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END TIMES
They gave us three options: conversion, death, or jizya [a special tax for non-Muslims]. We have no money, so we left.
All across the Nineveh plain, the lights are being snuffed out. Crosses driven into the hearts of the last of Mesopotamia’s Christians.
Christians. These Assyrians, speaking Aramaic, the language of Christ, have been loyal throughout the occupied centuries.
Centuries of subjection since the burning wind of Islam came, unbidden, out of Arabia.
For the earth and the heavens have now fled, This is now the time of the second death.
No weasel words here, no turning of the cheek. No meek, no mild, no gut-wrenchingly weak.
“Maaloula is the wound of Christ," the mourners chant In the last Christian stronghold in Syria.
Jihadist al-Nusra Front stormed this city: destroying statues of the mother of Christ,
Taking delight in defecating in the churches. Stripping monks and nuns. Decapitating some. Crucifying others.
Whilst we, in the apathetic west, look on: counting coin, self-isolating, afraid to face the sun.
