Gospel Story Finder

Near Christmastime I entered an art contest with students from my area. I drew a picture of an angel appearing to shepherds, telling them the joyous news of Christ’s birth. I was delighted to learn that I was one of the finalists and that my art would be displayed at a local museum, but sad when I learned that the awards ceremony was going to be on Sunday.
When my parents asked me what I thought I should do about the ceremony, I said that we shouldn’t go because it was on Sunday. My family and I had a great time visiting the museum on Saturday to see my picture, and my award was mailed to me the next week.
I am happy that I chose to keep the Sabbath day holy. My testimony grew that day because I knew I had chosen the right. I know that Heavenly Father blesses us when we keep His commandments.

Wouldn’t it be nice if it were possible to ask President Uchtdorf’s mother if she had any inkling that her youngest son might be called one day to serve in the First Presidency of the Church? What did she sense as she nurtured her young son, enabled his freedom, and saved his life? On one occasion she and the children were in a public auditorium. She was impressed to leave the building immediately. Because of that urgent feeling, she availed herself of a wheeled cart, placed young Dieter in it, and scurried away with her children as quickly as possible. Shortly thereafter, the building was destroyed by an act of war. Most occupants of the auditorium were killed. Sister Uchtdorf and her children were spared.

While serving as a bishop, I witnessed the blessings of the Atonement in the lives of Church members who committed serious transgressions. As a judge in Israel I listened to their confessions and, when needed, placed restrictions upon them, such as not partaking of the sacrament for a time.
A young single adult in our ward was dating a young woman. They allowed their affections to get out of control. He came to me for counsel and help. Based on what was confessed and the impressions of the Spirit to me, among other things, he was not permitted to partake of the sacrament for a time. We met regularly to ensure that repentance had happened, and, after an appropriate time, I authorized him to again partake of the sacrament.
As I sat on the stand in that sacrament meeting, my eyes were drawn to him as he now partook of the sacrament worthily. I witnessed arms of mercy, love, and safety encircling him as the healing of the Atonement warmed his soul and lifted his load, resulting in the promised forgiveness, peace, and happiness.

One day while doing missionary work in the dusty streets of Kenya, my companion and I talked to a lady. She accepted the pamphlet we gave her but told us not to return.
A few days later we found ourselves on that same street, and we had a prompting to follow up with her. I asked myself, “Why are we going back when she told us not to return?” But we obeyed the prompting.
She was surprised when we got there but said that she was happy to see us. We began to teach a lesson, but it soon turned into an argument. My companion and I closed the lesson with a prayer and left, immediately agreeing not to go back. But the very next day, we again had a strong prompting to return. I didn’t want to go back, but my companion said we should listen to the Spirit. So I swallowed my pride, and we went back. When we got there, I was shocked. The lady seemed like a different person. Her countenance had changed, and she was willing to listen to what we had to say. During our next visit, she asked us when she could be baptized.
Four weeks later, she was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. After her confirmation, she embraced us and told us that she was ever so grateful we came back. I’ve learned that we should always listen to and act on promptings. Heavenly Father does prepare His children to receive the gospel, and He uses all of us to find them through the Holy Ghost.
Leaha M., KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa

