CAPTURED and IMPRISONED in MOZAMBIQUE-FRONTLINE FELLOWSHIP-PETER HAMMOND

[Nat Quinn]

CAPTURED and IMPRISONED in MOZAMBIQUE

Since reporting on our recent Prison Ministry in Mpumalanga, https://www.frontlinemissionsa.org/prayer--praise-updates/prison-discipleship-lecturing-on-african-church-history-during-mission-to-mpumalanga-congo-river-mission-and-youth-conference-in-kwazulu some have asked that we share details about when our mission team was CAPTURED and IMPRISONED in MOZAMBIQUE:

In October 1989, exactly two years after our Frontline Fellowship field team of four were released from prison in Zambia, eight missionaries on a Frontline mission were forced into Mozambique at gunpoint by a heavily armed mob of Frelimo troops. This dramatic incident received widespread coverage in the USA, South Africa and Zimbabwe, on radio and TV and in the press.

Media Hatchet Job
What distinguished this incident was the vicious disinformation published by many newspapers, which placed our lives and liberty at serious risk. While we were being interrogated by SNASP Secret Police at the notorious Machava Security prison, sensational headlines declared: “RENAMO SPONSORING CLERGYMAN CAPTURED” (Business Day, 30 October 1989), “BAPTIST MINISTER IS FRELIMO’S TOP CAPTIVE” (Harare Herald , 30 October 1989), “MISSIONARIES LINKED TO RENAMO” (The Star, 31 October), “BAPTIST MINISTER IS MOST IMPORTANT RENAMO BACKER” (Natal Mercury, 30 October) , “THE CURIOUS
MISSIONARIES WITH COMBAT EXPERIENCE” (Weekly Mail, 3-9 November), “EVANGELISTS OF THE RIGHT PREACH A GOSPEL OF THEIR OWN” (Sunday Tribune, 5 November) and “A QUICK RETURN TO FREEDOM FOR THE MERCENARY PRIESTS” (Weekly Mail, 3-9 November), amongst many other examples.

Hatemongers Endanger Lives of Missionaries
All of these irresponsible articles originated from Harare, Zimbabwe and were written by either Steve Askin or Peta Thonycraft. Their stated source of information was “The Ecumenical Documentation and Information Centre of Southern Africa” (EDICSA). The speed with which these hatemongers spread their accusations throughout the South African media was impressive. What is surprising is that so many editors and TV producers could have allowed such irresponsible journalism to jeopardise the lives of missionaries in communist custody with unproven speculation and slander. The motives of the Harare reporters and their timing was highly suspect.

Background to the Abduction
A California-based Christian emergency relief organisation had requested our help to establish contacts in Africa for their first relief mission to this continent. They had experience in providing medical care to war victims in Central America, Lebanon and Afghanistan. When the team landed at Lilongwe airport the Malawian police detained two women because they were wearing trousers. By law, all women in Malawi were required to wear dresses or skirts. As they had no dresses in their luggage, I had to dash into town to buy them skirts so that the police would release them.

Mozambique Refugees in Malawi
By the time the six Americans arrived on 22nd October at Lilongwe, in Malawi, I had arranged for them to visit numerous mission stations and clinics which were involved in caring for Mozambique refugees. Officially, over 850,000 refugees from war ravaged Mozambique had sought refuge in Malawi. For a small, overpopulated, landlocked country like Malawi, this presented a monumental economic crisis. The desperate need for medical assistance in these areas was obvious. None of the members of the American team had ever been to Africa before. Some of them hadn’t even been out of America before. So, by way of orientation, the Monday (23rd October) was given to inspecting the hospital facilities of Nkhoma, our host mission station. On the Tuesday (24th October), I showed the CERT team around various refugee camps and border villages, where they experienced some of the desperate needs and suffering of the Mozambiquan people. At several points we crossed over the border and visited burned-out villages and bombed-out buildings and shops in socialist Mozambique.

