Gift of Revelation (21 page)

When I awoke in that cell, I discovered two people in it with me, a man and a woman, both beaten and battered. They were dressed in ragged clothes that barely concealed their private parts, and their legs were bound by chains to the wall. I stirred, moving the chain binding my leg across the hard floor, causing them to open their eyes. Both of them were Sudanese. Both were the enemy of the rebels.

“Hello,” I said, smiling a weak smile.

At first they didn't answer and just eyeballed me to size me up.

I braced myself against the wall; my head hurt very badly. Everyone had warned me constantly that these rebels meant business. I was totally baffled by what they wanted me to do. So far they had demanded that I renounce Christianity, just like Peter the Apostle denied Jesus twice, and that I renounce America and its freedom to worship. The older man was brutal; you could see it in his eyes. I endured terrible nightmares of being branded between my legs, of having my eyes and my tongue ripped out, my severed hands in a bucket of crimson water. The thought crossed my mind that nobody knew where I was. Possibly, the staffer hadn't told anyone. Or the guards. How could they find me? How could they rescue me?

“Who are you, sir?” the man asked in university English, proper and polite. “We're university students. They captured us and are holding us for ransom. These are cruel people.”

“I'm Reverend Clint Winwood, an American who just came here to help out,” I said, not really telling them why I had come.

“If you're Christian, you picked the wrong place to be,” the woman said, covering her shattered mouth. “They kill ministers of the Christian faith here. They burn down churches and kill the followers.”

The man scooted near the door, tugging his chain. “I'm Gatgong, and she's Marcy,” he said by way of an introduction.

Marcy sniffed and spat on the floor. “We're both university students,” she said. “We came down from Khartoum after the big protests. The authorities wanted to arrest me. We protested on campus after noon prayers, and we were tear-gassed by security forces. The security forces blocked all roads leading to the university after we threw rocks at them and burned tires to block streets. In response to us, the security forces fired live bullets. All around the city, protests continued, and the government cracked down on them, killing so many of us. They stormed into crowds, bashing protesters with batons and rifle butts, and assaulted even innocent bystanders.”

“How did you get here?” I asked her.

Marcy wiped her eyes, about to cry. “I came down here from Khartoum,” she said, sobbing. “The government has a deal with some of the militias. These people are getting arms and money from Khartoum. I came down to be with my family. They risked everything to hide me. An old girlfriend called the rebels and turned me in, so here I am.”

“What are they charging you with?”

“Reverend, they don't have to charge us with anything,” she replied.

Gatgong blurted out, “Some students contacted Amnesty International and the African Centre for Justice and Peace Studies. That really angered the government.”

I looked closely at the dark man, with his broad nose, sharp features, and wiry body, while Marcy went on talking, her words tumbling out of her. He just watched and stared into space as she spoke.

“They're going to kill us,” he said finally. “They don't want the ransom. They want to scare the young people so they will convert to Allah. We're as good as dead. We'll never get out of here. We will die in this miserable hole.” Before he quieted, he talked about ending his life. There was nothing in the cell with which to commit suicide.

Foolishly, I didn't believe that. I comforted the two doubting young people with bits of scripture, but that got me only a savage beating with a whip of hard leather and a stern warning about spreading the word of the infidels. One of the guards had heard me reciting the Bible verses through the door. However, that didn't stop me.

“The Bible can give you great solace,” I said, nursing a hard knot above my cheek. “In Second Timothy, two, fifteen, it says, ‘Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.' I love those verses.”

In the days that followed, I often thought I was wasting my time trying to comfort them with the good book. Their only concern was survival.

You could tell this was a favorite holding pen for the rebels, with its mishmash of body smells, frenzied fingernail marks on the walls, blood stains from victims. Phantoms. There were plenty of ghosts in this cell. Between interrogations, I thought of my family life, my dead wife and the kids, the bittersweet days past. I also craved some contact with the outside world and freedom. So many thoughts were sandwiched between the harsh slaps, the angry shouts, and the questions. Sometimes the memories of my destroyed marriage moved me beyond my anxiety and sadness, transporting me far above this confused mess.

 

 

One afternoon, it was my turn for questioning. I accompanied the guards willingly, determined to keep silent. Another soldier, a stout man with a thick beard and dark glasses, had replaced the older man, whom I had found comforting in a strange way.

“Our leader made two simple requests of you, and I don't understand why you cannot fulfill them,” the soldier said. “Renounce the Christian faith as the religion of infidels. Renounce your country as the sinful capital of evil and immoral acts. Why can't you do this?”

I kept silent. I glared at my captors defiantly.

“Why doesn't your God want everyone to be saved?” the soldier asked. “Why does He favor the rich and powerful? Why does He turn His back on others?”

I remained mute, but I maintained my hateful stare.

“Why doesn't your God love some and not others?” he asked sternly. “Answer that question. Why is your God so loving and compassionate, but He mistreats his followers with lives so full of suffering?”

