Song in a Strange Land

By Janell Matthews Lindsey

Fareed Terneash, son of a Christian mother and an atheistic Communist father, leaves behind in Nazareth a broken romance and his appointment as delegate to the communist Youth Conference in Moscow. He travels to the Gaza strip seeking work.

Caught up in the Six-Day war, Fareed is transported to Jordan on the identification papers of a dead man. There his capture, torture, conversion, and eventual ministry among the prisoners end in an unexpected amnesty by the King.

Fareed is released into the streets of Amman without money,lodging or food,in constant danger of being shot or arrested because of his lack of official papers.

Through the help of a Palestinian, he begins work in the palace of a Prince. Later, in a Baptist hospital in the mountains of Ajlun, he ministers to Palestinian commandoes, telling them of his new-found faith.

Fareeds long-sought passport is issued through intervention of the Jordanian Queen. Thus begins his adventure in America as an eigth-grade dropout entering college.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 25, 2003
• ISBN: 9781477172964

Janell Matthews Lindsey

If you live a long time, portrait artist Janell Lindsey said, you can try your hand at all sorts of interesting things. One of my most memorable was writing about Fareed Terneash. Other interesting things are corporation president, technical writer, Mercedes salesman, poet, airline reservation agent, secretary, office manager, columnist/reporter for a weekly newspaper, licensed real estate/insurance agent, speech writer, and portraiture teacher at the Art Institute. Mrs. Lindsey was Augusta campaign headquarters manager for Georgia Governor Carl Sanders, a member of the first Merit Commission, and is listed in Whos Who in Georgia as a ghost writer. Janell and Delta Airline retiree Larry, husband of fifty-seven years, live in South Carolina. They enjoy two sons, two daughters-in-law, six grandchildren, and Italian Greyhounds. This is her first book.

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Copyright © 2003 by Janell Matthews Lindsey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Photo credits

Cover:          R. Alton TooleJr.

Author:        Linda Carter Adams

Interior:       Amy Grant

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Contents

PROLOGUE

SONG IN A STRANGE LAND

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

EPILOG 1978

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dedicated to

Larry

and

our sons and grandchildren

Special thanks to our son, Lee, for the many hours he has

spent in the preparation of this manuscript. Without his help,

expertise, and patience, Song in a Strange Land could

never have gone into print.

PROLOGUE

I first heard about Fareed Terneash in the mid-seventies from our son, Craig. His wife, Pam, and her parents were good friends of Fareed. The more funny stories they related, the more interested I became in this young college student who seemed so joyous, so full of fun and laughter. I thought his would be an amusing account of a foreigner’s problem with the quirks of English, and with our customs.

The story he told me was compelling but not amusing. It was filled with anguish, yet so moving that it has inspired thousands who have heard him speak in forty-nine states. I urged him to share it with you.

But I am no expert on politics in Israel and Jordan, and I am no historian. he explained to me in his delightful accent. "And I don’t want to sound proud. Who is Fareed Terneash? I am nobody. Still, I would like to tell everyone about how God has changed my life. Maybe a book is the best way."

I’ve tried to tell you about what happened in the Middle East only as it appeared to one young man from Nazareth as he lived it, and that can be done effectively only in the first person. So let me introduce you to Fareed Terneash, a remarkable young man with boundless faith and a most unusual story.

JML

DEAR UNMET FRIEND;

If you are sure there is no God, we are, indeed, brothers. I have been one of the most vocal advocates of your point of view.

If you know there are no miracles, join me. I have jeered that idea even louder than you, knowing there are logical, or psychological, explanations for everything.

If you are despondent, discouraged, hate your life’s boredom or drudgery, come sit in a dark corner by my side. I have been where you are now.

If you feel that life is not worth living, that you would rather be dead than go on with the daily struggle to find any purpose in life, lie down on my bed of emotional thorns. I have struggled in the dark nights and gray days with the desperation you feel.

If any or all of these things are true for you today, take my hand. Walk with me. I will show you a way out of misery into joy. Come to a place I have found: The shelter of God’s wondrous love.

Here, every day is an exciting challenge. Hopelessness is replaced by faith. Life is filled with breathtaking purpose. And miracles do happen.

