Introducing ‘Abdu’l Baha at Stanford University in 1912, University President David Starr Jordan said, "Abdu’l Baha will surely unite the East and the West, for He walks the mystical path with practical feet." Abdul Baha once told a story about two little girls who were late to school, standing on the porch as it started to pour down rain. One asked the other, "Should we pray for the rain to stop, or should take our umbrellas and run?" The other replied, "I think we need to do both." That's me, living in Kumasi in 1982 at just 20 years old. Efua who lived across the road loved me. Every time she saw me coming out the front door, she would run over and sit in my lap, and she'd tell me in Twi everything going on in her world. She could hardly contain her excitement about life. Her smile could cure any amount of homesickness, no matter how bad.
At the time this photograph was taken, we were in the middle of the darkest part of the military coup as dangerous events seemed to occur weekly; things I wouldn't dare write about to my parents back at home in the U.S.
One Sunday, I was sitting on the couch in the living room reading a book and dozing in the afternoon heat. It was quiet except for the yellow-headed lizards barking while they sunned themselves on the wall and magpies quarreling with each other in the trees. Occasionally people would walk by, and it was so quiet I could hear their conversations.
Then like the crack of splintering wood, machine guns went off nearby. At first it sounded like it was on the roof, but I heard the distinct ping of metal on stone inside the house. Three rounds had gone through the windows and over my head, hitting the the far wall inside the house. The sound was from the empty shells bouncing on the marble floor.
I threw myself to the floor and rolled under the couch as fast as I could. Sweat surfaced spontaneously all over my body. I could feel my scalp suddenly drenched and my back was soaked as my t-shirt clung to my skin. I found myself whispering a Baha'i prayer for travelers, "...holding fast to the cord of Thy love and I have committed myself wholly to They care and Thy protection."
Trucks of soldiers went flying by on the road, and the din of yelling and gunfire made it impossible to figure out what was happening. Were they coming into the house to round up ex-patriots? Were soldiers attempting to corral the march of protesting students again? I stayed as still as I could, hardly breathing for fear of making any sound. And as suddenly as it started, it stopped. It was completely silent again and after a few minutes the magpies started their arguing all over.
Half an hour later, the trucks sped by on the way back into town, but there was no sound of gunfire - only cheering. I laid back down on the cold marble floor and waited until they were gone.
Later that day, we heard that a preacher had spoken out against the military coup. He had fled his pulpit when the soldiers were tipped off, and they chased him onto the university campus, There was an understanding that the campus grounds were off-limits to the soldiers, but they captured him and took him back to Kejetia at the center of town, where they tied him to a stake and burned him in front of the crowd to teach them a lesson about disobedience.
I remember Uncle Ben telling us the news of soldiers stopping buses between Kumasi and Accra, and everyone was ordered to get down off the bus to go into the bush and carry 50 pound bags of cocoa on their backs to the road for distribution trucks to pick up. When Uncle Ben asked me what I would do in that situation, I was so naive that I told him I would immediately head to the American Embassy to report the soldiers. I was so young.
Despite the constant danger from the soldiers, I still had to go into Accra regularly because of my visa situation. The chaos in the Ministry of Immigration was so bad that I came into the country on a visitor's visa, because processing a student visa from abroad was impossible. However when I arrived in Ghana, the military had closed the universities because of student protests so my status was delayed. As a back up plan, I enrolled in a language college. I desperately needed the visa in order to have access to my bank account in Togo. Without it, I was stuck in the country with no money and no means of getting over the border. And that meant taking risks by traveling into Accra regularly in an attempt to complete the process.
Back then, the Ministry was like something out of a 1950's movie. Everything was done by hand. Onion skin paper for manual typewriters. Offices full of dust with sad military grey metal desks, cardboard case files stacked floor to ceiling, covered in purple in ink from the never-ending bureaucratic process of stamping approvals upon approvals.
