A Somali Refugee’s Story

This blog has been submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.

Salat Mberwa grabbed his bloody shoulder and winced.  Never before had he felt such pain–such agony.  Mberwa’s quivering thumb tried to plug the bullet hole in his shoulder, but the rich, red, fluid would not stop flowing.  “What a life,” Mberwa whispered as his mind jumped in and out of consciousness.  “What a life.” 

As his eyes fluttered closed, Mberwa began to dream of his beautiful relative, Miriam Hassan.  He could see her so clearly–as if she was standing right in front of him.  Mberwa watched as her tiny frame courageously walked around Somalia and distributed the Word of God–the Bible.  He wanted to call out to Miriam, to tell her to run, but Mberwa’s voice would not work.  His unconscious face twisted in fear and every muscle in Mberwa’s body tensed as he watched them kill her–punishing Miriam for spreading the Gospel.  “No!” cried Mberwa to an empty house.

Mberwa’s mind then returned to the day following Miriam’s death–the day he and his family decided to flee to Dadaab, Somalia.  Mberwa had thought they would be safe in a Dadaab refugee camp–a facility built to house and protect many Christian converts–but he was wrong.  Muslim gangs were constantly breaking into the Dadaab camp, raping Christian converts, burning refugee homes, and killing faithful believers.  A safe haven it was not.

Suddenly, Mberwa’s comatose eyes dripped with tears as electrodes in his brain “zipped and zapped”–taking him back to October 13.  “Don’t open the door,” Mberwa whispered through entranced lips. 

“You are the enemy of the Islamic religion!” the fundamentalists screamed into the night.  “You will pay for propagating a different religion!  If you do not open the door, we will kill you!” they howled.

“Don’t open the door,” Mberwa repeated, trying to push the traumatic day out of his mind, but it would not leave.  The ear-splitting sound of iron sheets being ripped open filled Mberwa’s brain.  He clenched his teeth and reached out for an imaginary stick as visions of Islamic assailants bathed his corneas.  “Stop,” Mberwa wailed as his eyes flew open!

Suddenly, a cool cloth was gently placed on Mberwa’s fevered head and a loving voice whispered, “Be still.”

Mberwa cried softly as his relatives tended to his wounds–his marks of persecution. “I thought this time they had killed me,” said Mberwa between sips of cold water.  “I tried to escape through the back window…but I was too late.”

“When will this end?” asked Mberwa’s relative as she wrapped a thick piece of gauze around his shoulder.

“Maybe never,” replied Mberwa.  Then he tenderly touched the cross around his neck and whispered, “But I will never give in.  I will happily suffer for Christ.”  Mberwa looked up at his relatives and smiled, “What a life.”

Christmas Anxiety in Vietnam

This blog was submitted by ICC representative, Sylvia Thompson.

Lien popped her tiny head up and waved to her best friend–smiling from ear to ear as her little hand flapped up and down.  Trang was not as brave as Lien.  Her mother had warned her about showing any sort of emotion or unity on this night–had scolded her for singing too loud. 

“Trang, you must act completely normal today or they will come for us,” her mother had whispered.  “Do not go near the window and do not sing your songs.”

“But, Mama, it is Christmas,” Trang had said with tears in her eyes. 

“Shhh!” Trang’s mother had cried.  Then she gently placed a finger over her daughter’s lips and whispered, “The Vietnamese government is not allowing us to celebrate Christmas, not even in our own homes.  If they even sense that we are having festivities, the authorities will come for us.”

“Why, Mama?” asked Trang, beginning to cry.

Trang’s mother wrapped her arms around her sorrowful daughter and held her tight.  Then– after shifting her eyes back and forth– Trang’s mother leaned over and murmured, “We can still celebrate the birth of Christ in our hearts and in our heads.  They cannot unlock what is in your mind, Trang.”

Her mother’s words reverberated within Trang’s conscience as she stared at her best friend Lien–still fluttering her hand with unabashed glee behind the frosty window pane.   Trang quickly shifted her eyes back and forth–searching the Vietnamese streets for policemen.  When she thought it was safe, the nervous child lifted her hand and waved to Lien.  “Merry Christmas,” she mouthed before dunking below the window and throwing the curtains closed. 

Top Evangelical News of 2008?

This blog has been submitted by ICC representative Shane Bazinet.

As 2009 begins, there are many top 10 lists for 2008 in the media – top 10 celebrities, top 10 songs, top 10 news stories, et cetera.