A Wrong Turn
Then at about 3pm that afternoon, we took a wrong turning and found ourselves driving towards a Frelimo border control check point. Three camouflaged soldiers with Soviet assault rifles were visible beside a thatch roofed structure and a simple pole lay across the road. In the distance, beyond the check point, we could see several bombed-out buildings and a tattered Frelimo flag. Clearly, we were heading towards the border. I was in the back of the land rover to allow our guests the more comfortable seats. “Stop the vehicle,” I instructed. Yet, the American team leader kept driving. “You must stop immediately!” I instructed. Yet, he continued to drive towards the Mozambique check point. “We must turn around!” I was emphatic, but the driver just commented the road was too narrow, we have to go on! “Stop and reverse!” I demanded. Yet, on he drove! Stopping just before the check point on Malawi soil, one of our group, Steve, got out, walked to the approaching soldiers and tried to explain that we were lost and had taken a wrong turning. He asked for directions but was shouted down by the agitated Frelimo troops, who cocked their AK- 47 assault rifles and made threatening gestures to him.

Mob Rule
Seemingly from nowhere another 15 communist soldiers appeared and encircled our vehicle, shouting abuse and pointing their machine guns at us. Steve offered the soldiers some Gospel booklets and this clearly aggravated them, leading to more rifles being cocked and further abuse. More soldiers arrived. The mob hysteria escalated with every soldier screaming his own questions and searching whomsoever he pleased.

Frenzy
We were forced out of the vehicle and searched several times by different soldiers. Finding only some cameras and quite a large amount of Gospel literature, they started demanding to know our occupations. When Carol declared that she was “a paramedic”, more weapons were cocked and the ugly mood of the mob deteriorated further. It seemed that in the translation into Portuguese they had misunderstood the term “paramedic” to mean something military!

“We’re Americans!”
As the situation continued to deteriorate rapidly, some of the American medical team started waving their US passports. This caused somewhat of a lull in the hysteria as dozens of obviously illiterate Frelimo’s gathered around the few who could read and listened to their painful attempts to read the nationality on each passport. Some seemed clearly impressed and declared “Americanos-Amigos”, but other disgruntled ideologues muttered “imperialismo”, “capitalismo” and other presumably negative opinions.

Hatred for South Africans
Suddenly, a primeval shout of discovery led to an electrifying series of yelps and shrieks throughout the ever-increasing mob. They had discovered George’s South African passport! With a demonic viciousness, some dancing with delight, others spitting hatred, they pounced on
George, searched him again and excitedly discussed “Africa du Sul” and “Apartheid”, “Pieter Botha” and “Racismo”. By this stage we had endured their savage mob hysteria for nearly three hours!

Erratic Demands
One officer declared that we could all go except for the South African. Obviously, we refused to accept that. Another officer then announced that we could all go but that the vehicle had to stay with them. Yet another’s solution was that everyone could go but the cameras and passports had to be confiscated! In amazement we stood and watched the mob of Frelimo troops argue amongst themselves as to what to do with their supposed “catch”.

Handbrake
Repeatedly they tried to force us across their check point into Mozambique at gunpoint. This we steadfastly refused to do. Then they tried to push the vehicle across. However, as they seemed oblivious to the function of a hand-brake and as the vehicle was in gear, they could not even budge it an inch.

A Night of Fear
With the light rapidly fading, the soldiers became more agitated and rougher as they tried to force us across their border post. One even tried to start the vehicle with our petrol-cap key. An ugly situation developed as they accused us of giving them the wrong keys. Then, at gunpoint, they ordered all eight of us into the vehicle. For the first time in four hours we had a quiet lull in which to pray together.

Escalating Threats
So, while Frelimo troops threatened to blow up our vehicle with their RPG rockets and kill every one of us if we tried to move, we bowed our head and committed the whole unbelievable situation to God, trusting Him to protect us and deliver us from evil. That act of faith was the beginning of a cramped and sleepless night in the uncomfortable four-wheel drive vehicle.
It was also the beginning of a week of imprisonment and uncertainty.

