Working in a refugee camp in Namibia, and subsequently another one in Zambia, gave me my first glimpse of what life was like in a third world country where you had no rights and no home. I will never forget entering the Osire Refugee camp outside of Windhoek, Namibia. We traveled about four hours on gravel roads until we came to a barbed wire gate with a sign, Osire. Namibiam policemen greeted us and inspected our cars, had us get out, and then asked for all our passports. We had permission to stay in the camp and conduct classes and clinics for two weeks. We drove our cars to a church in the camp that was to be our host. Andrew, our leader, knew these people. They were from the Umbundu tribe that his father and mother had ministered to when they were missionaries in Angola. They were also the rebels in the civil war in Angola and were not welcome in Namibia. The camp was run by the UNHCR,( United Nations High Commision for Refugees) and before our visit was over we had the privilege of meeting the U.S. Ambassador for refugees who visited the camp during our stay. The refugees from the church lined the road we drove down, singing and clapping and welcoming us. I will never forget the sight of those happy faces, and the uniquely African sound of their songs floating up from the red dust of the Namibian desert. It was dark when we got to the campground where we pitched our tents and settled into our sleeping bags. A fence of thorn bushes had been built around this area for our protection and guards stood by the crackling fire at night to make sure no one bothered us. The people proudly showed us a bathroom they had built for us though the one they used was a woven grass hut with a hole in the ground. The air was cold that night as I pulled on my extra sweat shirt and sank exhausted inside my sleeping bag. Outside, the Namibian sky was pitch black, with more stars than I had ever seen before twinkling overhead.