“We’d better find out where the well goes before we begin,” he declared. “It should be close to both the house and the barn. We’ll try out that divining rod the Indian gave us.”
When we went back to the dugout for lunch, Papa found the forked branch we’d brought with us from southern Utah. “It should be thirsty enough to find water by now,” Papa said with a wink.
Holding the branch horizontal to the earth with one prong in each hand and the other pointing straight ahead, Papa walked slowly around the area where he hoped to have a well. Suddenly the free end of the stick seemed to tip toward the ground.
“Here’s the spot,” Papa said. “That’s just the way they said it would work. Dora, you stand here while I try it again. I can’t believe it’s that easy to find water.”
He tried the rod several times again, and it always tipped at the same place. Papa was so excited I thought he was going to dig the well right then. He grabbed his shovel and started a hole. When he had it about a foot deep and three feet across, he leaned on the shovel to rest and said, “There, that ought to mark the spot. The well’s the next project after the barn. Let’s go to Texaco and see if we can buy some lumber to get started. I have a feeling there’s going to be a storm before long.”
After we got back with the lumber, Ed and I lifted and held the boards while Papa nailed them in place. Soon we had a good start on the barn.
One morning we woke up to find the ground covered with snow—in New Mexico, imagine! Enough to make angels, or play fox and geese, but not enough to stop work on the barn. The snow melted during the day, and that night when we got home Mama showed us where the water was running down inside the dugout. The next day Papa went to town for something to seal the leak.
Mama went with him and left Caroline in charge. Ed and I thought we were old enough to take care of ourselves and didn’t like her bossing us around, so we went out to the barn to plan our day.
“Let’s go see the Indians,” Ed said. His curiosity was pulling him like a magnet. I liked to talk about danger more than I liked to experience it, so I wasn’t so eager.
“Caroline won’t let us,” I offered as an excuse.
“Pooh! She can’t stop us. Come on. Let’s go.”
I followed obediently, but slowly.
“Hurry up,” he urged.
“W-what if they ch-chase us?” I whispered.
“They won’t chase us, and even if they do, we can run faster. And you don’t need to whisper. No one can hear you.”
“What if the braves are there?”
“They won’t be. They come in the middle of the night.”
“I’m scared.” I couldn’t help whispering, even though Ed had told me not to.
“That’s all right. It’s fun to be afraid.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Go back then, scaredy-cat, and I’ll go by myself.” Ed started off. He knew I’d follow. Frightened as I was, I couldn’t stand to miss a chance to be with Ed.
I followed slowly. Ed picked up a stick.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You could hit with it if you needed to,” I suggested.
“Yeah, but I probably won’t,” he replied. Even so, we both felt better now that Ed was armed.
We walked more slowly as we approached the first hut, and Ed put his finger up to his lips to warn me to keep quiet. The air was still except when a small breeze whispered through the grass. Our bare feet left silent prints in the damp ground. No sound at all came from inside the dugout, and we could see only a black square where the door was ajar. We tiptoed closer and closer, trying to see inside.
Suddenly a voice came from the darkness, gentle and coaxing. “Come on,” it encouraged.
We stood in the doorway and gradually out of the darkness emerged a great shape, a woman who seemed large enough to half-fill the room. No wonder she didn’t want to move. She was beckoning to me with her finger. “Come on,” she invited again.
Ed gave me a little push. “Go on,” he said. “I won’t let her hurt you.”
When I got close enough, the squaw grabbed me, lifted me onto her ample lap, and nearly took my breath away, hugging and kissing me. She touched my hair gently and murmured, “Palomino, Palomino.”
When Ed said we had to go, it was hard to pull away, but I did. As we left she said, “Come back. I want to be your grandma.”
We checked the other dugouts, and what Mr. Talbot said was true. Each had an old squaw in it. We were never welcome in any of the houses but the first, however. “Grandma” became our first and best friend in New Mexico. Until she died, she loved my golden hair and called me Palomino.
When we got back home that day Papa was already there and fixing the leak.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“To see the Indians,” Ed answered.
“Not clear up on the reservation?”
“No, just those old squaws over there.” Ed pointed to the dugouts.
“I thought you heard Mr. Talbot say to stay away and not to bother them.”
“They don’t mind. They’re lonely for little kids.”
“One likes me,” I said. “She calls me Palomino.”
“Palomino’s a horse,” Papa said.
“I think she means my hair,” I explained.
“Maybe so,” Papa agreed. “A palomino is a blond horse.”
Before the next storm came the barn was nearly finished and the animals were cozy inside. We had some hay in the loft and Ed and I coaxed to sleep there.
“Not until we move into the house,” Papa said. “It’s too far away from the family now.”
The barn was built like a shed, with a steep roof slanting to one side only. The day Papa was hanging the door, Mr. Lenstrom, who had come over to help, was busy on the roof. I climbed up to see what he was doing and saw he was working with a plane, scraping up curls of wood.
“Why are you doing that?” I wanted to know.
“I’m making this board smooth.”
“What for?”
“So you can slide down it without getting slivers in your backside.”
I wondered if he’d tried it once. “That’s a good idea,” I told him. “I’ll help you.”
We worked until we had the board so slick that Ed and I could shoot down it like a slippery slide, with a scary sail into the air before we hit the ground.
In a few days Papa started to dig the well. When he dug so deep he couldn’t throw the dirt out, he rigged up a bucket on a pulley. Ed and I pulled it up, emptied the dirt out, and sent it back down for Papa to fill again. He had to put in boards as he went along to support the sides so they wouldn’t cave in. He shoveled deeper and deeper until the hole was three times as tall as he was, and still there was no water. He began to doubt the power of the Indian’s stick.
One day he called up, “The ground’s too hard for the shovel; send the pickax down in the bucket.”
For a foot or two he dug through rock, but underneath that, the ground was moist.
“Hadn’t better dig any deeper,” he said when he came out of the hole. “Water might come in and drown me before I could get out. We’ll just wait awhile and see what happens.”