“You Will Die!”
Some fifteen or more Frelimo soldiers slept around our vehicle. On occasions they peered through the windows at us. Sometimes they cocked their assault rifles and at least once I clearly heard one of them shouting the only English he seemed to know: “You will die!” We each sat in silence, preoccupied with thoughts of our loved ones, reviewing our lives and speculating on our immediate future. I thought of Lenora whom I had married a mere six months previously.

Dawn
All too slowly the long night passed and daybreak came. The soldiers filtered back up the hill and soon only three Frelimo troops were visible. One thoughtfully brought us a bucket of water to wash our faces. The situation seemed to have been defused. Hours passed without incident or explanation.

At Gunpoint, by Armoured Car
Then suddenly, two GAZ trucks arrived, packed with Frelimo troops. Within minutes, dozens of heavily-armed troops were pouring down the hill and surrounding our vehicle. At the same time, from the other direction, a blue Malawian Police landrover appeared and stopped within sight of the large contingent of Frelimo troops. A messenger brought a letter from the Police, demanding that we be released into their care. The entire Frelimo mob laughed and then at gunpoint they forced us across the check point into Mozambique. Although they promised that it would only take ten minutes and then we would be released, our hearts sank as we crossed the “point of no return.”

Escorted to Captivity
At the top of the hill, amidst the bombed-out buildings, surrounded by over 70 Frelimo soldiers, we waited. Suddenly, a noisy Soviet BTR armoured car rumbled into view and, screeching to a halt, covered us with a cloud of dust. As we were bundled into the battered BTR, with 16 soldiers as escorts, our hearts sank. It didn’t look as if we would be released any time soon! For an hour and forty minutes we raced through war-ravaged countryside. From the back of the armoured vehicle I saw two destroyed mission stations and five bombed-out villages. The countryside was blackened from fires and I only saw one animal, an antelope.

Prisoners of Socialism
At last we arrived in Ulongwe, the district capital of Angonia. There we were handed over to the District Police HQ of the PPM. After the irrational Frelimo soldiers, it was actually a great relief to be in the cordial hands of the Mozambique Police. We were separated, searched and interrogated. As the story emerged, the police were clearly amazed at the army’s blatant stupidity. The police inspector who dealt with us was critical of the Frelimo commander who had ordered our abduction: “You were lucky he did not shoot you all and blame it on the bandits! He is a fanatical Marxist. He trained in Russia and he hates all whites. He was the one who ordered the shooting down of the civilian Malawian aircraft over-flying Angonia from Lilongwe to Blantyre in 1986. He was promoted for that. Perhaps he thought that capturing eight foreign missionaries would get him further promotion!”

Bureaucratic Passing the Buck
However, despite some sympathy and fair treatment from the police, we still remained prisoners. The district police referred our case to the secret police, who passed the buck to the acting district commissioner, who handed our case over to the local member of the central committee, who radioed the provincial authorities in Tete, who consulted with the national authorities in the capital, Maputo. If ever we needed an object lesson in how clumsy and unworkable socialism is, we experienced it in Mozambique. The bureaucratic hierarchy of centralised control so smothers initiative that no-one is willing to make a decision and take responsibility. Everyone ducked the issues and passed the buck.

Delays While Detained
So, as we waited and walked up and down in the police yard for three days, the awkward process of shuffling responsibility continued. In Ulongwe we had neither toothpaste nor a change of clothes (nor plumbing or electricity). We got dirtier and more uncomfortable as the hours dragged by. We prayed a lot, we shared verses from the Bible from memory and we speculated on what every event could indicate about our fate. For the American medical team, their first week in Africa was certainly turning out to be a crash course!

Threats
For me, I wondered how long it would be before news of our capture was published and how long it would be before people started recognising my name and connecting us with Frontline Fellowship. After all I had done and written, it seemed inconceivable that they would miss my identity. Bible smuggling, unorthodox and illegal entries, Evangelism amongst Renamo and Frelimo troops, providing documentation and research on communist persecution of the church and testifying of human rights abuses before the International Society for Human Rights conferences. All that could have been enough to put me away for a long time, if they had known who I was. The Ministry of Justice, Department of Cults had written to me before this Mission, warning that if I ever returned to Mozambique, they would kill me.

