Looking down

Just seven weeks after the September 11th outrage, I was in the air again, but not heading towards the world's centres of civilisation. This time I was flying to Mongolia. The flight path took us over Russia and the Central Asian Republics, even skirting quite close to Afghanistan. Eventually our ultra-modern Airbus flew over Mongolia's capital city of Ulaan Baatar. It was early in the morning and under a deep blue sky, the pilot skillfully banked south towards China. Our altitude was 40,000 feet and several hours remained before we would land at Beijing's 21st century airport. There I would change planes and fly all the way back to the Mongolian capital below me.

I sipped coffee in the warm cabin and putting aside my laptop, I looked down and wondered what was happening in the streets far below.

Looking up

Several days later I strolled along a main street in Ulaan Baatar. A thick coat, walking boots and warm scarf kept my body reasonably warm, but my breath on the morning air and the tingling skin on my face betrayed the sub-zero temperature. Around me, Mongolian men, women and children bustled along to work and school. A snowfall the night before cloaked the hills surrounding the city in glistening white. As I crossed the bridge over the main river which bisects the city, I noticed people walking on the frozen surface. Along the banks, horses and dogs searched for scraps of food. Even here in one of the most remote cities on earth, people scurried busily; sometimes glancing at watches, appearing to be purposefully heading somewhere.

Nobody looked up. Everyone was intent on reaching their destination and getting indoors out of the freezing cold. I raised my eyes towards the cold, but clear blue sky and saw two jet trails as international aircraft made their turns south towards Beijing. They seemed so out of place and totally unimportant to the Mongolians around me. Above our heads, nearly a thousand people were looking down at us, but everyone seemed unaware.

Looking down

Continuing along the street, I noticed a large open manhole. Pausing for a moment, I looked down into the darkness and saw only a rough metal ladder which stretched at least thirty feet below. Friends had told me about the labyrinth of tunnels that honeycomb the city. These tunnels contain large pipes carrying steam from the power station on the outskirts of the city, but they are also home to several thousand street children. In the summer these "children at risk" live in the streets and beg from tourists, but in the winter they inhabit the warm tunnels venturing out only to steal or scavenge. Some are orphans; others are from the countryside and are attracted to the city by hope for a better life; others are from poor families or broken homes; while some are actually born in the tunnels and know no other life.

The following day I visited a Buddhist temple in the city. Everywhere I saw devoted worshippers, monks and street children. A young boy approached me and held out his hand for money. I knew he would spend it on alcohol or drugs, but as I looked into his rugged, dirty face I saw a child made in the image of God—marred by sin and neglected by the world, yet loved by Christ. I reached my hand in my pocket and withdrawing a bar of English chocolate, I offered it to him. He seemed unsure and hesitated, so I broke off a piece and put it in my own mouth. He did the same and his unwashed face broke into a wide grin. We didn't speak the same language, we lived in different worlds, but I had something he needed and he clearly appreciated what I gave him. "If only my visit was not so short," I wondered, "If only I could speak his language, if only I could tell him about Jesus, if only..."

SIM serves in Mongolia in partnership with Joint Christian Services International (JCSI).