While we were in the sacred city of Jerusalem, we also had the unique blessing of being able to visit the tomb of the Saviour. As Gaby and I were making our way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, for some reason I cannot remember, I was overwhelmed with anxiety. Looking back, I wouldn’t doubt that I was hungry and being bumped by thousands of people didn’t help.
In the queue to enter the tomb, it was uncomfortably warm. There was a lot of talk in many different languages, which now brings me joy—Christ truly is the Saviour of the world—but caused sensory overload at the time.
With all the people around and the heat stressing me out, I went onto my phone and tried to ignore everyone.
When Gaby and I were finally at the front of the line and walked into the tomb, all anxiety, discomfort and stress fled.
An almighty, miraculous peace, comfort and joy replaced them. In that location so sacred, so holy, I experienced yet another undeniable manifestation of the love of the Lord and I knew Jesus Christ was my personal Saviour.
He died for me personally. He died for all of us. He suffered, and bled, and died for us all. Three days later, scriptures tell us, He walked out of that tomb.
I have seen the tomb of the Lord Jesus Christ, and I testify that it is empty. Along with the angels who spoke to Mary Magdalene, I say this: “He is risen” (Matthew 28:6).

In 1836 Parley P. Pratt went to Canada following a great prophecy uttered by Heber C. Kimball in which Brother Pratt was instructed to go to Toronto. He was told that he would there find people waiting for him who would receive the gospel, and that from there the gospel would spread into England, where a great work would be done. In Toronto he found President John Taylor, the Fieldings, and many others.

In August of the next year, 1837, the Prophet Joseph Smith, with Sidney Rigdon and Thomas B. Marsh, then President of the Twelve Apostles, visited Toronto. Riding in a carriage and holding evening meetings by candlelight, they visited the churches. Elder Taylor accompanied them. He said: “This was as great a treat to me as I ever enjoyed. I had daily opportunities of conversing with them, of listening to their instructions, and in participating in the rich stores of intelligence that flowed continually from the Prophet Joseph.”

The Knaupps later lived in Oregon. Then last year, after we heard that Wendy had cancer, we were blessed to discover them visiting in Utah during general conference. Wendy’s husband, their returned missionary son, and I gave her a blessing. We shared our experiences from the past four decades. It was clear that the gospel meant absolutely everything to them. It was the center and purpose of their lives and their children’s lives. Paul and Wendy fervently wanted to be healthy so they could fulfill their dream of serving a mission together.
Not long before she died, Wendy wrote to me in a letter, “I really feel that I am in the arms of the Lord. He can do anything He wants, and I am in His care.” She expressed gratitude for the gospel and her family, then wrote, “Isn’t the Lord wonderful!”
Now Wendy is gone, and her family misses her terribly. When her son wrote us about her death, he said, “Thank you for bringing Mom into the light of the gospel. She has lived in obedience to the commandments.” He said his mother once wrote to him, “I love the Lord and am eternally grateful [to Him] for bringing the priceless gospel into my life. I want to prove faithful more than anything else and am really trying to do so.”