To Escape or Not to Escape – That Was The Question
On several occasions George and I could have escaped, but we felt obligated to stay with our overseas guests and they were in no condition for an escape and evasion forced march through the night. We could not abandon or endanger the American medical team.

By Soviet Helicopter
Suddenly, on Saturday morning, two Soviet Mi-8 Hip helicopters thundered overhead. An army land rover raced down the road towards us and several soldiers dragged us out and loaded us onto the back of the vehicle. At breakneck speed we were jolted over the potholes towards the clearing beside the army base, where one Hip helicopter was hovering. The second Mi-8 circled overhead. To our surprise, the helicopters were in Soviet Air Force colours and were piloted and crewed by four white Russians in each.
We were divided into two groups, so four of us went in one helicopter, the rest in the other Hip.

In Russian Hands
“How are you? Have they been treating you well? Are you all right?” the Russian co-pilot asked in concern at our appearance. One Russian kicked a Frelimo soldier for manhandling one of the ladies roughly. “These Frelimo are scum”, we were told by the Russians. As the helicopters lifted off and began our flight at treetop level, the Russian crew brought us some soft drinks in cans. “They are good” we were told, “The cool drinks are from South Africa.” Our co-pilot then gallantly offered his seat to Lucille so that she could have a better view upfront in the cockpit.

Scorched Earth
We flew for forty minutes over burned-out countryside, destroyed villages, bombed-out houses and burning fields. Four kudu (antelope) were the only sign of life that I saw during the flight. The extent of the devastation was staggering. “Why are all the villages and crops burned down? Who is responsible for this?” I asked.
“The Frelimo government burns it down to starve out the Resistance,” declared one Russian in a matter-of-fact way.

Bullet Holes in the Fuselage
The Russians told me that they had been “chosen” to come to Africa, how sickened they were by the suffering and devastation in Mozambique and how much they were looking forward to going home soon. They pointed out some bullet holes in the cockpit and related the close call they had had the previous week when “Renamo bandits” had shot at their helicopter. The holes seemed to have been made by 12.7mm rounds.

Bombed Out Airport
As the images of destruction raced past my eyes, my mind was reeling with the implications of this flight. Suddenly we were circling Tete airport, I pointed to the bombed-out remains of a control tower, two devastated hangers and some burned-out aircraft. “What happened?” I asked. “The Rhodesians bombed Tete airport in 1979,” the Russian explained. Well, clearly no repairs had been made in the intervening 10 years.

Over to the Secret Police
After landing, we were raced across town, at breakneck speed, to SNASP secret police headquarters. There we were photographed and interrogated separately. Then we were driven, in unseemly haste, back across the mighty Zambezi river, back to the airport. In the back of the landrover I found myself next to a box with our cameras. As they contained photos of us with RENAMO Resistance fighters, I removed the 35mm spools and threw these potentially incriminating film rolls into the Zambezi river while we were driving across the bridge. The secret police forced us onto a Soviet Antonov 26 transport aircraft and we were then flown to Maputo.

A Country Aflame
Throughout the three-hour flight we saw areas burning and large sections of blackened, scorched earth.

Maputo
By the time we landed in Maputo it was pitch dark and I was mentally prepared for torture and lengthy imprisonment. The ramp of the AN-26 lowered to reveal about 20 helmeted military policemen, armed with AK- 47 assault rifles. With a prayer in my heart for strength, I walked down the ramp into the darkness, to be ushered into waiting vehicles by the mob of MP’s. What followed was the, by now predictable, race across town at breakneck speed over potholed roads, down unlit streets. We saw crowds of people lined up, in the dark, outside the shops and communist slogans painted on many walls.