Christianity Today listed the top 10 evangelical news stories of the year, which the magazine’s editors and writers, “believe have shaped, or will significantly shape, evangelical life, thought, or mission.”

Number one was “Election 2008: Democrats woo evangelical vote, making only slight gains from Bush era.”

Although Christian persecution in Orissa, India was number three, I think it should have been number one.

I can’t think of a more important and under-reported Christian news story of 2008 than the persecution in Orissa, India. Over 50 Christians have been killed by Hindu mobs. Some Christians were burnt to death or buried alive, while about 50,000 more fled their homes.

Hindu extremists have ransacked more than 300 villages where Christians lived, targeting pastors for assassination and torching all houses belonging to Christians in the village.

The Hindu mobs blame the Christians for the murder of a Hindu leader, while evidence points responsibility at the communists.

I watch the news everyday and I recall seeing this persecution story reported only once – on a news ticker. If there was mass persecution of Buddhists, I wonder how often that story would be reported.

However, the story being under-reported shouldn’t shock us. Secular media is quick to report on Christians (or so-called Christians) involved in scandals, but when Christians are in danger, for some reason, it’s not as newsworthy.

It’s been proven that when mass Christian persecution takes place in an area, more people in that area tend to put their faith in Christ. Persecution could very well be the number one reason to believe in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Why? Because almost every apostle was tortured and killed for what they said and wrote about Jesus.

No one would be willing to be tortured and killed for a false claim, a work of fiction or even an exaggeration.

Persecution is also one of Jesus’ promises to His followers.

John 15:19 says, “If ye were of the world, the world would love his own: but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.”

As Christians, we’re not promised health, wealth and prosperity – we’re promised trials, temptations and persecution, which virtually no other religion promises.

Lastly, though persecution in itself is terrible, it ultimately brings us closer to God and helps us become stronger in our faith.

Why would God allow His children in Orissa to be persecuted? To bring those Christians closer to Him and help them become stronger in their faith – and greater will their reward be in heaven.

When Paul Washer spoke at the 2002 Youth Evangelism Conference in Montgomery, Alabama, he addressed errors in American Evangelicalism. He said in order for there to be revival in the North American Church, there would either have to be another reformation or mass persecution.

Reading about the persecution in Orissa on Persecution.org this year has really touched me and brought me closer to God. It’s taught me just how serious the Gospel really is and that God will help us persevere our suffering.

“The crowd joined in the attack against Paul and Silas, and the magistrates ordered them to be stripped and beaten. After they had been severely flogged, they were thrown into prison, and the jailer was commanded to guard them carefully. Upon receiving such orders, he put them in the inner cell and fastened their feet in the stocks.

 About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners were listening to them (Acts 16:22-25, NIV).”

Praise God that we can not only persevere suffering, but God will end all suffering one day.

Like a surgery, the Christian life will bring much suffering, but when we go to be with the Lord, we’ll know it was more than worth it.

This is why I believe the Christian persecution in Orissa was the number one Christian news story of 2008.

To learn how you can help our brothers and sisters in Orissa, visit Persecution.org.

Egypt’s Church: With or Without Four Walls

This blog has been submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.

 

“Look at all of this food,” exclaimed Selma!  “I think there is enough rice and salad to feed the entire city of Cairo!”

 

“Well, it is a day of celebration,” said Noora, filling up plastic cups with iced tea.  “This beautiful addition to our church has taken months to build.  It is a miracle that we were able to construct this extension.” 

 

“You are right,” said Selma shaking her head.  “For the past 18 months we have been harassed and threatened with death from the Muslim radicals living in Cairo.”  Selma walked over to Noora, lowered her voice, and said, “My husband told me that he caught many Muslim fundamentalists urinating on the church walls.  Can you believe that, Noora?”

 

“Why do they do such things?” asked Noora, wringing her hands. “Why are they so angry?”

 

Before Selma could answer, the sound of a window shattering into a million pieces reverberated through her ears. “What’s happening?” cried Selma as the church walls began to shake and shift.

 

“I don’t know,” screamed Noora, taking Selma’s hand and pulling her toward the sanctuary. “We must find the others!”

 

Selma and Noora ran into the sanctuary amidst a barrage of shattered windows and crumbling walls.  Inside the worship room they found the rest of their congregation huddled together—praying for protection.  Selma and Noora ran over to the terrified group and fervently clasped their hands together, “Heavenly Father, please have mercy on us,” whispered Noora.

