Persecution
“I’m going home to visit my children and grand-children in the village in a few weeks” Faraz smiled eagerly over hot tea. “It’s olive season, and thank God, there are too many olives for them to manage alone.” Faraz is a tough, young grandmother of forty. She looks much older. With years of abuse, homelessness, and having to fend for herself, she could be much worse. Since she chose the Path of Life with Jesus, she’s learned to laugh and take joy as she rises above. Her sights are set on the Eternal Horizon and she prays fervently for her children, and their future generations, as well as for the husband who abused and abandoned her. She has learned to forgive well.
“But I am concerned,” she says. “Over the last six months, bearded men have started coming into our town, over the border from Syria. They look around and choose a house, and move in. They say ‘The president will pay my rent.’ When the landlord wants money, they threaten his life. When they get on public transportation, they tell us that our prime minister will pay for their ride. They’re not even Syrian, they’re swarming in from Jihad training in the Arab world and forcing our people out of our village by fear. I’m worried for my family. These are people that take a woman if she walks alone. These are men with weapons. It’s creating anger in the local village. It makes me wonder how long the olive groves will stand.”
“Which is your village, sister?” Barakev asks, stirring her sugar in. The tea steams gently into a sunbeam, a peaceful contrast to the thoughts swirling around the room. When Faraz answers, Barakev nods silently, knowingly, lost in thoughts and memories.
“Rumors even have it that these men are getting further training here, and going back over to fight in the rebellion.” Afsar joins in. “Yes,” Faraz agrees. “there are new factories for weapons, something bigger is happening than we realize. We’re happy with olive harvest, but there’s something bigger going on. Sometimes I feel like an ant trying to understand the big toe of some giant I’ve bumped into!” Her cheerful demeanor laughs, in spite of her reality. The wrinkle lines dance around her eyes.
“But Barakev,” she asks her friend, “Why are you silent?” The women all fall silent, waiting for their mentor to respond.
“Many years ago, when your grand-parents were children, my dears,” she finally sighs, “That village was taken with the same tactic of fear that is being used now. I am just grieved that it is happening again.”
“Ah!” Faraz nods. “Yes, I remember my grandmother talking about it. She said that Christian families used to live there. One by one they left, she said, but she didn’t know why. Finally it was abandoned, she said. So our families moved over there. Do you mean…”
Barakev nods, almost imperceptibly. “My children, we need to thank God. Here we are, all together, sisters. But for Grace, we would not know each other. His Grace has woven our paths together. If we had remained separate villages, we still would be distant from one another, but wars and turmoils have made us flee to this big city over the last four generations. And miracles have brought us all to the Foot of the Cross. Yes, your village is once again being threatened by the same fears that emptied it before, but today we have a new tool to counter that fear. Let us pray together for your family, that they will be protected, and that they will not reap the harvest sown in ignorance years ago.”
Faraz soberly takes Barakev’s hand. Afsar joins her as well. Their tears mingle before the Throne.