Machava Security Prison
As we pulled up outside the metal gates of Machava Security Prison, my heart sank. Machava was notorious for its human rights abuses and had been cited in recent Amnesty International annual reports as the site of innumerable tortures and human rights violations.

Solitary Confinement
Each of us was separated and placed in pitch darkness, in solitary confinement. My concrete cell was less than two metres wide by two metres long. Cockroaches scurried across the floor as I sat down and persistent mosquitos attacked me in swarms for the whole night.

Assaulted
With a heavy heart I sought the Lord in prayer, interceding for each of our team and for our loved ones at home. Then I started singing hymns of praise. Some of the others joined in the singing. Suddenly screams for help cut us short. “Help us, there are men in our cell!” It was Lucille’s voice. “Help! There are four soldiers attacking us,” Carol’s frantic cry echoed down the corridor.

Desperate Prayer
In shock, I started shouting. All of us shouted for help, threatened the attackers and prayed aloud: “God help them please,” “In Jesus’ Name, leave them alone,” “God will judge you for this!” I heard Lucille ‘s husband, Fred, groaning in desperation and helplessness. We banged on our cell doors in a futile attempt to get out. Then suddenly we heard Carol say, “It’s okay, they’re going… they’ve gone,” We heard their cell door slam and the rattle of the bolt. “We’re all right, they’ve gone.” Lucille assured us.

Grateful Praise
I fell down in thanks to God for such a swift answer to prayer. All of us were overcome with anger and a sense of outrage at the treacherous and cowardly way we were being treated. We felt frustrated and vulnerable, helpless to protect Lucille and Carol. Throughout that long night my emotions went through many stages, from fear to anger, to faith in the Lord.

Singing in the Cells
Daybreak found me singing songs of praise, confident in the Lord’s sustaining power. Lying down on the ground, I prayed aloud the Lord’s Prayer under the door and into the corridor. The others joined in and soon we were sharing Scripture verses, hymns and Psalms together. It was a dramatic and meaningful experience. George and I then sang all four verses of the South African National Anthem, “Die Stem”.

Interrogations
Then the interrogations began. Throughout that Sunday, the secret police came and took each of us, one by one, to be photographed again and interrogated. When my turn came, I was ushered down a dark and filthy corridor, into a sorry little office, where everything was broken and dirty. A table was spread with what looked like tools from a hardware store. There was also a car battery with wires and crocodile clips and an armchair with leather straps.

Dealing with the Devil’s Disciple
“I am the devil,” declared the SNASP investigator, by way of introduction. “Not only am I a Leninist, I am a Stalinist. I studied three years in Czechoslovakia!”
“Well, I am a Christian”, was my reply.
“I hate Christians!” he declared. I was then subjected to a long monologue about how God did not exist. How Jesus was the first communist. How all Christians must become liberation theologians and how the function of the church should be to advance the revolution!
“I cannot agree with that.” In reply, I gave a lengthy discourse on the Renaissance, the humanistic philosophy of Voltaire and Rossouw and the resultant devastation caused by the French Revolution.

Swopping Lectures with a Socialist
My SNASP interrogator then launched into a bitter attack on “capitalism” and gave a defence of socialism. He then rambled on about mythology and ended up attacking Margaret Thatcher’s economic policies. Amazed at how incompetent and inefficient this member of SNASP was, I proceeded to give a lecture on the Reformation. He then got very enthusiastic about Marxism, declared the interrogation over and sent me back to my cell. Several hours discussing theology, history, politics and economics is infinitely preferable to torture!

Confusing the Communists
I had been praying that God would confuse the minds of His enemies and blind their eyes to my identity. This is clearly what had happened. They still hadn’t realised my identity, nor had they guessed our connection with Frontline Fellowship. The American medical missionaries had probably misdirected them. We did not normally have so many members. It was also the first time we had a medical team in the country. My British passport had my names Peter Christopher on the first line and Hammond on the second line. Throughout the incarceration I was called Mr Christopher. I did not correct them.

