This blog has been submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.
Layla looked out the window of the tiny, black taxi and smiled. It felt good to be back in Mosul, Iraq–it felt good to be home. As the taxi sped along, familiar eateries and clothing stores began to take shape. Layla squealed with delight when her favorite pastry shop came into view, causing her taste buds to stand at attention. “Oh my,” cried Layla as the taxi rumbled by a famous boutique. She could hardly take her eyes off the gorgeous pink chiffon dress so prominently displayed in the store’s window. For the first time in months, Layla felt hopeful.
Then the scenery changed, and Layla’s renewed vigor disappeared as fast as it came. Her face turned ashen as the taxi drove by a string of demolished Christian establishments–once bustling stores had become burnt and hollow shells. Layla’s heart ached as she watched weary shop owners attempting to salvage what was left of their businesses–trying to undo what Muslim fundamentalists had so mercilessly done.
“We are getting close,” grunted the taxi driver as he wobbled around shards of broken glass and splintered wood that speckled the street.
Layla nodded her head and continued to stare out the window with tear-filled eyes. A large lump settled in her throat as she looked around at what remained of Mosul’s Christian population. Their hunched bodies and sunken eyes emitted signs of weakness and despair. “Why did I want to come back here?” Layla whispered to herself. “Did I make a huge mistake?”
“We have arrived,” spat the taxi driver, grinding to a halt.
“But, sir, this is the back of my building,” said Layla. “Would you mind driving me to the front?”
“I said we have arrived,” said the taxi driver as he turned around and glared at the cross dangling around Layla’s neck.
Layla knew not to protest. Instead she gently handed the driver the appropriate fare and exited the car. With one small suitcase in hand, Layla slowly made her way to the front of the building. As she neared the north entrance, Layla heard a flurry of loud voices–an ominous cacophony of screams and wails. Without thinking, she dropped her suitcase and began to run. Layla ran until she reached the front of the building and found herself entangled within a crowd of overwrought men, women, and children.
“What has happened?” Layla screamed out. When nobody answered, she began to push her way through the throng of people until she arrived at the north entrance. Then she knew. Layla’s stomach turned, and a rush of bile ran up her esophagus as she stared at the carnage in front of her–two sisters, Lamyaa and her sister Walaa, bleeding from multiple stab wounds. Their unblinking stares and hollowed eyes told Layla the truth–they were dead. Tears rushed down Layla’s cheeks as she stared at the bodies of her two friends–two faithful Christians. Sobs racked her body as childhood memories engulfed Layla’s brain. “Why?” cried Layla, falling to her knees.
In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard fast approaching, yet the wails of the police cars were no match for the wails of distressed Christians surrounding the building. Layla stood up as the first security vehicle ground to a halt. She had questions–questions that deserved answers. Yet before Layla was able to speak, an explosion rippled through the streets and up the steps of her building. Layla felt her body being lifted up and thrown backward as orange flames singed the top of her hair. She screamed in agony when her back collided with hot pavement–for a moment she lost consciousness.
Layla finally awoke to the sound of a second set of sirens. Amazed that she was alive, she took a deep breath and tried to get up. Her lips cried out in pain as she struggled to rise. Painful tears gushed down Layla’s face and pooled on the pavement as she stared at the scene in front of her–at the persecution that had just taken place. “Why did I want to come back here?” Layla whispered to herself.