My case was assigned to a wall of a woman, standing at least six feet tall and weighing 300 pounds. She had a burning hatred for her job, but not nearly as much as her hatred for people. And the best part - her name was Patience. She was not. Every time I went into the Ministry, waiting hours for my name to be called, my stomach would churn because of my fear of Patience. Everything in the Ministry was painted battleship green, and I remember laughing to myself because I thought that color must match the color of my stomach, as it boiled while I waited.
She would bellow at me, "Mr. Hunter, I'm sure you are not stupid! I distinctly told you that the Headmaster of the school was supposed to initial three copies of the immigration annex form, and you have only submitted two to me! I TOLD YOU THREE COPIES! STOP WASTING MY TIME AND GET OUT OF MY OFFICE! NEXT!" I had written down exactly what she had requested from my last appointment with her - two copies of the immigration annex form, stapled in the upper left hand corner with one staple.
After the fifth or sixth trip to Accra risking my safety each time, I came home again to Kumasi empty handed. Nana sat me down and set me straight. He asked me if I knew what kalabule was and I told him no. Kalabule was the local slang term for corrupt business practices, such as smuggling and paying bribes in order to get things done. He told me I had to consider that Patience was purposely blocking the approval of my visa because she was expecting a bribe. I told Nana that as a Baha'i, I couldn't pay a bribe in order to get things done. I just couldn't do it. He told me then to consider giving her a gift of necessities, making sure that she understood what my intention was with the gift.
A friend had just come back from Togo with things I needed - six rolls of toilet paper, three tubes of toothpaste, and a dozen bars of soap. I would give Patience everything.
There was a young Baha'i named Lisa who was also living with the Asares, doing her Year of Service while going to secondary school at St. Louis Academy with Christine Asare. She was having the same problems with her visa, and she was assigned to a man named Mr. Opoku. Lisa was a pretty girl, so Nana and Christine helped Lisa devise a plan to get her visa stamped. The four of us went to Accra again. Christine and Lisa went into one of the bedrooms at the Baha'i Centre, and stayed there for an hour. Nana just grinned at me while we waited, refusing to tell me what they were up to.
They finally came out. Lisa had on a form-fitting red silk dress she had brought from Taipei when she had lived there previously. Christine had French-braided her hair so that it made a ponytail down one of her shoulders. She had red lipstick and eye shadow on. Lisa was going in for the kill.
The two of us got into a taxi as Nana and Christine wished us luck. They were heading back to Kumasi, because we were all under strict orders from Auntie Bea to stay out of danger and get home as soon as possible. Lisa and I would get on a bus as soon as we were done.
We both walked into the sick-green waiting room, and we waited for four hours until finally Lisa's name was called by Mr. Opoku. I think his eyes popped out of his head. "Well, hello Miss Lisa! How are you doing today?! You are looking so lovely!" He didn't shut his office door, so I got to watch. Lisa tilted her head, batted her eyes, and complimented Mr. Opoku as she hung on every word he said. She walked back out and winked at me, flashing me her visa he had stamped in her passport. I was up next.
Mr. Opoku then came out into the waiting room, seeing Lisa sitting next to me. He asked Lisa if I was related to her, and she said yes. He then announced my name as loud as he possibly could, "DEEEEEEE HUNTER!" He came up to me and asked me if, "Lisa's brother would follow him to Patience's office." I looked back at Lisa, trying not to laugh as Mr. Opoku escorted me down the hall. When I told this story to all my friends back in Kumasi, I never lived it down. Nana laughed so hard I thought he'd have a heart attack. To this day, Annie still calls me Dee.
I walked in and sat down. Patience just scowled at me for a while, as if I had disrupted her entire life. I quietly said, "Sister Patience, I know things are hard in Ghana." I took out the six toilet paper rolls and stacked them in a pyramid on her desk. I continued, "I am sure you can appreciate my gifts." I lined up the three tubes of toothpaste in a neat row next to the toilet paper. "I know how hard you work, and I just want to acknowledge my appreciation." I stacked the bars of soap in a tidy pile. I said, "I really need your help so that I can continue my education here in Ghana." I sat back and stayed quiet. Either I was about to be arrested because she was a loyalist to the military coup, or she would take the gifts.
