Nail Scarred Hands Made New. John Shorack

      Caracas, Venezuela

      On this particular morning, I managed to ignore the pulsating beat from the bus driver’s stereo enough to read the morning paper while simultaneously noticing two young men that boarded the bus. They made their way to the back of the unusually empty twenty-four-seater, sitting directly behind me, just inches away. Without taking my nose out of the paper or even diverting my eyes, I noted to myself that these were possible malandros—Venezuelan street criminals. On the heels of that thought came another: they could put a gun to my neck if they wanted to. I read on, my mind consumed with national and world events.

      Five minutes later I was shaken out of the news by the realization that the bus was being held up! The two young men had gone forward presumably to pay and get off. One of them pulled out a handgun, which he pointed at the driver. His accomplice made his way to each passenger, taking jewelry, cash, and cell phones. There were only six or seven passengers, including myself.

      The young man took earrings from the woman directly in front of me and the other to my right, both seated within inches of me. Not wanting problems, I made a special effort to demonstrate my compliance. I began taking out my pocket money. For reasons God only knows, the young men never acknowledged my presence. I tried to get their attention, assuming I was next in line. Inexplicably, I was invisible to them. They moved to the front of the bus and jumped off. Nothing short of an act of God spared my wedding ring.

      I would not be so fortunate the next time. Within a few weeks two young men on another bus noticed my ring, threatened me, and stole it. Then three young men jumped me in yet another incident on a bustling commercial street in downtown Caracas. While shopping for school clothes with my two daughters, one of them threatened to shoot me while his buddies reached into my pockets and took everything I had. Marna, my nine-year-old daughter, screamed to attract attention, hoping someone might come to my rescue.

      I became traumatized as a result of these experiences. I found myself consumed with the notion of dying. My mind wandered to my childhood and the loss of my father. My mind turned to my own children—Johanna (13), Marna (10), and John Mark (9). “Lord,” I prayed with tears welling up, “I don’t want to die yet! I don’t want to leave them without their dad.”

      My perception of reality became distorted. How dangerous is life in Caracas? I lived fifteen years in a dangerous inner-city neighborhood of Los Angeles, California. The sound of gunshots was routine for my family. I coined an adage that helped me explain the danger to the occasional visitors who ventured into the neighborhood to see us: “Anything can happen at any time, though most things won’t happen most of the time.” In that city we witnessed the violence without being targeted ourselves. Gangsters considered us off-limits. In Caracas, no such social buffer exists. They target Venezuelans and foreigners alike.

      Taking greater precautions, I continued walking the hillside, visiting homes and riding public transportation. But to make matters worse, a teammate and I were held up at gun point fifty yards from my home during a routine walk at dusk. I felt confused and insecure.

      My mind replayed the stories of all the people I had met since visiting Caracas the first time in 1998. The first words I learned after stepping off the plane at Simon Bolivar International Airport were malandro (a delinquent youth who commits street crimes and kills people) and inseguridad (lack of safety). On that trip I encountered many people gripped by fear of street crime. Now, several years later, I honestly cannot think of a Venezuelan with whom I have shared my story who has not responded with a similar, if not more dramatic, experience of their own.

      “T.O.A.”: Traumatized on Arrival

      Two months after getting jumped in downtown Caracas, I boarded a plane for the United States to attend meetings of the InnerCHANGE leadership team. I remember my arrival. It was a Friday evening. From the moment I touched down I wanted to talk. I needed to talk.

      I talked first to the friend who picked me up at the airport, then to the twenty guests who had gathered at his home to welcome me. The next day I met one-on-one with several people. In seemingly endless conversations, I dwelled on the crime and violence in Venezuela. I was consumed with the notion of dying. Try as I may, I couldn’t change the topic.

      Sunday morning I went to church in the Mid-Wilshire district of Los Angeles. The turn-of-the-century gothic structure contains a traditional sanctuary replete with stained glass windows, oak pews, crimson-colored carpet, and pew cushions.

      The service concluded and I hung around to greet people. When the sanctuary emptied, I passed through the large doors to the foyer. As I did, I greeted an elderly usher. At that moment, while my hand was in his, I remembered a jarring story my brother Todd told me.

      Todd, two years my senior, had visited Geneva, New York, the upstate college town where our family lived in the 1960s. He stood up in the First Baptist Church during Sunday morning worship and introduced himself as a visitor: “My name is Theodore J. Shorack III.” The small, aging congregation gasped in disbelief. Thirty-three years earlier they had sent off a promising young father of four named Theodore James Shorack Jr. to fight in a distant war. When he didn’t come home, they inscribed his name in a stained glass window as a memorial to my father.