I met Brother Cerda August 1972 while reporting his nation’s first area conference. I had asked to meet some Latter-day Saint families and learn of the gospel’s impact on their lives. Thus it was that my translator, Jesse Trujillo, and I were driven to Benemerito and welcomed into the home of Manuel and Maria Cerda, parents of five adult sons.
I soon learned why we had been brought to their home. Their story started seventeen years earlier, when missionaries had knocked at their door in Tehuacan, 225 kilometers southeast of their present home. Within six months, father, mother, and five sons were baptized—Víctor was twenty-three, Augustin twenty-one, Moises nineteen, Ramon seventeen, and Gilberto sixteen. In less than a year, the sons began to be called on missions. Before long, there came an extraordinary six-month period when all five sons served simultaneously in the missions of Mexico. Of equal interest was the remarkable coincidence that all five sons had served two or more months as a companion to one of their brothers.
With the turning of his family to missionary service, Manuel Cerda decided it was not enough to send and support, as best he could, his sons. He decided he must be an example. Together, he and his wife María determined that they would be missionaries, too. Were there not nonmember friends and neighbors and relatives all around?
Thus, during the three-year period that five sons served missions, Manuel and María Cerda were personally involved in the conversion of seventy persons into the Church. Letters from Manuel and María went out weekly to their sons, telling of one acquaintance after another joining the Church. The witness of joy and truth from father and mother burned into the hearts of five sons—father and mother doing missionary work at home, father and mother encouraging their missionary sons, brothers serving together as companions.
Soon this family witness flamed into a great fire of faith and energy and love, reaching out farther and farther. At the end of their missions, this was the report of the sons to their father and mother: Víctor and his companions—140 persons baptized into the Church; Augustin and his companions, 106 persons; Moises and his companions, 160 persons; Ramón and his companions, 75 persons; Gilberto and his companions, 233 persons. Total: 784. When I met them in 1972 the family had brought in 53 more—837 eternal friends among the membership of the Church.

Another attempt to capture the stallion began at the horse’s favorite watering hole, Onion Creek, ten miles southeast of Austin, Texas. One day, while the stallion and his band of fifty to sixty drank at Onion Creek, twelve determined men assembled on Pilot Knob, a bluff overlooking the creek. Each man had two horses that were handpicked for speed and endurance.

To set the trap, ten of the men rode down the blind side of the knob and concealed themselves and their horses in positions south of the creek along the trail the white stallion usually took. The other two conspirators waited on Pilot Knob until they heard birdcall signals from the ten men to indicate they had reached their designated stations.

The zero hour had come. The two men on Pilot Knob eased down the back of the hill and rode in a wide arc north of the wild horses. Then, shouting and waving their hats, they charged full speed from the north at the mustang band. The startled horses, logy with water, fled straight south toward the ambush.

The stallion, accustomed to being the target of hunters, pulled ahead of his band. As he thundered along the trail, the concealed men, one after another, snaked out their lariats, missed, and cursed. Several drew pistols and fired. They aimed to stun the great horse by creasing the back of his neck. But they couldn’t touch him as he raced with the wind, his mane and tail streaming behind.

More wary than ever now, the stallion paced in huge circles, working gradually south. His loyal family followed him until his mares and colts, a few at a time, dropped away, exhausted.

At the end of three days and nights without rest, the stallion still paced on. He was now two hundred miles south of Onion Creek and had worn out all but two of the horsemen stalking him.

After another day, the two men finally gave up the chase. The white stallion was still headed south.

Where he went, no one ever knew—but he was free. This famous mystery horse, the Pacing White Stallion, lives on today in legend as a symbol of the love of freedom.