Change of Tactics
Late that afternoon, our cell doors were opened and we were led out, placed in jeeps and driven at characteristic breakneck speed across Maputo to the downtown headquarters of the secret police. There we waited for hours, cheerfully chatting to one another in a waiting room. I assumed that this was another interrogation technique, after solitary confinement and interrogation, to put us at ease, together and monitor our conversations, to see if we would incriminate ourselves in any way.

Softening Up
Then a delegation of security officials walked in and gave us an almost gracious speech, regretting our “accommodation arrangements”, promising that they had arranged for “better accommodation in a motel,” expressing appreciation for the work of relief agencies and assuring us that everything was being resolved! Our group was overjoyed as we were led back into the jeeps and raced back across Maputo to Machava prison!

Back to Solitary
Most of the group were stunned as they escorted us back to the same cells and locked us in for another long, mosquito-infested night. They even refused to give us any water to drink. We were all very thirsty. For me, this good cop, bad cop routine of playing emotional games was familiar and predictable.

If Walls Could Talk
A large rat appeared and stared at me as I started singing again. The walls of our cells were covered in Christian graffiti, “Please God help me”, “Jesus is my Lord and Saviour”, “I haven’t eaten for 38 days”, “God is my refuge”, many verses, some crosses and fish symbols. We were not the first Christian prisoners in these cells. Nor were we the last.

Psy War
The next day we waited in vain for water and for more interrogations. Nothing. Only a bowl of porridge without spoons. I refused to eat like a dog and so for the third day, refused the offered food. No news. Just waiting, exercising with sit ups, press ups, marching on the spot and praying.

Discovering Other South Africans in Machava
It was while doing pull-ups, using the bars high up in the hole in the wall that served as the only ventilation for the room that I was surprised to see a white man walking in the prison yard. I called him over, identified myself and asked who he was. Incredibly, he was a South African soldier from the Reconnaissance Commando. He informed me that he was one of three Recces who had been locked up for five years in Machava Security Prison! I memorised their details.

Abandoned
Later, after we had been released and returned to South Africa, I asked Foreign Affairs if they knew about them. “Yes, we did” one responded. I said, “they have not received a letter, a parcel, or a visit in five years. What have you been doing?”
“Oh, we did not want to endanger their lives.” they said.
To this I responded: “You cannot get more endangered than in the hands of SNASP Security Police in Machava Security Prison! Why did you not send them some soap? Some biscuits? Some antibiotics? Some malaria tablets? Some vitamin tablets? Why did you not send them some books to read? A Bible? Why did you not send them a letter? These men have been there five years! Do you know what five days are like in that prison?” The Foreign Affairs official just looked at the ground and mumbled: “Oh, it is so difficult …” He thought it was difficult! A diplomatic embarrassment is hardly to be compared to the physical trauma of incarceration in a communist prison, let alone enduring interrogations and torture. Well, I ensured that their story was published. Shortly afterwards, these three men were released. People rot in prisons, not so much because of the wicked, they rot in prison because good people do nothing. Publicity provides protection for the persecuted.

A Dramatic Development
Then, late that Monday afternoon, SNASP security personnel came for us. They separated the women and George from the rest of us and drove us into Maputo on the back of a garbage truck. The squalor and filth of the dilapidated capital in its sea of squatter shacks was depressing. We drove the same route back to the SNASP HQ in Maputo and then, without explanation or apology, we were unceremoniously handed over to our respective embassies. But George was missing. So also, was $380, all of our cameras and Carol’s U.S. passport.

The Difference between Americans and the British
The difference between how British people and American people express themselves was evident in this experience. A tall, smartly dressed woman with long blonde hair exclaimed in an American accent: “Well, who are the Americans?” Six hands shot up and there was lots of shrieks and hugs and excited chatter all around. “Well, let’s get you back to the American Embassy for some coffee and hamburgers!” As the American men and women excitedly skipped down the hallway, a man dressed in a pin stripe suit asked quietly: “And who is the British gentleman?” I was the only one there not wearing camouflage and carrying an AK47, but I dutifully raised my hand. The British Embassy official shook my hand and exclaimed: “Had a spot of bother, have you? Well, let’s get you to the British Embassy for a cup of tea.”

