Snapshot from the Heart's Memories of the Arabian Peninsula

The following is by a missionary who served with her family in the Middle East for many years. This is part of her story; for security reasons she must remain anonymous.-Editor



I think of the time when my family was going on an exploratory drive in the mountains. We had often noticed this dirt road winding up the side of a mountain and we wanted to find out where the end of the road was.  We drove up, raising a cloud of dust behind us, bouncing up several steep hairpin curves, continually going higher.  I remember stopping at one point and looking out over the valley in which lay our city.  Small square houses gleamed white, each one representing one family living a life of little hope and much fear; the oasis made a pool of green among the rugged volcanic mountains.  The sky arced high over our heads, and wind whistled through a lone, stunted tree. 
   
At last we came the end of the road.  We knew it was the end because the packed dirt road ran off the edge of a mountain wadi's steep sides.  There were pick-up trucks parked there, but no other sign of people – no houses.  When we left our parked vehicle to stand on the edge of the wadi and looked up at the mountain towering above us, we could just see a few trees and stone houses where the sky met the curve of the mountain.  That was the village we were seeking.  It could not be reached by a car; there was no road up that mountain.  The only way to the village was down the side of the wadi, across the rocky bed, and up the steep mountainside – on foot.  We went no further, but while we were there, we saw a man and woman making their way up, carrying things they had brought from town.  That picture of the tiny figure of the woman picking her way up the the stony mountain with a bale of hay on her head has stayed with me. 

That unknown woman represents to me the hardy mountain Arab, toughened by the sun and mountain wind to survive the arid climate, living in tiny family communities isolated from much contact with the outside world.  Her isolation does not only prevent her from some of what we consider basic necessities – like driveways to the doors of our houses, but she also has little chance of hearing the gospel.  The little Christian influence in the Arabian Peninsula is centered in the cities because that is where the jobs are and a job is necessary to be allowed into most of the countries.  There are other very good reasons for focusing on the cities, such as the fact that there are more people per square kilometer, thus more influence and more contacts.  But I cannot help thinking of that woman and so many like her, who eke out a living among the rocks and die; never hearing of the One who loved us and took on our shame.  They live scattered throughout the country in tiny communities of people barely large enough to fill an average American church.  No, it is not efficient to go out to them, but did not our Lord search out the one, the individual?