 

As the congregation lifted their voices, the chants of 8,000 angry Muslim radicals began to emanate throughout the church walls. “We will demolish the church,” they screamed.  “Islam is the solution!  The army of Muhammad is coming,” they wailed while hurling large, destructive stones.

 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the church congregation heard the familiar shriek of police sirens.  “Thank you, Lord,” whispered Noora, grabbing Selma’s hand. “Thank you, Lord.”

 

Yet the arrival of police officers and riot tanks did not deter the 8,000 Muslim radicals.  Instead of backing down, their chants grew louder, their stones larger, and their thirst for destruction intensified.  Cars were set on fire, and nearby Christian shops were reduced to rubble, causing police to call for reinforcements.  Finally, having no other choice, the overpowered officers launched grenades of tear gas into the streets—causing immediate dispersement. 

 

Selma, Noora, and the rest of the congregation stayed huddled together in prayer until the sounds of breaking glass, wailing sirens, and lapping flames could no longer be heard.  In the wee hours of the night, they quietly emerged from the demolished church– their eyes could hardly comprehend the destruction surrounding them.  “Months of hard work,” said Noora, beginning to cry.  “Why did they do this?  Why?”

 

Selma reached over and pulled Noora into her arms.  “This will pass,” she whispered.  “Have faith.  Do not let them steal your joy.”

 

The congregation returned to their homes that night shaken and confused—unsure of the future of their beloved church.  Yet in the midst of their sadness they found peace—peace in knowing that their ability to worship the Lord could be done with or without four walls.

Layla’s Choice: A Glimpse into Mosul, Iraq

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.

If Only That Feeling Could Last–A Groundkeeper’s Story

The groundskeeper smiled to himself as he swept the floor of Beijing’s Olympic Stadium.  Although the Olympic Games were long past, the enormous stadium still seemed to be filled with intense energy.  For a moment, the groundskeeper looked into the stands and imagined them filled with smiling faces—people from all over the world united together for a common cause.  “If only that feeling could last,” the groundskeeper thought as he touched the cross hiding under his shirt. 

 

Unfortunately for the groundskeeper and many other Christians like him, this feeling of unity and brotherhood would be fleeting.  For after the last gold medal was awarded and the last torch blown out, reports of Christian persecution in China have intensified. 

 

Sadly enough, Zhang Mingxuan, also known as “Pastor Bike” to underground Christians in China, understands what it means to be persecuted for your faith in Jesus Christ.  Just recently Pastor Bike and his family were forcefully evicted from their home, mercilessly beaten, and finally–arrested.  In the city of Yichun all house churches have been banned and in Yunnan province church members are being attacked.  Yet one of the most heart-wrenching stories seems to be taking place in Henan province, China.  Within this tiny district lies a sickening labor camp full of Christians who have been deemed–”evil cult members.” Their crime? A desire to worship the Lord and spread the Gospel.

 

The groundskeeper packed up his broom and walked quietly out into the dark China night.  He looked back at the large stadium glowing in the distance and sighed.  The gigantic building held memories of liberation and safety–precious moments free of persecution.  “If only that feeling could last,” the groundskeeper thought as he began the long trek home–cross tucked securely under his shirt.

Hope for Iraqi Christians in Nineveh Plains?

This blog has been submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.

Maya quietly slid open the balcony door and stepped outside.  Immediately a gentle puff of cool night air surrounded her–lighting on her red, ravaged cheeks.  Maya touched her gummy, cratered face and winced.  It had been two weeks since a masked Muslim man had attacked her with acid, but the horrifying incident was still fresh in her mind.  Maya took a deep breath and sighed.  The last thing she wanted to do was cry–salty tears on her battered cheeks would cause indescribable pain.  Instead, she walked to the edge of the balcony and looked out at the city of Mosul, Iraq–her birthplace.  The city seemed so peaceful in the middle of the night–a far cry from what Maya’s homeland morphed into with the rising of the Iraqi sun.  For Maya and other Christians living in Mosul, daylight was synonymous with persecution.   Maya chocked back a sob as stories of beheaded priests, bombed churches, kidnapped Christians, and…..other women who had been burned with acid swirled through her mind.  Although Maya and her family did not want to leave their homeland, the atrocities being committed against faithful believers was too much to bear–staying in Mosul meant sure and imminent death.

