Fingerprints: Volunteer Recalls Old Life in Egypt

This blog was submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.

Every story I read about Egypt brings up a mixture of extreme emotions.  My heart flies quickly from one end of the spectrum to the other as my eyes take in stories of Christian persecution–terrible tragedies emanating from the heart of Cairo.  Memories of living as a devout Muslim in Egypt seem to come alive as I study each article–places I had frequented being described before my eyes.  Sometimes I wonder if my footprints are still there–if my fingerprints are forever emblazoned upon some corner fencepost or discarded tea kettle. 

Today I read about two young Christians being arrested for distributing Bibles at Cairo’s International Book Fair.  Mina Adel Shawki and Essam Kedees Nassif risked life and limp to distribute God’s Word–the Holy Bible.  I wept when I read about how they placed themselves in the center of the Muslim-filled fairgrounds–arms laden down with the Word of God.   I cried, because it forced me to remember the time I spent at this exact book fair–my head covered in a long, black scarf and my heart covered in a thick, black veil.  If these two men had approached me during this time I probably would have given them an angry sneer coupled with a few choice words.  I would have relished in the sight of metal handcuffs being snapped on their wrists and celebrated in their arrest. 

Now all I want to do is fly to Egypt and save them.

Another Agenda: Thieves Rape Daughter in Front of Parents

This blog was submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.

 

Naomi slipped under the bed and waited.  She was too scared to move—too scared to breathe.  She gritted her teeth in fear as a cacophony of terrible sounds reverberated around her.  “Please don’t come in here,” she whispered, pulling her knees into her chest. 

 

And then she heard them—barreling through her door like deranged animals.  They knocked over her humble dresser and began to search its drawers.  Tears fell from Naomi’s eyes when she heard the familiar melodic tune of her jewelry box.

 

“Jackpot,” said one of the men as he grabbed Naomi’s gold necklace and shoved it into his pocket.  “Be quiet now,” yelled the robber, throwing the musical box onto the floor—quieting its innocent “tinkling” sound forever.

 

Naomi remained motionless until the men finally left—until the only sound she could hear was that of her mother weeping in the next room.  She ran through the dark house and fell sobbing into her mother’s arms.

 

“It’s okay,” whispered Naomi’s mother, cradling her daughter in her arms.

 

But it was not okay. Hours later the men returned, but this time their agenda had changed.  “We heard you were Christians,” snarled one of the men, grabbing Naomi by the arm while the other men bound the girl’s parents in the same room. 

 

“Please don’t hurt my daughter,” Naomi’s mother begged.

 

“We won’t hurt her,” laughed one of the men pushing the young girl to the floor.

 

The sounds of ear-curdling screams mixed with wailing sobs penetrated the Pakistani sky as Naomi’s body was gang-raped through the night.  When the young girl fell unconscious, they left—caring nothing for the lives they had just mercilessly ravaged.