Blake stumbled out of bed the next morning at 5:30. He quickly showered, dressed and packed his bag. He'd postponed his return to Karachi, and today he was going with Paul to visit Shantinagar. It had been six weeks since the village was attacked and burnt but little rehabilitation work had taken place. They would see clearly the extend of the damage.

Paul was due at 6:00 but didn't show up until after 6:30. I could have had an extra half an hour of sleep, Blake thought regretfully, but I should have known that he'd be late. Nothing ever happens on time in this country.

As Blake got in the car, he was glad to see that Joseph was with Paul and Mark Masih. He felt safer with Joseph around.

The car quickly made its way out of Lahore through light traffic and accelerated along a two-lane road into the country. Blake knew they were traveling south because the rising sun was to his left. This was his first opportunity to see the countryside in Pakistan. He gazed sleepily at bullocks pulling plows in the fields and peasants bicycling and walking to work. Rural life was hard, Blake mused. No wonder so many people were migrating from the countryside to the city.

There were other reasons, too. Government loans and subsidies for cash crops had disturbed traditional agricultural relationships. Tenant farmers now worked for small salaries, rather than just paying their rent with a portion of their produce. Once they became accustomed to having cash, they wanted more. And the only way to get more cash was to go to the city. Younger people were especially drawn by the irresistible advertising of consumer goods, as radios and even some televisions made their way into the countryside.

In addition, encouraging cash crops tended to increase the value of the land. The best way for the poor landowner to realize that value was to sell his land. For the tenant, it meant that his rent was increasing, and increased rent meant decreased earnings. Both small landowners and tenants, therefore, were leaving the land to seek a better life in the cities. Blake knew that this was happening throughout what Westerners called the Third World. Countries were exporting cash crops to Western countries but importing food for local consumption, because they had lost their ability to feed their own people.

The car swerved suddenly into the other lane and accelerated past a truck before pulling quickly back into its own lane. Blake glanced at the speedometer. They were traveling at more than sixty miles per hour despite the steady stream of traffic coming toward them and a number of slower vehicles ahead of them. Blake looked over his shoulder at Paul and Joseph, asleep in the back seat, and then turned back to watch the road. Because of his longer legs, Blake had been invited to sit in the front seat. There was no seat belt in the old car, but he hadn't given it a second thought, as he was used to riding in taxis in Pakistan and India that didn't have seat belts. This driver, however, was definitely putting their lives at risk.

They were coming up quickly now behind another truck. Blake could see that the traffic coming toward them wouldn't allow the driver to pass the truck. He kept waiting for the driver to brake and slow down, but the driver was hunched over the steering wheel, intent on the road. Suddenly, he braked slightly, then swerved onto the shoulder and shot past the truck before pulling back onto the highway. Blake felt sweat break out on his forehead. This was more than he'd bargained for when he said he wanted to go along.

There was no chance of dozing now. He was wide awake, his heart beating rapidly, as the car hurtled down the highway. If we hit something, Blake thought, I'll be thrown through the windshield. He brought his feet up and put them on the dashboard in front of him, bracing himself for the impact he had begun to think was inevitable. Would his legs be crushed into his chest? He didn't know, but he guessed he was safer in this position than sitting up straight with his feet on the floor.

The car swerved onto the shoulder again to pass a tractor on the road. Paul and Joseph continued to doze in the back seat. Blake thought about waking Paul in order to have him tell the driver to slow down. He knew the trip to Shantinagar would take about five hours and that they'd had a late start, however, he wanted to get there alive. Would they think he was needlessly frightened? When he was a boy he'd hated to be called "chicken" or "yellow" by his friends for refusing to go along with a dangerous prank, and he was reluctant to complain now. But this was ridiculous.

Once more the driver whipped the car onto the shoulder, but Blake could see this time that there was some kind of barrier ahead of them. "Look out," he yelled, as the driver braked sharply and the car began to slide in the loose gravel beside the road. Dust thrown up by the locked wheels settled over the windshield and the car shuddered to a stop, just inches in front of the barrier. Blake's warning had awakened Paul and the others in the back seat, and now Masih spoke to the driver in Punjabi. When the driver eased the car back onto the highway, Blake sat up straight and turned around.

"Sorry to wake you, Paul, but that was close."

"Yes. Mark told the driver to be more careful."

Blake turned back to the front and felt his body relax. Soon the heat made him feel drowsy and he dozed off.

They stopped to eat at an intersection in the road where there was a place to buy food. Blake was a vegetarian, so he had a piece of nan and a cup of tea. The others had chicken with their nan. They sat in front of the restaurant on benches that were made out of a wooden frame with rope woven over the top. The smell of dung from the fields mingled with the scent of sesame seeds burned into crust of the nan.