If you are already a believer, my story will only confirm what you already know: God does amazing things when we get our selves out of His way, and let Him lead us.

Fareed Terneash

SONG IN

A STRANGE LAND

For they that carried us away

Required of us a song.

How shall we sing the Lord’s

Song in a strange land?

Psalms 137

Image287.JPG

CHAPTER ONE

For just a moment I thought the sun was shining through the cypress in the woods near Nazareth. Then the pain chased the illusion away, and the light seemed to be a bright ball, floating to and fro. From time to time, two dark balloons came between me and the light.

What … dirty … spy … now … conscious … A voice floated down in fragments from one of the balloons, and the other echoed, still … wandered … stinking … Christian … Now a whole statement came through to me from Balloon Number One: He’ll tell us the truth before we’re through with him.

The light ball once again attached itself to the ceiling. The walls settled back to frame the small room. Balloon Number One became the dark face of my interrogator, and Balloon Number Two his fanatic aide.

Then I remembered. I was in the hands of the Jordanians. I had no papers. They were calling me a spy.

My head flopped forward to my chest, and Number One’s huge paw jerked it upright by a handful of my long, dirty hair. His face loomed menacingly just inches from mine.

All right, one more time. Who are you? Who sent you to spy on us? What information were you instructed to get?

Again, again, again. My name is Fareed Tarneash. I am from Nazareth. I am not a spy. By trade I am an electrician. I am now, by the grace of God, a Christian.

We’ll start again with that lie, you little Palestinian pig. Say it now … say ‘I am not a Christian. I am a Jew spy.’ Say it!

Swwwttt … swwttt … the riding crop bit into my back. Blood soaked my filthy shirt.

Whock! Whock! Whock! The fist smashed again and again into my battered face. The walls and the balloons slithered toward the ball of light. Then they all floated away, and I was once again in the woods on the mountains that surround Nazareth.

I had fled to the woods, as I often did, to get away from the constant confusion of the tiny room that was my home, from the bitterness that was my life, and from my mother. From my mother who loved me, and whom I hated, with whom I had just had a bitter quarrel.

The argument was a repeat of a performance we had practiced for years. The dialog was familiar: Fareed, you are miserable because you reject God. God is the answer to your problems. As long as you’re a Communist, as long as you deny Jesus, you will stay the miserable person you are today. Ask God to forgive you, Fareed.

"Don’t say that to me ever again! Never! You can’t give me any more foolish hope with your pipedreams of heaven, because I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe in Jesus. And you can’t scare me with hell. I do believe in hell, Mama. I believe because I’ve been there. And what has your God done about it? All my life you’ve prayed, and prayed. But nothing changes, except to get worse. So spare me any more of your stupid preaching!"

The pain in her eyes at my words, as always, only made me angrier, and I turned and raced from the room. Fareed, Fareed, she called after me, One day you will understand, and you will believe. God will answer my prayer for that. I’m sure of it.

I walked, ran, stumbled along the twisting dirt road up the craggy mountainside, cursing myself, my life, my mother, her God. At last I dropped exhausted in my familiar refuge under the trees.

Stretched out on my back, I concentrated on the dancing patterns as the sun filtered through the needle-covered branches. All the anger, hurt, bewilderment with my life, and the futility of my efforts to change it, swirled in my head. Nothing sorted itself out except the certainty that I would never go home, never go back to that prattling about religion, God, Jesus.

I would leave, I would go away. Anywhere would be better than home, better than that God is the answer nonsense I had heard all my life.

If my father were any kind of man, I thought, he would have never put up with that all these years. A good Communist shouldn’t allow his children to be exposed to that capitalist propaganda. He should have forced her years ago to stay out of the church, to throw away that bible, and keep her mouth shut around us children about the ridiculous philosophy these capitalist American Baptists spouted: Love will make all things right, God cares about you, Ask and you shall receive. Ebaleh!

I would put it out of my mind. I would concentrate on what I would do with my life, where I would go to begin again.

But just as things began to get restful in the woods, with the sunlit patterns playing comfortingly on my face, the light began to change again. Once more it became a bulb which was attached to a ceiling. The room swam into shape, and the two balloons again bobbed above me.