I kept my mouth closed. Maybe my pleas to God for help were meaningless. Still, I continued them.

“Just renounce Jesus Christ and join the faith of Islam,” the soldier said. “If you do not, you know you will die. There is no room in our faith for infidels.”

I spat at the floor and shouted. “Islam is a religion of peace. Why do you pervert the religion of Allah?”

They stretched me out, facedown, one clutching my legs, the other holding my hands, and they took turns lashing me with a leather whip. Another one kicked me in the stomach and the privates. Then a soldier stood on my back, with the two men stretching me taut. They were not finished with me. They hoisted me up into the air by my feet, naked, and beat me cruelly on my butt and legs. The sharp pain sent me into numbness and blackness. They stopped when I lost consciousness.

About two hours later I awoke in the darkened cell. Flies surrounded my open wounds. They had beaten me to the point of exhaustion and death.

My faith in the Lord sustained me during my time of crisis. I remembered a favorite passage from the Bible, one that I had learned very early in my ministry. Ephesians 4:10–12 read: “He that descended is the same also that ascended up far above all heavens, that he might fill all things. And he gave some, apostles; and some, prophets; and some, evangelists; and some, pastors and teachers; For the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ.”

I was feeling the network of bumps and bruises that covered the entire side of my face when the guards hurled Gatgong into the cell. The rebels had hacked his leg with a machete, creating a deep, jagged wound just below the knee. He was bleeding profusely. Quickly, Marcy and I sprang into action, putting a tourniquet, made from our remaining bits of clothing, on his leg. The bleeding soon stopped.

“They will kill us,” he said. “Pray for us. We are dead people.”

Marcy looked at me, thinking the same thing.

I prayed for us, asking the Lord to protect us. I asked Him to deliver us from this madness. I promised Him everything.

When I was finished, Marcy glanced at Gatgong, weeping softly. “I don't understand this kind of evil,” she said. “In our district, they drove two cars with bombs into the big shopping area. One blast went off at the busiest time of the day for shopping. I saw it with my own eyes. The crowds ran, screaming and crying, away from the explosion. Then the second blast went off, killing the medics and burning the ambulances that had come to help the victims. What kind of people are these devils?”

“I don't know,” I answered. “But this has nothing to do with religion. Not at all.”

She continued to cry. “My mother died in my arms.”

“Do either of you know Bishop Obote?” I asked them.

For once, Marcy stopped her tears. “I know him,” she said, disregarding the cautionary looks from the injured Gatgong. “Although the bishop says he is a Christian, he is really a Muslim fundamentalist. He keeps the faith, praying five times a day, keeps the Ramadan fast, doesn't drink or smoke. He wears Western clothes and eats their food to fool the infidels.”

I thought about how I had been duped by this man of goodwill in the Christian fellowship. Elsa had warned me about this man.

We took turns on the pot that served as a toilet. At first, I was nervous about letting them see me squat on the pot to relieve myself.

There was no privacy at all. Everybody saw everything we did. The smell of our cell was unbearable, thanks to our unwashed bodies, the uncontained human waste, the dirt and grime. What a horrible stench! Once a day, we were allowed to go outside for a few minutes and use a deep hole in the ground for toilet needs. A guard watched over us.

Once I was out in the open, I gazed at the sky, wishing I could soar into the heavens and be free. On bright mornings the sky was deep blue, like my heart.

At my next interrogation, with what seemed like my last ounce of strength, I punched the nearest guard in the head, and then I collapsed under a barrage of hard blows. They kept pummeling me until I blacked out.

The last thing I heard was a soldier say, “Forget it, Reverend. Jesus cannot help you here.”

It was near the time of prayers. I knew something was up. The rebels had held a meeting for most of the night. I had listened to the scrambling of the soldiers in the hallway, armed and eager for battle. If the opportunity presented itself, I would run and not look back.

After our brief trip outside, the guards rushed into the cell and grabbed me forcefully. I had no power to resist. I was near the end of my rope. I had no willpower. As I passed them in the hallway, the soldiers talked about the destruction of a Christian church. A couple of bombs in the building, bricks in mounds from the blasts, the interior of the structure turned inside out, and pews out in the yard, near the road. Its pastor shot, and the church people running and dropping like birds at a bird shoot. Stained-glass windows crushed under the enemy's heels.

The older man was there this time when they dragged me into the big room. Under some strong questioning, I found myself having difficulty speaking. The words didn't come out. When I did talk, I stuttered painfully, and they laughed, laughed, laughed.

Laughing, the older man was handed a list of murdered ministers and a letter of approval from the government in the North. One of the rebels presented him with a trophy, a charred Bible from the destroyed church, and he examined it on the desk . They joked about how they had ordered four school-age girls to sing a hymn before they were lined up and shot.

“Here's what the newspapers say. ‘The people who kill, rape, torture are cowards, and they will be treated as such,” The older man read with gusto. “‘They will pay a price, a very lofty price.'”

