodness. I’d heard stories about Zimbabweans camping in unfinished houses, but the reality of it didn’t hit me until then. Forty people sleeping on bare cement floors. Forty people without a toilet. “Does the owner know you’re staying there?” I asked. “No,” she said. Forty people living in fear of being caught.

How desperate does an educated lady in her mid-20’s have to be to leave her home and her family, and travel to an inhospitable country and live like this? Well, like I said before, next-to-nothing in Botswana is better than nothing in Zimbabwe.

I went to my purse and got the money. As I took it out to Marty, I summoned up the courage to ask her something else. “Marty, would you like to take a shower?” I knew that if there wasn’t a toilet, there also wasn’t a shower or a tub. I suspected that M hadn’t been able to wash since she left Zimbabwe nearly two weeks before. To my relief, she didn’t take offense. “Yes!” she exclaimed, “I would love it!” I got out a towel and washcloth for her and a change of clothes. Marty was a new person when she came out of our bathroom. She looked fresh; she felt better. A full stomach and a clean body helped a lot. Money in her pocket did, too.

That night I lay in my comfortable bed and thought about Marty and 39 others sleeping on a hard, cement floor. For awhile I wished that I had asked Marty if I could spend one night there with them. It would be an unforgettable experience — an experience that I perhaps need. I knew that I wouldn’t sleep a wink, but I could tolerate that for one night. For one night I could tolerate the hard floor, the unwashed bodies around me, the mosquitoes. But then I realized that there was one thing that I could not tolerate — the fear. What if the owner came that night? What if the police made a raid? I am not brave enough to take that chance. Or desperate enough.

On her way out of town today, Marty came to say goodbye. Before she left, we knelt on the floor and prayed. And I assured her that people around the world are praying. Please don’t forget Zimbabwe and the elections on the 29th of March!