Blake had brought a bottle of mineral water with him, because he never drank the local water in Pakistan or in any of the countries of South Asia. After the meal he rinsed out his mouth with water and then walked a few paces away from the others, turned his back to them and the road, and urinated into the ditch.

After another couple of hours they wound their way along a single-lane road, asking directions several times before they saw an army truck and several soldiers sitting beside it. These soldiers didn't challenge them, however, when they drove into Shantinagar. The village, built along the road they were on, had several intersections. At the very center of the village was an open area and a power generator. Here they found some of the village elders gathered, waiting to meet them.

The elders were sitting on a blanket in the shade of another blanket held above the ground by poles and ropes. Blake followed Paul, Joseph and Masih to the edge of the blanket, where they took off their sandals or shoes before sitting down. No one bothered to introduce Blake or to translate what was being said, so he simply watched as the men conversed in Punjabi and Urdu. He knew that his friends were paying their respects to the village elders, according to the customs of the people.

About twenty minutes later they were given a tour of the damaged village. Most of the homes in the village were black with the soot of the fire. He was surprised, however, to see how well built the houses were. Many of them were two story structures with several rooms. The walls were made of cinder blocks covered with plaster. These were not the shacks he'd anticipated but substantial homes.

Inside, however, the houses were in ruins. Twisted pieces of burned furniture littered the floor, and walls were scorched and dark with soot. Tractors and cars that had been burned stood like monuments of despair beside the empty buildings. People were living in tents pitched made out of tarps or blankets. Washing hung on lines beside their tents and goats and cattle grazed nearby.

At one point Blake encountered a resident of the village who spoke some English. "Help us leave Pakistan!" the man pleaded. "There's no way for Christians to live in this country. Look at what they've done to us!"

Blake sighed. Wherever he went, people wanted to leave their countries and come to America, the land of hope and promise. Of course, it wasn't that simple, because there were lots of problems in the United States. But he couldn't say that to people, who had been victimized in their own country. He had to tell them, however, that only a few persons would be able to leave and start new lives in America. Most would need to remain where they were born. Therefore, it was important that they find ways to improve their lives in their home countries. But how could he say that to this anguished man who had been burned out of his house?

Blake was glad that Masih began to talk with the man in Punjabi. Today Blake didn't want to give his stay-at-home-and-help-your-community speech.

Blake took several pictures of the burned out houses. He saw a young girl standing in front of a blackened house. Behind her on the wall someone had scrawled in English "Is the crime to be Christian in Pakistan?" Quickly he aimed his camera and clicked the shutter. The small girl continued to scowl at him for a moment before running off.

The elders took them to see a Salvation Army church that had been burned. Although the walls and roof remained intact, the windows had all been blown out by the force of the blaze and inside only the iron cross hanging at the front of the sanctuary had survived. Bibles, hymnbooks, and pews had all vanished in the ferocious fire that swept through the sanctuary.

By the time they returned to the main intersection of the village, a few dozen people had gathered. Blake noticed that some of the younger men had hooked up a speaker system. Paul spoke briefly to them in Urdu, but the people all understood what he was saying. In the Punjab everyone knew both Punjabi and Urdu. Punjabi was the language of the home and the community. Urdu was the language of the school, commerce and law.

Blake thought that Paul might be telling the villagers about the march held in Karachi to protest the attack on their village. He knew, however, that these people would not be consoled by the suffering of those who had marched in solidarity with them. The people of Shantinagar wanted compensation for their losses, and they wanted those who instigated the attack on their village to be tried and punished. Christian leaders were pushing for an inquiry into the attack on Shantinagar, but Blake thought it was unlikely that the police would allow such an investigation.

The devastating attack on Shantinagar demonstrated the disastrous consequences of the blasphemy law and the climate of hatred that it fostered. Perhaps the Supreme Court will take this into consideration, he thought, when it hears the petition tomorrow. It seemed that only a decision by the Court could force the police to be accountable for their actions and provide protection for the Christian minorities in Pakistan.

The long ride to Islamabad was uneventful. Blake could see that Paul was exhausted from the trip and from experiencing the anger and despair of the people of Shantinagar. Blake, too, was emotionally drained. Often in his work, he felt helpless in the face of suffering and injustice, and it was hardest when he had to meet the victims personally. He recalled the faces of the villagers and the agony of the man who had appealed personally to him for help. He'd be glad to leave Pakistan in a couple of days. Even more than before, he realized how fortunate he was that he could leave.