The British Embassy on Vladimir Lenin Avenue
As we drove to the corner of Vladimir Lenin and Mao Tse Tung Avenues, the Embassy official remarked that, of course, the streets did not have those names when it was first established in what was then, Lourenco Marques. At the embassy he walked around to the side to show me a brass plaque declaring that after his escape from the Boers in 1900, Winston Churchill sought sanctuary at this consulate. “Who knows, Rev. Hammond, one day we may have a plaque here remembering you.” I looked at the man with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond, we know all about you. We need to get you out of here before Frelimo realises who they have had.”

A Race against the Clock
Suddenly I was conscious of how dirty I had become without any opportunity to wash or change clothes for seven days. Scarcely daring to believe I was free, I headed off for a bath. When I learnt of all the irresponsible journalism in the South African media, with articles accusing me of being a “Renamo resistance spy” etc., my heart sank. I spent a sleepless night, praying for George, who I thought was still being held, but who had actually also been freed. I was certain that when Frelimo read the articles identifying me as the Director of Frontline Fellowship and as the one who had documented hundreds of atrocities and acts of communist persecution against the Church, they would re-arrest me at the airport. I scarcely dared believe that even their clumsy bureaucracy could be so slow as to miss this opportunity. I prayed for God to confuse the minds of His enemies.

Escape from Mozambique
The next morning, aside from the air ticket, I was forced to pay for an “exit visa” and “airport tax” at Maputo airport. So, cursing socialism and the theft mentality of these beggar states, I boarded the little 10-seater aircraft which would fly me to freedom. There on board was George! We embraced with joy. As we taxied down the runway, I saw eight Soviet Mi-24 Hind helicopters, three AN-26 and an IL-76 Candid transport aircraft. Clearly, despite Western aid, the Soviet influence was still present and prominent in socialist Mozambique.

A Bird’s Eye View
As we flew above the road from Maputo to Komatipoort, I saw many dozens of burned-out, shot-up vehicles beside the road. I remembered the ambush I had survived on that same road in 1985 on my motorbike. Only as we flew over the border into South Africa at Komatipoort did I feel free. It was the same feeling as when I drove across the border into South Africa after sixteen days in Zambian jails and prison in 1987. God had once again “opened prison doors and set the captives free.”

A New Sense of Urgency
Ahead of me was the joy of being reunited with friends and family and my wife, Lenora and the prospect of being able to continue this mission for God. I was even more grateful than ever before for the life, health, liberty and opportunities which God so wonderfully provides. There is nothing like facing death and imprisonment to reorientate one’s priorities in the light of eternity and to emphasise the truth so eloquently expressed by cricketer turned pioneer missionary, C.T. Studd: “Only one life – it will soon be past. Only what is done for Christ will last.”

The above article is from a chapter in Frontline – Behind Enemy Lines for Christ which is available in both hardback and softcover from Christian Liberty Books https://www.christianlibertybooks.co.za/item/frontline__behind_enemy_lines_for_christ_hc or from Frontline North America https://f-na.company.site/. Frontline – Behind Enemy Lines for Christ is also available through print on demand https://www.lulu.com/shop/peter-hammond-and-john-eidsmoe-and-erlo-stegen-and-patrick-johnstone/frontline-behind-enemy-lines-for-christ/paperback/product-kqgm6n.html?q=&page=1&pageSize=4 and as E Book. https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1139850

 

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Click here to see the latest Frontline News:. https://www.yumpu.com/en/document/read/67668888/frontline-fellowship-news-edition-1-of-2023

 

Dr. Peter Hammond

Frontline Fellowship

PO Box 74 | Newlands | 7725 | Cape Town | South Africa

Tel: +27 21 689 4480 peter@frontline.org.za http://www.FrontlineMissionSA.org

 

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