Balloon Number One continued the blistering monolog that had been in progress when I passed out: Say it! Say ‘I am not a Christian, I am an Israeli spy.’ Tell me the truth. Say it

Why not? Why couldn’t I say what I had been saying most of my life? I had said I didn’t believe in Jesus, and much more, without any prompting. Why now, with my face smashed, with blood oozing from my welted back, why could I not just say a few words to stop this agony? A simple sentence beginning I am not a Christian …

I had cursed the church, denied the existence of God and his Son, damned my mother, only days before in reality, only moments before when delirium had taken me home. It should be very easy. And it would stop the fists, the riding crop, the pain, the questions, at least for a while, I opened my swollen lips and forced my dry tongue from the roof of my mouth.

Balloon Number One turned quickly to Number Two, who stood over me. What did he say? Did you hear what he said?

He’s babbling again. I think he needs a little more persuading.

But what did he say? Did he confess? What did he say?

Number Two hesitated, then shrugged. He said, ‘Mama, forgive me. You were right. Jesus Christ is the answer.’

Swwttt … Swwwttt … Swwwttt … Whock! Whock! Whock! The ball of light, the walls, and the two balloons floated away.

When I came to, I was sprawled on the floor in a tiny cell. I desperately needed water and a toilet, but I was so weak and weary I tried to ignore both urges.

It seemed safer to continue to lie still. If I just lay quietly, maybe they wouldn’t realize I had regained consciousness. When they knew, would they take me back to the interrogation room and begin again? Wincing at the thought, I closed my eyes.

Could all this really have happened to me ? It seemed impossible. But my aching body bore witness that it was all very real. I was actually a prisoner in another country.

The next realization brought a smile. If this was real, so were those extraordinary moments on the Jordanian plains, and almost too miraculous for me to believe. Could I ever comprehend exactly what had taken place there? I was certainly a changed man. God had indeed made a new person of me. The old Fareed would have been in such depth of despair, so bitter, so vindictive, none of the thoughts concerning my captors could have been running though his head. I understand how the officials feel. I am Israeli. Ofcourse they must distrust me for their own safety. They are hard and bitter men, hating everyone, themselves most of all, just as I once did.

I was indeed going to take an invaluable piece of knowledge if I ever left Jordan. But it wouldn’t be troop numbers and positions, tank and gun strength or any other military information. It was worth much more. I had come to understand about Jesus!

Yet how could I expect them to understand? I had heard it almost daily for all of my twenty years, and I hadn’t believed or understood. I had been immersed in a river of darkness all of my life. The light had been offered to me through my mother and her missionary friends time and again. But I had preferred to stay in my misery, convinced nothing could help me.

Would this new peace and joy endure, or would it slip away as other wisps of frantic anticipation had in the past? No, this was unlike any of the nebulous hopes I’d had before. This was as real as my bleeding back, my swollen face. I was as certain of that as I had ever been of anything in my life.

That I should have this strength of faith was amazing to me. I had had confidence in so few things, and fewer people, for so many years that an overpowering belief in anything at all was a miracle to me.

I had heard of miracles. MaMa had told me about them, and Grandmother, too, when I was a child. But I believed that all anyone needed to do was look around our impoverished surroundings, our dismal lives, and use his head.

Anyone could tell, I had thought back then, that there was no such thing as a miracle. Or if miracles did exist, they certainly weren’t in the dusty countryside outside Nazareth.

CHAPTER TWO

By the time I was born in March of 1948, my family was already in the clasp of poverty.

Five other children were shuffled off through the rain to the neighbors. The midwife arrived just in time to usher me uneventfully into the single room where the eight of us would eat, sleep, laugh, argue, weep, love and hate each other.

All children in a family, boys and girls, bear their father’s first name as their middle name. So all of us were named Saleem, under the law, and are thus identified as siblings. I joined Foad, Juliette, Samerah, Wadad, Nabeh, (and the first Fareed, who had died at four, after I was conceived). So I arrived, Fareed (Distinguished) Saleem (Safe) Terneash.

My father