• President's Letter

• Bears for Kosovo

• Rancheros-SLP Mexico

• Katarina's Story

• Central Asian Teacher Project

A friend of mine who works for Boeing asked me a trick question to illustrate how the foundation of a business may not be what it appears: "What would you say is the core business of Boeing?" I walked into the obvious but wrong answer: "Building aircraft."

"No. Moving people eyeball to eyeball." He explained that the ancient need for people to "seal the deal" face to face cannot presently be overcome by communications technology, and, thus, requires them to travel long distances to satisfy that need.

What is the root nature of Millennium's work? The work of many volunteers, U.S.-based staff and implementing teams overseas demonstrates a flurry of compassionate activity in some of the most complex and desperate situations on earth. From observation, the superficial answer to the question of what is Millennium's core work might seem to be "delivering humanitarian relief and development resources cross-culturally." The deeper answer might be "putting the most value into the last two feet of culturally distant relationships."

You will see in this and other Millennium publications the aspiration to practice "intelligent compassion." Perhaps the most important element of this is dense relationships with the people one aspires to serve. The key element to this is linguistic ability. One anthropologist has said that 90 percent of the knowledge of a culture is encoded in the language. The same anthropologist said the highest honor and gift of love one can pay to someone from another culture is to learn his language.

Based on this principle, we believe the hard work of compassion is done primarily by field workers with the long-term commitment to learn the culture and serve by listening. A worker friend of mine has said, "The only permanent change comes from the initiative of the people being served." I have learned from him, and costly experience, that only by living with, and listening to, the people can a servant discern where change might be facilitated. This often frustrating exercise is more art than science, more intuition than analysis or procedure, but it can only occur in the last two feet between a committed field worker and those being served. Millennium's operation exists to enable and enhance that relationship.

In this issue Millennium reports on:

- A short-term project facilitating a long-term work in Mexico

- A development work in reverse: Central Asian teachers learning English teaching methods in the U.S.

- A toy drive for Kosovar refugees complementing a food distribution program

As I write this I am about to leave for Turkey where our partners are determining how best to serve in response to the earthquake devastation. As the search-and-rescue phase evolves into the recovery and rebuilding phase, the needs of more than 200,000 homeless overwhelm all entities involved.

Thank you for your partnership to engage numerous people and peoples in two-foot relationships.

--Bill Koops

Bears for Kosovo

When Teddy left Houston, he knew he had a cruise on the Adriatic in store. The escort by the Italian Army was the surprise.

Oh, it was quite a trip Teddy took, from Texas to Tirana, Albania, with a stop in Italy for a plate of fettuccine. He found the sea breeze bracing -- well, what he could sniff of it inside that stuffy container -- and the company pleasant. He just wished some of those impossible humans would make up their minds. Bill Koops, the president of Millennium, visited the MRDS team in Skopje, Macedonia, last April, just as the Kosovo conflict was beginning.

With team members, he met with representatives of the Southern Baptist Convention and Samaritan's Purse, a relief organization headed by Franklin Graham.

Their discussions led to a decision to address the needs of a population of refugees outside the camps, where the other two groups were already involved in delivering aid. The three organizations targeted 100,000 to 150,000 hidden refugees, most of them living with ethnic Albanian kin in Macedonia.

They would receive food and medical supplies, just as those inside the camps did, but Koops and the MRDS team of long-term workers in-country decided to add an element. Many of the hidden refugees, they determined, were women and older men, and a staggering 40 percent to 50 percent were children. Along with food and medicine, many of them would receive teddy bears and other toys.

Several considerations went into the decision. The MRDS strategists wanted to create a direct link between kids in the U.S. and youngsters suffering in this remote part of the world, especially these outside the sphere of NATO protection and U.N. benevolence. They wanted to show the refugees, most of them Muslims, a softer side of the Christian West than they had experienced in their dealings with Serbians.

And they wanted the kids to receive something special and all their own when supplies were passed out. A distribution system almost always represents one of the greatest challenges in relief work. In this case, it would already be in place to deliver food and medicine. Why not throw in bears?

On his return to Houston, Koops found two willing underwriters for the project in Southern Importers and Du-West Foundation Repair, which provided 750 bears and T-shirts for them. KTRH Radio pitched in major promotional support, getting out the word of a two-day bear drive at area malls and the Children's Museum.

By the time of the drive in June, several Kosovar refugee families had made their way to Houston. They helped out by translating cards written by Houston kids into Albanian at the malls and joining MRDS staff in assembling the toys for shipment. Each toy was individually packaged, numbered and recorded in a data base so that a recipient could ascertain the contents of each box from a printout. The toys were also catalogued according to age range and gender appropriateness in a process that consumed more than 500 man-hours.

And they still hadn't left the MRDS storage shed.

Reach Out America donated shipping, but donated services usually carry a price. In this instance, it was same-day notice that the shipment was leaving. James Clark and Mark Vogan of the MRDS staff rented a truck, backed it up to the shed, loaded the 2,326 toys, drove to the shipping facility and transferred the goods into the container in the middle of a parking lot on a July afternoon. "A long, hot day," Clark recalled with a sigh.