Next day we visited the Global Expo centre. It was the most emotional day, seeing 2,800 refugees living without basic medical help, and a mountain of volunteers in dire need of additional financial help. The volunteers, from many different churches, were addressing spiritual as well as physical needs. We were with Bellwether International, a human-rights nonprofit organisation, and with them we were able to give socks and other practical clothing.

The testimony of the Prophet Joseph continues to change lives. Some years ago I served as the president of the Canadian Mission. In Ontario, Canada, two of our missionaries were proselyting door-to-door on a cold, snowy afternoon. They had not had any measure of success. One elder was experienced; one was new.

The two called at the home of Mr. Elmer Pollard, and he, feeling sympathy for the almost frozen missionaries, invited them in. They presented their message and asked if he would join in prayer. He agreed, on the provision that he could offer the prayer.

The prayer he offered astonished the missionaries. He said, “Heavenly Father, bless these two unfortunate, misguided missionaries that they may return to their homes and not waste their time telling the people of Canada about a message which is so fantastic and about which they know so little.”

As they arose from their knees, Mr. Pollard asked the missionaries never to return to his home. As they left, he said mockingly to them, “You can’t tell me you really believe that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God anyway!” and he slammed the door.

The missionaries had walked but a short distance when the junior companion said timidly, “Elder, we didn’t answer Mr. Pollard.”

The senior companion responded: “We’ve been rejected. Let’s move on.”

The young missionary persisted, however, and the two returned to Mr. Pollard’s door. Mr. Pollard answered the knock and angrily said, “I thought I told you young men never to return!”

The junior companion then said, with all the courage he could muster, “Mr. Pollard, when we left your door, you said that we didn’t really believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I want to testify to you, Mr. Pollard, that I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, that by inspiration he translated the sacred record known as the Book of Mormon, that he did see God the Father and Jesus the Son.” The missionaries then departed the doorstep.

I heard this same Mr. Pollard in a testimony meeting state the experiences of that memorable day. He said, “That evening, sleep would not come. I tossed and turned. Over and over in my mind I heard the words, ‘Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I know it. … I know it. … I know it.’ I could scarcely wait for morning to come. I telephoned the missionaries, using their number which was printed on the small card containing the Articles of Faith. They returned, and this time my wife, my family, and I joined in the discussion as earnest seekers of truth. As a result, we have all embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ. We shall ever be grateful to the testimony of truth brought to us by those two courageous, humble missionaries.”

In the summer of 2011, I had the privilege of meeting Josh Larson at the Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico, USA. A few months later, Josh was helping his father clean out a warehouse. Without warning, a chain transporting a 1,480 pound (670 kg) beam suddenly snapped, dropping the beam onto Josh, crushing him from his neck to his legs. Miraculously, Josh’s father was able to move the beam off his son’s body. He performed CPR until emergency personnel arrived to transport Josh, who was still not breathing, to the hospital.
Josh spent days in critical condition. Doctors worked fervently to repair his cracked skull, shattered sinuses, and other severe injuries. After numerous operations, Josh was eventually stabilized. He then began the long, slow road to recovery.
Today Josh still experiences many of the effects of his accident. He has a damaged eye, is partially deaf in one ear, and has a metal plate in his head. Yet he chooses to look at his ordeal as a blessing. He knows that he owes his life and his recovery to Heavenly Father and the support of those around him. Gratitude fills his heart.
Josh’s recovery has been long and slow. He still experiences many of the effects of his accident but considers the accident to be more of a blessing than a trial.
At a recent conference for youth, Josh talked about the prayers and fasting offered by family, friends, neighbors, and ward and stake leaders: “I am counting my blessings. Prayers have been answered. I think this has been more of a blessing than a trial. I love all you guys.”

I continued attending church, and I pondered often what I learned there. I also read the Book of Mormon. One day I accepted the invitation to ask God if what I was learning was true. As I prayed, something strong touched my heart, and I thought, This is the right way. I already believe in God. It’s time to follow Him.
As I continued to pray and attend meetings, the Spirit continued to guide me. Finally I told the elders I wanted to hear the discussions. I wanted to follow God and return to His presence one day. I was baptized on 21 June 1993.

