Should we fight for peace?

Through Larger Eyes Than Mine.....

* written from the perspective of a young girl who lost her father in the ISIS beheadings of 21 coptic-christians in 2015.

I never thought of my father dying, but if he did I never imagined that he would die a dramatic death- a martyr killed by one of the most cruel and infamous terrorist groups in the world.To me he was always plain ‘daddy’ who loved his wife and children with undying devotion and carried a soul stirring love for God in his heart.I never thought of him as having exemplary courage or any other side to him than the one I saw before me and took for granted.

I did not remotely imagine when I gave him a hurried goodbye before leaving for school that day that I would never again set my eyes upon his worn face, his eyes which crinkled when he smiled and the slight stubble with the few white hairs which betrayed his age.

He died as a martyr; his eyes turned heavenward welcoming what was to come- he died, beheaded by ISIS terrorists, the most feared terrorist group in the world. He kneeled down along with twenty of our fathers,sons and brothers on the sandy shores of the Mediterranean Sea.

They were twenty one men, helpless and bound, clad in orange, kneeling down defenceless at the feet of twenty one other men who stood in black, proud and powerful- the very symbol of triumph.But I had a feeling that God saw something different-he saw a row of men kneeling down, defenceless like himself when he was hung on the cross, with faces which reflected God’s love and hearts full of courage which forgave their tormentors, spirits which had triumphed over the vicious hatred in the world.On the other side he saw a row of arrogant men clad in black, knives poised in their hands, hardened faces with hearts full of bitterness and spirits which had buried themselves in wickedness, they stood at the door of death, about to send the men kneeling at their feet to eternal life.

When I first heard about my father’s death, I felt only admiration-admiration for the courage which he had shown, admiration for him clinging to his faith till the end; for these were qualities that I very much admired and yearned to emulate. But this was soon replaced by grief, anger and bitterness. Grief at the cruel death that my father along with twenty other innocent men had suffered and bitterness towards the inhuman beings who had murdered my father in cold blood.I am ashamed to say that I took out my grief on those around me-unfortunately my family.I failed to understand that they were suffering too.Grief is often selfish and it bound me in like it had many others before me.

My family and I belong to a minority group in Egypt-the Coptic Christians.History tells me that we have been a persecuted lot for generations but I had never before borne the brunt of it.My choleric temperament and headstrong character refused to stand down and bear the fruit of hatred and prejudice.I saw my family refuse to let bitterness enter their hearts; I saw them readily forgive those who had snatched a loved one out of their hands; I saw my mother praying for their salvation and I grew more infuriated.

“They killed daddy,” I raged at my mother, “and you are asking God to forgive them?This is the reason why we have been persecuted since ages; no one has the courage to say, ‘this is wrong! This shouldn’t be happening and we are going to fight against it to the end!”….. 

There was silence and I ran to my room.

“Surely peace is worth fighting for?”I argued with myself. “Some things are worth fighting for;” that was what I had always believed. I also remembered another of the proverbs I always quoted to myself. ‘Courage is not the absence of fear; it is doing what you are afraid of.’ I wanted to fight for peace, fight against the men who had snatched that peace away from us. However, I was not afraid of doing that. I was afraid of enduring violence without a fight, I was afraid of the part of me which mocked the docile long-sufferance of my people.

With uncontrollable sobs convulsing my body I fell onto my bed; the gruesome image of the heartless man butchering my father was still fresh in my mind.Once again I remembered the hatred on the faces of the black clad men who had executed those innocent men and compared it with the serene tranquillity of the people who had lost their loved ones.In a split second, I realised who had won.Their wickedness if countered with bitterness was not going to win peace for our people. I saw it now-peace was still with us, it had not been snatched away with the death of our loved ones, it was still there in us, strong as ever.Peace in God and in his power-it could never be taken away from us.

As that realisation dawned on my turbulent mind,I felt peace spread across my heart.When you use violence to fight for peace, all you reap will be violence, I realised. Maybe the only thing that could be used to fight violence is love… I saw my mother praying with love for the very men who had killed her husband, my aunt crying for them and I realised that they were fighting the battle I had always longed to fight-the fight for peace. They fought violence with peace and were assured of victory one day. I was now ready to join the ranks of such great men and women who fight the battle for peace-not with violence, but with the weapon of love.

* written in 2017.