Because Kosovo is landlocked, the decision on a shipping route reduced itself to two choices, through Greece to Macedonia or through Italy to Albania. Considerations of politics and customs formalities dictated the latter. All the while, MRDS was trying to benefit a moving target. As Teddy set sail from the Port of Houston, the armed conflict in Kosovo was winding down and no one knew when most refugees would return home.

Teddy was en route to Bari, Italy. From there, an adjustment would be attempted on the fly if circumstances dictated.

Throughout the process, the usual suspects all reared their ugly heads. One report from the field foretold a 50 percent import duty soon to be imposed by the Macedonian government. It proved a non-issue in this matter. The team leader reported the Macedonian government had not yet granted recognition to his group as an official relief organization. If approval didn't arrive before the bears, he would be unable to receive the shipment and arrangements would have to be made with another outfit. Recognition came through in time, but only after frantic hours were wasted in Houston on alternative arrangements.

Teddy made it out of Bari in a timely fashion but he ventured onto the Adriatic with a load of food bound for the Italian protectorate in the newly partitioned Kosovo. We would love to report he rode a load of pasta; in truth, it was mostly rice. Still, the Italian Army was along to ensure its arrival. Teddy felt very safe.

His next stop proved to be a warehouse in Tirana. An unexpectedly quick return of the refugees to their homes further complicated the delivery, and some other logistical issues, plus an earthquake in Turkey, all came into play. At press time, however, Teddy's release to his new home was imminent. He would arrive with a note from a child in the U.S. who just wanted to say he cared.

--Ed Fowler

It is a desert at the foot of the mountains, 6000 feet above sea level, where winds blow up to 70 m.p.h.: the Altiplano of Mexico. It's a mild day, 108 degrees with a few sand "turbinas" (high sand funnels created by crosswinds). On this day in May, the hottest month of the year, among a people who have survived drought and disease for centuries, 12 Houstonians build bunk beds and benches for a clinic. The people of the Altiplano are called Rancheros.

Through relationships that Millennium has cultivated, Houstonians responded to this opportunity by spending four days building the structures needed, visiting the Rancheros' homes and listening to stories of the dedicated field workers. As these Houstonians witnessed commitment and joy, in the midst of poverty and suffering, they realized that they were blessed, even as they gave.

Who would think that one day in the sun could be so fruitful?

--Beti Gonzalez

As dignified as the oaks that lined the street outside, Faroghat maintained an erect posture her hosts found a trifle stiff. Watching without comment, they came to suspect a sharp point of pain behind her formal facade, an abscess that would not heal. After several days of watching her refuse all solid food, the Hackermans broke the silence.

Flinn wrote off more than $1,000 in dental work and Faroghat, no less reserved, began to eat and to smile. For her, the four-hour sessions at Rice University and Houston Community College became considerably more tolerable than a root canal, one of the services Flinn performed.

Back home, the six English teachers had achieved considerable notoriety by winning a nation-wide competition to travel to the U.S. to hone their teaching skills. They even appeared on national television. In Houston, gracious hosts entertained them in gracious settings more than half-a-world removed from their circumstances in gritty factory towns and remote villages where dentists are scarcer than hen's teeth.

On weekends, they visited Galveston Island, the museums and NASA, attended the theater and a baseball game. Ever tried to explain scoring to a non-baseball-literate foreigner at a 2-1 game? Each Sunday, they attended church with their hosts. Mostly, they worked on becoming better teachers, because improving the lot of everyone back home depends in no small measure on developing the population's English skills. Recognizing the imperative of fluency in the lingua franca of our day, their homeland begins English instruction at the elementary level.

Jorge Medina of Houston Community College drilled them in teaching methods and Beti Gonzalez of the MRDS staff taught a literature curriculum designed by James Clark, also of MRDS. Following the example of Toxir, the only university professor in the group, all the teachers scooped up every scrap of instructional material they could lay hands on.

In a flash, the month was up and they were at the Wilsons' home in West University Place for a farewell party. Faroghat, Muhabbat and Saodot were a silky swirl of yellow, orange and red in their national dress and David Teall, one of the hosts, was smartly turned out in a pillbox hat presented by Saodot, laughing as always. Muhabat, a short, robust woman with flying hands, provided choreography, dragging reluctant Americans onto the floor to dance to the pulsing rhythms of the music of their homeland.

Ikboljon, a quiet man, spoke of how he yearned to see his wife and two children. Beti Gonzalez was radiant in one of the silk dresses, made by Ikboljon's wife, whose skill as a seamstress matched her husband's talent as a dancer. When the quiet man was coaxed onto the floor, he glided with the grace of glass, as though on ice skates.

Each of the visiting teachers accepted a certificate of completion of the training program from Beti and made a short speech. Yulia's voice broke as she poured out her thanks. Faroghat explained in English that she would deliver hers in her native tongue, and Toxir rose to translate. Faroghat remained a little stiff, but she was far more comfortable.

--Ed Fowler

Katarina thought the men might be German. They wore red uniforms and businesslike expressions that weren't unpleasant. They walked briskly out into the street and stopped traffic in both directions. People emerged from their cars to see what was going on and a story spread up and down the street that someone had been found alive.