Suddenly, the balcony door slipped open and out walked Maya’s father with two cups of hot tea.  Maya accepted the steaming mug and said, “Thank you, Baba.” 

Maya’s father smiled at his oldest daughter and said, “Tomorrow we leave.” 

Maya took a sip of her tea and nodded her head–worried that any spoken word would cause tears to fall from her eyes.

“Look out there,” said her father, pointing toward the plains of Nineveh.  “That will be our new home, the homeland of our ancestors.  We will be walking in the footsteps of Noah.”

Maya looked up at her father with weary eyes and whispered, “Are you sure we will be safe?  I just want to be safe.  I don’t want to fear for my life anymore.”

“I promise you will be safe,” said Maya’s father wrapping his strong arms around his firstborn child.  “The Nineveh Plains are home to thousands of displaced Christians–entire families who are victims of Christian persecution.   We will be able to go to church without fear–to worship Christ in peace.”

Maya looked up at her father and smiled, “It will be nice to live in peace–instead of in fear.”

Maya and her father took one last look at the Mosul sky and went inside.  In a few hours beams of sunlight would come crashing through the windows–an urgent reminder for Maya and her family to grab their bags and flee.  Flee they would–to the safety and security of the Nineveh Plains.

Silence Him! – Somali Christian Killed For Asking for Translation

This blog has been submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.

Nur took the soft cloth infused with black polish and began to shine his shoes.  His agile fingers made skillful circles around the heel of his loafers–an exercise his hands had performed many times before.  Somewhere in the distance a clock rang out– announcing to the citizens of Afgoye, Somalia that another hour had passed.  Nur took one last look in the mirror and smiled- -he couldn’t wait to get to the wedding.  In fact, Nur was amazed that he had even been invited to the gallant festivity.  As a former Muslim turned born-again Christian, Nur sometimes felt as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  Thus, when he received the Islamic wedding invitation, Nur felt that it would be the perfect opportunity to spread the Gospel — a wonderful chance to emulate Christ to the best of his human ability. 

Nur walked to the wedding with the present he had purchased tucked securely under his arm.  It was a beautiful night and the cool air was invigorating.  Nur felt intensely alive–almost electrified.  He was that city on a hill that could not be hidden–that lamp shining on a holy lamp stand.  Some of the Muslim wedding attendees smirked when Nur walked into the room, but the faithful Christian paid them no mind.  Instead he quietly sat down at the nearest table and listened to the Sheik conduct the marriage ceremony.  As the Imam began to speak in traditional Arabic, Nur glanced around the room to see if any other Somali citizens were having trouble following the ceremony.  Their glazed eyes and furrowed brows seemed to answer his question–they too had no idea what the Sheik was saying.  Thus, when the wedding was over, Nur stood up and asked the Sheik to summarize the ceremony in the Somali language–the mother tongue of all the banquet guests. 

The militant Sheikh glared at Nur and clenched his fists.  He could not believe the audacity of the infidel standing before him.  The angry Imam looked around the room trying to decipher which deluded Muslim had invited Nur to the wedding.  The uneasy guests squirmed in their seats as the Sheik’s eyes focused on the cross hanging around Nur’s neck.  “Silence him,” whispered the Imam to his closest bodyguard. 

Nur’s heart began to race as he stared into the weathered face of the Sheik’s large bodyguard.  He understood what the phrase “silence him” meant–it meant sure and inescapable death.  Nur closed his eyes and began to drink in the book of Acts–the one book of the Bible he had memorized in its entirety.  Tears fell down Nur’s cheeks as Acts 7: 54-60 filled his mind, “54When they heard this, they were furious and gnashed their teeth at him. 55But Stephen, full of the Holy Spirit, looked up to heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. 56″Look,” he said, “I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God.” 57At this they covered their ears and, yelling at the top of their voices, they all rushed at him, 58dragged him out of the city and began to stone him. Meanwhile, the witnesses laid their clothes at the feet of a young man named Saul. 59While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” 60Then he fell on his knees and cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he had said this, he fell asleep.”

Nur took one last deep breath and began to walk toward the doors of the wedding hall, but he never made it out into the cool night air of Afgoye, Somalia.  The Sheik’s bodyguard pulled out his handgun and shot–instantly killing Nur.

Ostracized in Bangladesh

This blog has been submitted by ICC representative Sylvia Thompson.

