A Chance to Die Elisabeth Elliot (electronic reader .txt) 📖

will now have to be made,” Amy wrote in 1946. “But if the principles which have grounded us from the beginning are held fast there will be no real change. The river may flow in a new channel but it will be the same river.”

Something told her that things could not go on forever exactly as they were, and it was as if she were bracing herself for the time when others would broach the subject they knew she dreaded. If the prediction came from her, their duty would not be quite so disagreeable. The education of the children had been often questioned in the past, and Amy had rejected suggested changes as an altogether different “river.” When Arul Dasan, her faithful helper, arranged for his son David to attend the Walker Middle School nearby, the eight-year-old was excited. The first day of school arrived. All was in readiness. David had the books his father had bought for him and was about to leave the house when a message came. Amma wanted to see Arul Dasan at once. David was not told what Amma said to his father. He was simply told he was not going to the Walker School. In the early days Amma’s children had attended the little mission school. Later she found that they did not learn to be truthful there, “rather the opposite,” so began to educate them at home.

When Dr. MacDougall of the Women’s Christian College of Madras had tried to persuade Amy to send her girls there, she consented at first but none went. For one thing, she was not sure the standards of the Indian teachers met hers. She had heard a conversation among missionaries from different parts of India, lamenting that the type of Christians turned out from their schools lacked certain qualities which make for character.

“I could not help wondering, as I listened to the talk of these seniors, how a new type could be expected to evolve from an old mould.” Amy had set about changing the mould, and she meant to stick with that one.

Agnes Naish, to whom Amy had delegated responsibility for the children’s schooling, took a hard line against college. After all, if the girls’ primary calling was to be the care of children, was not a college education, leading perhaps to medicine and other ambitious professional fields, not only unnecessary but likely to eclipse the call? She reminded Amy of Amy’s own words:

Our goal is service. It is not worth while to spend time, strength, money and energy on anything less. Settle it in your minds: our way of education is planned so as to prepare in spirit and in mind our boys and girls for the Service of the King of Kings. It must therefore from first to last be spiritual education. . . . And the result? No one need fear about that. I could give many proofs that an education such as our children have is indeed true education. The kind of letter a person writes is an index of mind. A letter written in a foreign language is a very searching test. Our children pass that test.

I was given some idea of the inflexibility of Agnes Naish ( three thousand years behind the times”) when I asked why Amy Carmichael had stated adamantly that: no American would be acceptable in the DF. The first answer: She did not believe Americans were prepared for the kind of sacrifice the DF asked. The second: There was no one known to Amy in America who might screen candidates. The third: “It was felt that a certain standard of the English language must be taught, and Agnes Naish dogmatized firmly on syntax and pronunciation (as she did on everything else). You said ‘different from’ and not ‘different to,’ kilometre was to be pronounced keelo-meeter.”

It is to be wondered where the splendid Agnes Naish learned “American”—but then perhaps “different to” was used by some Americans in her day. It also needs to be said that when Dohnavur girls finally began going outside to school they found that they could speak neither Indian English (they spoke English English) nor Indian Tamil. Their Tamil was distinguished by a peculiar singsong such as often develops within a close-knit community. Possibly the accents of some of the foreigners lent their odd cadences, so that teachers in the outside schools had more difficulty understanding the Dohnavur girls’ Tamil than the foreign DFs’.

One of Amy’s most trusted older workers, Pappammal, who had come from a well-known Christian family and was in charge of the smaller boys, strongly disagreed with Amma about their education and finally left because of it. A close friendship of long standing came to an end and Pappammal was “erased.” For the sake of example to the children, her name was not spoken again. Once more, “Dohnavur is a sign that is spoken against.” So Amma, in spite of extreme sensitivity to any possible misrepresentation of her work, wrote, “like our Master we must hold our peace and answer them nothing.”

India’s independence began to impinge on the life of the compound far more powerfully than Amy had foreseen. New laws were passed, one of them bringing great joy to Amy and the rest—the devadasi (temple prostitute) system was outlawed. Its illegality did not stamp it out at once. It went underground for a few years and more recently has surfaced again.

Certain kinds of training which Dohnavur could not provide were now required by law for certain degrees. If they were to have government recognition for the teachers in Dohnavur they must have school-leaving certificates. Amy was able finally to see the necessity of a major change in educational policy. Thyaharaj was the first to break the boundary when he sat for the Senior Cambridge exams. Amy approved the boys’ attending the Middle School in Dohnavur and the girls going to Tiruchchirappalli, though she wept when they left. She called the boys Gideons,” for a man who had courage and faith, and the girls