When I was 16, a patriarch who had never seen me before and knew nothing of my background gave me my patriarchal blessing. In it the Lord answered specific questions I held in my heart related to some personal challenges. My thoughts about them seemed too intimate to share. One challenge concerned whether I would find a loving woman courageous enough to marry me in spite of my prominent birth defect—one our children might inherit. The answer was yes. I did marry Marie, and we had five beloved children.

The Lord’s answers in that blessing respected my concerns and my privacy. They were phrased so that only I would fully understand their meaning. From that day, I have had a firm personal witness that my Heavenly Father knows me intimately.

Both Nikolai Chemezov and his wife, Asiya, of the Kharkivs’kyi Ward, were introduced to the gospel in their youth—Nikolai as an eight-year-old and Asiya as a teenager.
“Ever since I was baptized, I knew that Heavenly Father’s plan was the path of exaltation,” Brother Chemezov says. “The Church’s teachings on the divine mission of the family have always been important to me.”
Sister Chemezova also realized the importance of eternal families at a young age. “When I attended church as a young woman, I was taught how important it is to enter into sacred temple covenants,” she says. “I always dreamed of a temple marriage, and I always tried to be worthy of being able to be married in the temple.”
The couple began dating in 2009. As love blossomed and conversations began to turn toward marriage, the two already knew what would be their next step. “When they announced that the Kyiv Temple would be dedicated in August 2010, we decided we would be sealed there,” Sister Chemezova says.
“It’s good we didn’t have to wait too long,” Brother Chemezov adds.
The couple was sealed in marriage on September 1, 2010.
“It was the most wonderful day of my life,” Brother Chemezov says. “I felt blessed to take the hand of my dear Asiya and take her to the house of the Lord. It is safe to say that on that day my dream came true—the dream of creating an eternal family.”

The embarrassment Devon suffered was her own fault. The boy next door invited her to a dance, and though she wasn’t wild about him, she consented to go. A short while later another boy, who she was wild about, asked her to the same dance, so she told her neighbor the second guy had actually asked first. The embarrassing part came when her dear little brother told her neighbor the actual truth.
Devon learned that if you never tell a lie, there’s no danger of embarrassment when the truth actually comes out.

Watch out for Apii’s feet!
With one well-placed kick, she could knock you over.

But Apii’s feet are only dangerous when she’s competing. In everyday life, Tereapii Rota, 16, of Tokorua, New Zealand, is a bright girl who serves her school as the representative to the board of trustees. But in her free time, she and her brother are trained by their father in the fine art of defense. She is so good at it that she won the junior women’s national championship in Tae Kwon Do. She was surprised by her success since it was the first time she had seriously competed.

Apii is the oldest of six children, and she and her ten-year-old brother are the most serious about training with their father. They belong to a sports club, but Apii often trains with the boys because there aren’t many women good enough to challenge her.
Although Apii is good at a rather unusual sport, her best friends are the other Laurels in her ward. “The four of us Laurels are very close. We do everything together. It’s good to have great friends,” says Apii. “We have heaps of laughs. We don’t see everything as real serious.”
Laughing a little at life has made it easier for Apii and her friends to resist the temptations that come to 16-year-olds. “I suppose the hardest thing about being 16,” says Apii, “is saying no to other people. Someone asks you to a birthday party or on a trip. Mom and Dad know what’s likely to happen. So you just have to say no. Then these people try to talk you into it. You still have to say no.” But Apii and her friends have so much fun without doing anything against the standards of the Church that it is easier for them to resist being talked into going to parties they know they shouldn’t go to.
The fact that Apii is alive is part of the reason her family joined the Church. When she was eight, she was desperately ill with asthma. Missionaries gave her a blessing, and she was healed literally moments later. “I was really weak,” says Apii. “I hadn’t been able to eat or drink. As soon as the missionaries said amen I was all right. I opened my eyes and asked for something to drink. Everybody sort of laughed they were so relieved.”
Apii has plans to go to university and study business.
In the meantime, watch out for Apii’s flying feet.