The Bangladeshi Muslim cleric peered at the old man squirming in front of him and shook his head. What a pitiful excuse for a Muslim he thought to himself–what a waste of time. Ruhul Amin Khandaker’s 65 year-old hands began to shake as he stared into the eyes of one of the most prominent Muslim leaders in all of Dhaka, Bangladesh–eyes without empathy or mercy.

“My son converted to Christianity according to his own will,” said Ruhul.  “Why must I bear the burden of his infidelity?”  

The Muslim cleric pushed a finger into Ruhul’s chest and spat,” You will bear this burden until punishment can be exacted from your son!  Why did you not sacrifice him like cattle before relaying to us this blasphemous news?”

Ruhul Khandaker laid his head on his chest and began to sob. He had first come to the Muslim cleric for consolation–for comfort. Yet, instead of sympathy Ruhul had received hours of bitter chastisement and unabashed fury from Dhaka’s prominent Imam. Once word got out that Ruhul’s son had moved to Australia, married a Christian woman, and converted to Christianity–the elder Khandaker became an instant outcast.  Tears rolled down the weary man’s face as images of his home being ransacked and looted–by those he had considered friends– flashed before his eyes.    Ruhul could hardly breathe as he remembered standing in the middle of his destroyed living room and staring into the eyes of a man enraged–a man who had once called himself a friend.  “We will return everything when your son comes back,” said the furious foe. “Until then do not even think of leaving your home!”

From that moment on Ruhul had become a beleaguered hermit–forced to live in hiding for fear of death by the hands of his own community.  Even his own relatives refused to look upon Ruhul’s face, and doctors turned a deaf ear to his cries for help. Ruhul felt hopeless as he realized that he would spend the rest of his life cut off from the outside world–ostracized because of his son’s love for Christ.

Yet, something within Ruhul Khandker’s spirit would not let him exact vengeance on his son–would not let him sacrifice his own flesh and blood like mere “cattle.”  A certain something was pulsating within the core of his soul–waiting patiently for salvation.  This subconscious desire for Christ was burning within Ruhul, but the veil of Islam was making it hard for the elder Khandaker to fully grasp.  Ruhul picked up his head and stared at the Bangladeshi Muslim cleric with new found wisdom and a strange sense of peace.  “If all of my property and wealth is destroyed, I can tolerate that,” whispered Ruhul.  “But one thing I cannot tolerate is to carry the coffin of my son on my shoulders.”

The Muslim cleric growled as Ruhul turned around and quietly left the Mosque. Angry eyes and smug sneers surrounded the despised father as he walked back home– each step marked with fear and trepidation.  Once inside Ruhul bolted his doors, locked his windows, and breathed a sigh of relief.  He couldn’t understand how his own community, his own Muslim brothers and sisters–were suddenly bent on destroying his life.  Was this the core of Islam–death, destruction, and vengeance?   It was a simple question with a life-changing answer–an answer that Ruhul’s son had already discovered.  

“I urge, then, first of all, that requests, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone— for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness. This is good, and pleases God our Savior, who wants all men to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth. For there is one God and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all men—the testimony given in its proper time,” (1 Timothy 2:1-7).

Killing highlights the precarious future of the Christian Church in Iraq

A drive-by shooting that killed a Christian businessman and wounded his nephew on Sunday night in Mosul, Iraq has finally brought media attention to the tragedy that has befallen the church in Iraq. The attack on the Christians, who were only standing just outside their own home, occured the same day that the country’s President and Prime Minister condemned attacks that have claimed the lives of thirteen Christians in the northern city in the past two weeks alone.

Though some speculate the hostility was only prompted by Christian protests ahead of provincial elections in 2009 to secure their threatened representation, the on-going campaign of violence against Christians in Iraq has driven out at least 900 Christian families. The families have fled in response to routine killings and constant threats to convert to Islam or face death. A source for AsiaNews recalled, “. . .yesterday, a car with a loudspeaker went around the streets in the neighborhood of Sukkar, ordering the Christians to leave.” “Christians out of the city,” the people on board were shouting, “otherwise you will be victims of more attacks.”

One must not make light of the hundreds of Christians who took to the streets of Mosul in protest, either. Even the UN has criticized the country for scrapping a key clause in its legislation that would have guaranteed seats for Christians and other minorities in the upcoming elections. Though (hopefully until now) widely ignored by the media, the Christian population in Iraq has been reduced to half the size it was in 2003 and more and more families are fleeing each day in response to a campaign of killing and threats in which they seem to have no hope of defense.