She continued to scowl, but I didn't move. I didn't even blink, partly because of the terror of not knowing what was about to happen. And after a few moments, she started to pick up each of the items and put them in her bottom desk drawer. She then sat for a moment, saying nothing - just glaring at me. She pulled open her top drawer, pulled out an ink pad and a rubber stamp, and pounded the stamp into my passport with enough force that she could have broken the desk. I had my visa.
I stood up and reached out my hand to thank her. She sat still and just stared back at me. I thanked her for all her help as I grabbed my passport and headed for the door. I was sure she was going to change her mind so I had to get out of there as soon as I could. I met Lisa in the waiting room and grabbed her hand, and we ran out of the Ministry.
It was about 3:00, and we knew that if we didn't catch a bus in an hour, we would have to spend the night in Accra. We decided to take our chances and headed straight for Kwame Nkrumah Circle. We got lucky and our bus left at 3:45. We would make it home before the curfew at 9:00.
Or so we thought.
At 9:15, the bus rolled past the soldiers' barricade coming into Kumasi. The gate to the university was right there, so we were close to being home. As the bus stopped, we assumed that it was going to let passengers off who lived in Bomso and at the university campus. Instead, three soldiers all armed with machine guns got onto the bus, and pulled the bus driver and his porter out of their seats and onto the road. We heard yelling, and then one of the soldiers came back and told all of us to get down and line up on the side of the road. We did as we were told. That same soldier then started to yell at the bus driver about being late and violating the curfew. He screamed at him that the soldiers were going to teach him a lesson about being late.
The soldiers pulled out leather covered billy clubs, and one by one beat each passenger on their shoulders and back until they dropped to their knees, screaming and crying in pain - men, women and children. I turned to Lisa and whispered, "Start praying because we have about three minutes until they get to us, and they are going to beat us to a pulp." We stood and quietly said a Baha'i prayer, "Is there any remover of difficulties save God? Say, praised be God, He is God. All are His servants and all abide by His bidding."
Out of nowhere, a small hatchback car screeched to a stop directly in front of Lisa and me. The passenger door flew open and we heard a voice yell, "GET IN!" We had nothing to lose, so we both ran for the car and jumped in. The car made a wild left turn while its wheels skidded and smoked as the driver gunned the engine. He sped through the university gate and onto the campus, barely maintaining control of the car. There was no way for the soldiers to follow us because they were stationed at the barricade without vehicles.
We were safe.
I caught my breath and turned to look at the face of the man who rescued us. It was our next door neighbor on Ridge Road at the campus. Lisa and I looked at each other with disbelief. We didn't say a word as we drove home. He dropped us off and we thanked him for saving our lives. I told him we owe him a great debt, but he told us just to be careful and stay close to home. Auntie Bea and Uncle Ben were up waiting for us. We reassured them that we were OK, and after a cup of tea we all went to bed. But I didn't sleep that night; neither did Lisa. We both laid awake, wondering what happened after we were rescued.
Sometimes I still lay awake at night, thinking of those people being beaten. Their faces are burned into my memory, images of them falling to their knees with tears streaming down their faces. I lay in the dark and wonder if their feelings about their country changed or after all these years, were they able to forget about that night. And I wonder about the soldiers. Do they look back and think about what they did during a moment of intoxication from power? Do they see the faces of those people in the faces of their own parents, wives and children?
And I lay awake, thinking about the incredible circumstances which allowed Lisa and I to escape.
People will deny the existence of God and faith, or they'll discredit the reality of what may simply be unseen. But that night, I know in my heart that something out there protected Lisa and me. I have no explanation for it, but it was real.
Baha'is believe in the Concourse on High. The Akan people call them the Nananom Nsamanfo - the Ancestors. Others may call them angels. They are the souls of our loved ones who have passed on to the next world, inspiring everything that is good in humanity here on earth. They also watch out for us when we ask for their help.
I know they are there.