For a long time, it seemed like nothing was working out in my life.
I have attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and always struggled in school, so I didn’t know what to do next with my schooling or work. I’d also drifted away from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.
I often thought, “Why is nothing working? Everyone else seems to have their life figured out.”
At my lowest point, I turned to Jesus Christ. As I came to know Him better and experienced His love, I developed a deep desire to follow Him. I started to do things that brought me closer to Him, like reading the Book of Mormon daily, praying, and going to church every Sunday. I strived to live by higher standards, even when it took a lot of courage to live differently than my friends.
And when I decided to put Christ first, everything else began to fall into place.
For example, I discovered a course that taught me business management principles and gave me the courage to start my own business. My newly revived faith helped me have the strength to try a new path and overcome my fear of failure.
And Heavenly Father guided me in my relationships. I lost some friends, but I was blessed to make new friends in the Church. I grew closer to my parents and younger siblings, and I also had better dating experiences. I experienced the truth of the Lord’s promise: “Be believing, and all things shall work together for your good” (Doctrine and Covenants 90:24).
I felt like I was finally content with my life. My business was doing great. I found a good apartment to live in. My relationships were thriving.

The Somali language had not been written, only spoken, until October 21, 1972, when the three-year-old revolutionary government announced it would be written.

Haroon still found writing and reading Somali a bit strange. Reading had always involved a foreign language. His experience was like those who speak English at home but must use French everywhere else. There would be no books or magazines in English, for everything to read and write would be in French.

Haroon was only four when he began going to school to study the Koran, the Muslim’s holy book. He chanted the Arabic words with his classmates, but he didn’t understand them.

At seven he began learning English.

“This is a book,” the teacher at that school said.

And thirty voices repeated, “This is a book.”

All Somalis who had gone to school in the past had to learn a foreign language, but there was no chance to learn to read and write their native tongue. Only about 5 percent of the people could get a proper education. Different ones had tried to write the Somali language, but before 1972 none were successful.

Haroon remembered the excitement of the day the announcement was made that the language would be written with the same alphabet he used to study English. Airplanes had dropped leaflets all over the city to tell the people the good news.

People began learning to read and write Somali at once.

Three months later Haroon’s father, who was a clerk in a government office, told him, “Next week I must pass a literacy test in Somali in order to keep my job.”

That same week Haroon and three of his friends sat at a sidewalk cafe sipping a spicy beverage. Jama ran up to them, waving the first edition of the Somali daily newspaper.

“Just look at this!” he shouted. Proudly he read the name “Xiddigta Oktoobar (October Star).”

Soon five heads were bent over the pages, sounding out familiar words that looked strange in print.

Radio Mogadishu began broadcasting literacy lessons daily. Everyone in town was learning to read now. Classes sprang up all over the city.

In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.

Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.

“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is also a box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. llaah ha ku barakadeya. (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”

Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.

Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignored him.

Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And what do you know?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”

After they parted, Haroon reflected on Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aqoon baro.”

That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.

Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”

But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.

Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.

Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.

One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.

Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”

He became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.

Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.

The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.

Six months later Haroon was walking home from school one day through the noisy city streets when he suddenly caught the strong, unmistakable scent of a herd of camels. Memories rushed into his mind. Then he saw the herd come around the corner at the end of the block. They jostled each other as cars and taxis honked their horns. A bushman was bringing a herd to the slaughterhouse. Haroon went to talk to the nomad and found he knew Chief Abdi’s clan very well.

The man handed Haroon a letter showing sings of being carried many days in the folds of the man’s skirt. Haroon opened it and read greetings from many in the clan. It was written by the hand of Chief Abdi himself. He thanked Haroon for teaching him and his people.

Haroon was happy to know that Abdi was also following the president’s words: “If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.”