There was much rejoicing. As I sat there, in walked Bishop Obote, who greeted all those present and then took a seat near the older man. They were like old friends. They offered him something drink.

“You snake,” I hissed at the bishop, who wore a blank expression.

“Greetings, Reverend. We meet in the strangest places,” he said, grinning. “You probably thought you'd never see me again. I hope you're not disappointed in me.”

“You walked me right into a trap,” I replied.

I prayed that the good guys were following behind him. The locals didn't know we were in this building, but I had heard planes flying overhead.
Surveillance.

“After the crisis in Darfur, I saw the suffering and decided to do anything to save my country,” the bishop said. “I surrendered to God, and He told me that He would not choose any side. There was no right or wrong. I've done some bad things in my past. God's mercy washed that all away.”

“You coward!” I shouted at him.

Everybody laughed at my puny insult, especially the older man.

“Do you want them to kill me?” I asked him loudly.

“No, I don't,” the bishop said, fanning himself.

I clenched my fists, anger surging through me, hating how easily I'd been duped by a member of the Christian fellowship. This was not the first time. Just because someone said he loved the Lord didn't mean he followed scripture.

“I've been in your situation, back against the wall,” the bishop said. “I've been beaten and lashed because of my faith. They ordered me to quit the church and convert to Islam. They ordered me to close my church and pledge my loyalty to their faith. Repent. Christianity is for foreigners, not Africans. If I decided to do this, everything would be given to me.”

“There is no excuse for going over to the other side,” I seethed. “People count on you. They look up to you. You're a liar. What's worse is that you lie to yourself.”

“I'm not a politician,” the bishop said, waving a hand. He turned to the older man and said, “Leave us. I want to talk to this man. Keep one of your men here so he won't escape. I want to talk some sense into his head.”

They left, the bishop took the seat behind the desk, and we settled down to talk. I didn't trust anything he said. Elsa had warned me about this guy, who thought only about saving his own hide. He'd do anything to accomplish that goal.

“I'm a man of God,” the bishop continued. “Even in your country, the good old United States, the clergy partners with politicians, such as Billy Graham. They keep the power and integrity of the church and get things done. I'm doing the same thing. Don't blame me. Don't judge me.”

I had nothing for him but disgust.

The bishop was lecturing me about character, religion, faith.

“Reverend, the Sudanese people in the south are bound by traditional African religions, Islam, and Christianity,” he explained. “You foreigners don't understand that mix. I love your devotion, your purity of faith. You're a good man, but you must change.”

The freedom to worship was the obstacle in the War on Terror. Some on the other side said that theirs was the only way to worship God and that conflict was the only way to settle the question. I listened to the bishop and thought about how to escape.

“I preach the Christian gospel, but I'm prepared for any shift of power,” the bishop said. “If any side wins, I win. The church has always been flexible and adaptable. You must be that way as well.”

“No. I can't,” I said.

The bishop laughed harshly. “Blessed are the peacemakers.... Turn the other cheek.... Love your enemy. The real world doesn't operate that way. As a Christian, you must be practical.”

“The Lord died for all our sins,” I said. “He died for all of us. You're a big sinner. Christians don't have to be two-faced. You can't serve the Lord and the devil. You cannot serve them both.”

He put his feet up on the desk. “I know the biblical view of the sinner and all those lofty moral ideals go out the window when survival is involved. I'm not a savior. I'm a survivor. I'm thinking only of saving myself. You need to do likewise.”

“I won't renounce my faith or my country,” I replied.

“You need to think about what they're asking you to do,” the bishop said. “I'm doing God's work, and you can too. Agree to their demands and be a free man.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Do you think you are free? These people own you lock, stock, and barrel. You're their puppet.”

“And you're going to die,” the bishop said.

“Where's Addie?” I asked.

He changed the subject. “War is such a bad thing. It brings out the worst in people. I don't know why God allows such a thing as war, but it must serve a purpose.”

“Where's Addie?” I repeated. “What's happened to her?”

“I thought you were finished with her,” he said.

“How do you sleep nights?” I asked him.

The bishop's voice suddenly became strained. “Very solidly. As for your friend, government troops rescued her and the others. Your friend is safe.”

“Is she really?” I asked. “Was she hurt?”

“One of her doctors told me that she suffered head injuries, a broken nose and ribs, and a fractured arm. She resisted them, fighting like a wildcat before they overcame her with force. She is in the hospital, recovering nicely.”

I was grateful and sincerely happy that she was safe.

“I told them I would make you see the light,” the bishop said. “You've got two days before you got to make up your mind. I've got to get your answer. Tell me you'll think about it.”

“I will not.” I wanted to spit in his face.

“I'll be back here, and you've got to give me your answer,” he said, a grim expression on his face. “Time is running out. I won't be responsible for what happens to you.”

The bishop called them back inside and told them to take me down to my cell. They tossed me down on its floor, battered and humiliated. Marcy and Gatgong looked at me suspiciously, like I was a bug crawling in somebody's dinner.