On the curb, thronged around the rubble of a building, hundreds more waited. They had little else to do. Those whose homes remained couldn't return and many had no workplace any more, just a jumble of twisted beams and overturned desks somewhere in a city called Golcuk. The name remained, and little pieces of the city here and there.

These people had seen the men in red uniforms arrive and knew the status of the operation, knew that no one had yet been found in the wreckage. The listening hadn't even begun. With the traffic stopped, the crew could switch on their ultra-sensitive devices that could push an ear into the chaos of concrete and steel and detect the tiniest answering tap. All they needed was a noise vacuum up and down the street, and it arrived as though descending on a movie set. Lights, silence, camera.

The living were as still as the dead. "Everybody was so quiet," said Katarina, "almost like people didn't dare to breathe."

The audience had invaded the plot, everyone listening as though he would pick up the faintest thump-thump of a heartbeat through the listeners' headsets, as though if he just strained hard enough he might perceive the still, small voice of God. Dark, unshaved men in plaid shirts and women in head scarves and sad eyes cocked their ears as though they could listen up a miracle, and a child sneezed.

"It echoed down the street," said Katarina, "but no one started yelling at him. It just got quiet again. They listened a long, long, long time."

But they never heard.

The cars roared back to life and moved on and people went back to talking and smoking as the men in red packed up and headed off to another site to listen some more.

Katarina, a Swede, and her American husband Scott Breslin, both MRDS workers, live with their four children in Istanbul, where they have served for 13 years.

They returned from a seven-week leave in Scott's hometown in Virginia the night of the earthquake and got the kids to sleep at 2 a.m. The earthquake hit an hour later, and Katarina's first memory is of struggling to maintain her balance. "I woke up when I was out of bed, trying to get through the bedroom door, but it was hard to walk. I had started to go toward the kids' rooms, but I couldn't walk . . . it lasted a long time . . . they say 45 seconds . . . forever."

The lights went out and she made it into the hall, where she bumped into her daughter. Then she was able to climb the stairs to the upper floor of their two-level apartment, where she roused the boys from an earthquake-proof sleep. Everyone groped in the dark for shoes and clothes as neighbors banged on their door, yelling in Turkish, "Get out! Get out! Get out!"

On the street, people switched on car radios and heard the first reports: "Big earthquake . . . as many as 300 dead." The family spent that night and the next two in a park just up the street, unthreatened by buildings, with hundreds of neighbors, never getting more than a few hours of fitful sleep that hardly dented their jet lag. At that point, 14-year-old Daniel mounted an irrefutable case to return to their apartment: "Let's go home. If it happens again, we'll go be with Jesus." After one night in their own beds, two more quakes elsewhere in the country raised the alarm again and they took refuge once more in the park.

That first morning, Scott checked in with the U.S. Embassy in Ankara, which directed him to a crisis desk at the Istanbul airport. As foreign teams began arriving with listening devices and dogs trained to find those buried alive by scent, neither available in Turkey, he began touring the hardest-hit areas to assess damage and needs. In Golcuk, he found whole blocks devastated. In other areas, the 7.4 temblor had left a streetscape that spoke of a rocket attack. "One building here pancaked, two next to it undamaged," he said, "then two buildings flat and the next three perfect." In places, he saw houses collapsed "like sandwiches."

In his neighborhood on the eastern side of Istanbul, the worst damage was a toppled minaret. Other areas, farther from the epicenter, lay in ruin. Katarina accompanied him on some of the trips, giving comfort where she could to those who could accept it. Most wanted to talk, few knew what to say. One woman told her in a flat voice, "My brother and two of his children died but I don't feel anything. What's wrong with me?" Another kept staring up into the tree she was living under, saying, "The leaves are moving too fast, it's coming again."

Not everyone who endured the quake remains in shock but none escapes the fear. Scott, whose wide shoulders still suggest, at 41, the college wrestler he once was, can't silence the sound of the aftershocks. "You wouldn't feel them at first, even if you were standing on the ground, but -- it was weird -- you could hear them coming. Maybe it was the sound from the other buildings. Whatever, you heard it before you felt the shake."

Some who came in contact with the dead have broken out in rashes. A week after the quake, resident foreign development workers convened at a hotel on the Aegean coast, outside the quake zone. In one meeting, several who had lived through the temblor stiffened as they sensed a rumble in the ceiling, only to realize a cart was rolling past on the floor above. Their deliberations on long-term needs produced a consensus that trauma counseling rates a high priority.

Katarina recalled a woman in her early 20s rescued as the nation watched the drama unfold on television three or four days after the quake. A fallen beam had just missed her head but had pinned her hair to the floor, her neck contorted, so that she couldn't move. The camera zoomed in on a gray face, eyes closed, and then one eye opened and viewers saw rescuers cut her hair to free her and carry her out.

Some time later, television showed her in a hospital bed. Her fiancé wore a grim look at her side but the young woman was laughing. "It was so good to see her in such good spirits," Katarina said.

"Of course, I don't know what she's like now."

--Ed Fowler