Preface to Land Without Hats
Home	My first husband, Pascal, was killed when Swissair 111 crashed off the coast of Nova Scotia. At the age of thirty-two I found myself alone and widowed. As I struggled with this devastating loss, I sought meaning and a sense of purpose. At the time, I was working in Geneva, Switzerland for IOM — the International Organization for Migration—but found it too difficult to continue to live in Europe without Pascal. A little over a year after the accident, I moved back to the United States and settled in Connecticut, where my sister and her husband were living and began working at Save the Children. One of the many saving graces of working for Save the Children was that, over time, I was not only able to slip back into a normal routine but also to loose myself in important work. I also found myself traveling frequently for my job. As a way to heal, I began to speak with widows from the many countries I visited. I owe an enormous debt to the many Save the Children colleagues in field offices around the world who helped to arrange interviews with local widows and who graciously agreed to translate for me from the myriad of local languages to English. What they translated were amazing stories of courage in the face of adversity. It opened up a world of widow that I never knew existed and inspired me to dig deeper into what it means to be a “widow” in different cultures. In Haiti, I met three widows whom I’ve thought of many times in the years since I first began this journey of self-exploration and outreach. They lived in devastating poverty but their dignity belied this fact. They were strong and determined to continue to raise their children in circumstances few of us can imagine. Every day they struggled to make a living, keep their children in school, and deal with the shattering loneliness of managing these difficulties on their own. They missed their husbands terribly but held onto the hope that they were now in a better place—le pays sans chapeaux—the land without hats. In this land, their husbands—hats in hand—met God for the first time and were welcomed into the kingdom of heaven. There they wait to be reunited with their loved ones one day. In the years since Pascal’s death, I’ve heard many widows voice this hope of a land without hats—as I have often done. The world to which their husbands have traveled is one of peace and has helped the women to continue their own journeys on earth. The Land without Hats is a collection of oral histories gathered from some of the places I visited since Pascal died. I’ve spoken with many exceptional women who continue their journeys—widows who have been faced with the struggle of re-creating their lives following the death of their husbands from causes ranging from landmine accidents in Afghanistan, to lack of medical facilities in Haiti, to squatter town violence in the Philippines. Often, the names of the widows and their family members have been changed out of respect for their privacy. When I’ve used the names of the widows and their families, I’ve received consent to do so. Through their histories it becomes apparent that the plight of widows and the severity of the consequences of widowhood differ from one culture to another. Despite their many differences, there is one common thread that weaves through the stories of all the women—whether they are Pakistani, Native American, Haitian, or Nepalese—their overwhelming concern for the welfare of their children. Foremost in their thoughts and struggles is having enough food to properly nourish their children, money to pay for school fees, and the means to protect them against sexual abuse, violence, and exploitation. It has been ten year since the accident that took Pascal’s life. As the years passed—slowly at first, and more rapidly later—I’ve been able to do what many of us may take for granted—choose how to live the rest of my life. After the tragic events of September 11, 2001, I was sent to Save the Children’s office in Pakistan to help with the unfolding humanitarian crisis. There I met, fell in love, and married Imran, a colleague who was working in the Islamabad office. In 2003, we moved to the United States and started a family. Sophia, our daughter, was born in September of that year and our son, Zachariah, was born two years later. Unfortunately, there is not such a blessed and happy outcome awaiting many widows in the developing world who are bound by cultural, religious and societal norms from fully taking charge of their lives. Through no fault of their own, many are scorned and forced to live as outcasts in society. In 2001, the Northwest Frontier Province of Pakistan was—and still is—a dangerous place. At the height of the Afghan refugee crisis, I met a widow outside a community health center waiting to have her ten-day old newborn seen by a doctor. I never knew her name and she only agreed to speak with me in a concealed place, out of public view. Her husband had been killed a few months earlier when he returned to Kunduz for a brief visit to check on the family’s land. Kunduz, in northern Afghanistan, was the last major stronghold of the Taliban, who held power there until November 2001. During his brief return, a bomb struck the family’s house and he was killed instantly, leaving behind three children and his pregnant wife. I clearly remember the way her fearful eyes stared at me through the webbing of her pale blue burqa. Despite her covering, I could tell that she was very young. I remember seeing her eyes overflow with tears as she asked what kind of life her child would have, a widow’s daughter. To this day, this is one of the most haunting images I carry with me, mostly because I had no acceptable answer. It would be a life of hardship and struggle. I am not an expert on widowhood, nor do I have training as a grief counselor. I was just a widow who listened to what other widows said about themselves, their families, and their lives both before and after their husbands died. I laughed and cried with the women and I wrote down what I heard. It’s my hope that their histories will provide a glimpse into the lives of these widows—their struggles, heartaches, and triumphs. And that we might be able to find an answer to the question asked to me so many years ago—what kind of life will these women and their children lead? And, how can we make a difference?
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