Preemptive Love

Remaking the World through Heart Surgery

by Jeremy Courtney

I’m sitting in a doctor’s office in Fallujah, Iraq, surrounded by doctors trying to diagnose a two-week old baby born with one of the most complex heart defects around.

“This child will probably live longer if we do nothing for her,” my American colleague says. It’s an optimist’s way of saying, “She’s going to die. There is nothing that can be done.”

Outside this small office the press is swarming: Al Jazeerah, Reuters, national news, local news. The hospital staff tells us we are the first medical team to visit Fallujah since it became synonymous with anti-American sentiments at the height of the war.

Mothers in black robes, dressed to disappear, and fathers in regal headdresses are waiting nervously outside in the hallway for their turn to see Dr. Kirk—my brother in Christ and comrade in the effort to pursue peace and reconciliation across Iraq. We are working to eradicate the massive backlog of Iraqi children waiting in line for lifesaving heart surgery.

If you’ve been awake in the last seven years, you’ve heard of Fallujah. It was the site of some of the Iraq War’s most devastating fighting, due to Al Qaeda’s stranglehold on the city. It is also the home of the infamous “Blackwater Bridge,” where private mercenaries were burned and dragged through the streets before being hung off the bridge for all to behold. For most Americans, it seems “Fallujah” embodies Iraqi hatred for Americans (and by extension, perhaps, Muslim hatred for Christians). This perceived hatred, in a predictable cycle, has kept international aid organizations, researchers, investors, artists, and religious leaders at bay.

It has even proven difficult to find a fellow Iraqi willing to travel with me to Fallujah. For two years, I tried and failed to visit Fallujah. Religious clerics, fellow aid workers, soldiers and politicians have all denied my requests. And so the cycle continues. Most of the people I asked to help me had never been to Fallujah. But they perceived it to be dangerous, so they kept me away (which, in turn, kept aid money, doctors, and potential “friends of Fallujah” away as well).

But now I’m sitting in Fallujah and because of that, I know Fallujah differently. I know fathers who love their children with the same depth of love with which I love my two kids. I know mothers who weep from fear when they learn they are pregnant, because 1-in-7 children in Fallujah are reportedly born with a birth defect. I know doctors who work extraordinary hours to care for the city’s ever-growing health needs. I know alarming rates of cancer and abortions.

Here is a principle I grapple with regularly: violence unmakes the world.

Because of this, I’ve spent the last five years living in Iraq as a civilian, indeed, as a Christian, promoting a different way to live. Instead of a preemptive strike—in which I hurt you before you can hurt me—or preemptive defense—in which I fortify myself against you before you can hurt me—I call everyone who will listen to a life of preemptive love. It may be debatable as foreign policy, but it is a wonderful way to live as an individual, a family, or a community.

Because we all know that violence unmakes the world. But preemptive love unmakes violence. Preemptive love remakes the world through healing.

I know this because I’ve seen God do it over and over again throughout Iraq.

Baby Noor came to us from Fallujah. Her father, Abu Noor, is Sunni Arab like almost everyone else in their neighborhood and city. Noor was in serious need of a lifesaving heart surgery and both her parents and her pediatrician were vigilant about doing whatever was necessary to save her life. Unlike so many other families who have appealed to me to save their child’s life, Abu Noor didn’t insist on the easiest option. (That is, he didn’t insist that I send his daughter to America for heart surgery).

His daughter was a perfect candidate for one of our visiting Remedy Mission teams, sent to perform heart surgeries for Iraqi children and training for Iraqi doctors in a predominately Shia province a few hours away.

Before the war, most Iraqis claim they never talked or thought about who was Sunni and who was Shia—they were all Muslims and they were all Iraqis. Whether this is true or not is arguable, but today ethnic and religious distinctions have come to matter greatly. In some areas, being a Sunni in a Shia neighborhood—or vice versa—can be a matter of life and death.

Because of this, I was unsure how Noor’s family would respond when I suggested they join us for our surgical mission, during which “enemy” surgeons would work to save their daughter’s life. Thankfully, Abu Noor is a visionary. He wanted his daughter to be healed; but he didn’t want a healthy daughter in a broken world. He actually believed Noor’s surgery could pave a way for peace between these fractured communities.

And a few days after his “enemies” brought his daughter out of surgery, he said, “We have to take this wall of fear and break it down. We are all brothers and sisters.”

The entire encounter begged the question, “Who was actually doing preemptive love?”

Obviously, the surgeons who performed a lifesaving operation acted in preemptive love. But the unsung hero was Abu Noor—the father who chose to risk it all on his so-called “enemies.” By choosing to trust in the face of fear, he allowed a new story to be written between communities at odds.

Today, hundreds gathered in Fallujah to celebrate the departure of the American military. The image of American and Israeli flags set aflame may well symbolize the final days of the U.S. military operations in Iraq. But even as they chant “Good riddance!” I am as convinced as ever: preemptive love unmakes violence and remakes the world.

The people of Iraq—no more, no less than me—are asking for preemptive love. And this is by God’s design. So just as God always acts first in creation, then reconciliation and transformation, we must humbly act first in love for others if we will be His people.

Obviously preemptive love is not restricted to heart surgery in Iraq. There are a thousand other ways today to adopt a posture of preemptive love. We can apologize to a neighbor we’ve wronged or forgive someone by whom we’ve been wronged. We can call an enemy and ask them out to coffee. And we should certainly be spending more time in conversation with “The Other” in and around our neighborhoods and churches. Like my ongoing experiences in Fallujah, preemptive love is often as simple as presence. A walk across the street or a drive across town can ease so many ills.

Even in our personal relationships we are prone to think in terms of preemptive strikes and preemptive defense. But these things do not make us stronger. They simply tear away at the foundations of trust, leaving us weaker and fractured.

Of course, preemptive love isn’t novel. We receive it in the teaching of Jesus Christ when he said, “No one has greater love than this, that one lay down his life for his friends” and “love your enemies; pray for those that persecute you.”

Wherever we find ourselves, the greatest manifestation of the rule of God in our lives is the way of preemptive love. Preemptive love affirms the biblical message that there is hope for creation and allows us to join in God’s work of making all things new. Because violence does unmake the world. But preemptive love unmakes violence. Preemptive love remakes the world through healing.

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