Two Years Back

I had never seen so many pets at the airport.

On March 25, 2020, no one was panicking at the Dar es Salaam airport. But all those pets, restless in their hard plastic crates, added to the air of foreboding. People traveling for business or tourism don’t take their pets on international flights. But they do when running away.

Ironically, it was also the first time I had been at that airport. For two decades, we had flown out of the tiny Dar airport – only six gates, despite the thousands who passed through it every week. The new, large, modern airport had opened in late 2019, complete with towering, echoing ceilings, a Pizza Hut, and a polite British voice that announced every five minutes, Attention travelers: It is not permissible to bring plastic bags into Tanzania.

We stood in line in that shiny new airport in the quiet, tense air and wondered if our plane was even there and if the airport in Qatar was even open and if they were even going to let Johnny on that flight. And when they let us through, I was relieved but also devastated because part of my heart hoped that they would turn us away and we would be forced to stay in Tanzania, even though we had already sold our beds.

The memories are vivid: the pets at the airport. How Johnny almost couldn’t board until the woman from the embassy just happened to be in line next to us and advocated on our behalf. How our kids were excited to get soft-serve ice cream at Pizza Hut, but I was nauseous and everything tasted like dust in my mouth. How it felt like we were running away from home. 

Five days after we arrived in California, I wrote my account of that experience. I don’t need to read it to remember the details forever lodged in my brain. But two years later, different things stand out. Mostly, I think of the people who loved us that week. 

****

Monday, March 23rd was the closest I came to a breakdown. Our departure was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon (tickets purchased at 1:00 am, four days previously), and on Monday afternoon, I got the news that the Dubai airport would be shutting down Tuesday night. That airport is one of the largest in the world; it’s like a small city. Shutting it down was as flabbergasting as shutting down New York City. Which, of course, happened too.  

I sorted and packed all day, with people stopping by hourly to buy things or say goodbye. The house was a disaster. I was supposed to leave the country in 24 hours, I wasn’t done packing, and now I had no idea if we even had a flight. 

Gil was gone to the American embassy that day, trying to get Johnny’s visa worked out. The embassy doesn’t allow phones inside, so there was no way I could contact him. I got online, frantically looking for another airline. I typed our information into the Qatar Airlines website, and it came up at $13,000 a ticket. 

My breathing was short and shallow. I stopped thinking clearly; I needed someone to talk me down. I called my friend Heidi. Unlike many foreigners I knew, she and her husband were not leaving Tanzania. “I’m not okay,” I told her. “Can you please come over?”

She came immediately. I was visibly shaking. She hugged me. She reminded me to drink water. She talked through options with me. She was a tangible presence of God’s grace.

When Gil came home, he checked the Qatar website and discovered that in my foggy confusion, I had mistaken the $13,000 for one ticket, when actually it was for all six. Still twice as much as our previous tickets, but reasonable. He booked us for Wednesday. 

****

Trudie and Angela came by on Tuesday. Thousands of moments had woven our lives together, building our beloved school side-by-side, our children growing up in tandem. Yet, they were Tanzanian. They were not leaving. In their moment of crisis, we were. I couldn’t look them in the eye. 

We stood on my driveway, the bougainvillea blooming bright as their backdrop. I broke down in their presence. “How can we do this to you?” I choked out. “How can you not feel abandoned, betrayed?” 

They stopped me short. They looked me straight in the eye and spoke to me sternly. “Don’t say that. You must do what your leadership is asking you. You must trust God’s sovereignty.”

Two years later, I still struggle with the shame. But also, I have not forgotten what they said.

****

Tuesday night, all the dishes were sold, the food was given away. So we went to the Ramada Hotel for dinner, a couple of miles away. We were the only guests there. Our sandals echoed on the marble floors, and we spoke in low voices, not wanting to break the silence, sensing the solemnity and anxiety that hung in the air around us. 

Bernice came to see us at dinner that night. She was one of the ones Gil and I taught for eight years and later had the joy of knowing her as a grown-up, accomplished woman. She was always one who got things done, so it wasn’t a surprise that in the few days since we had announced our departure, she had gotten personalized mugs made for us, wrapped up carefully. In her farewell gifts held a tiny piece of closure, during a week that held none.

****

The Lewis family and ours fit together like puzzle pieces the prior two years, and we mourned losing our final three months together. But they planned to be on our Tuesday flight to Dubai, a bright spot for our kids to look forward to amidst so much loss.

Then that flight was canceled. We were too numb to absorb more disappointment. But the extra day gave us a couple of hours together, and the kids ran to play Capture the Flag in the half-built, bat-filled, abandoned building that had been their playground. A bright spot amidst so much loss. 

****

There were others: our landlord, who gave us kangas when she came to say good-bye. Esta, who brought her newborn to meet us. Jackson, who volunteered to move his family into our house and clean up the dregs of our hasty exit. Angel, who took home our beloved dog. George, who dropped everything to come over and drill holes in our packing crates. The Mwenda quadruplets, who brought sunshine into our anxiety and despair. 

Two years later, the tears still fall when I enter the memories. But now, some tears are of sorrow; some are of sweetness. May I think of those days and cling to the points of light, the whisps of hope, the promises of redemption.