In Syria, Muslims Invade Sick, Elderly Christian Woman’s Home and Force Her to Convert to Islam
My name is Miriam. I am 75 years old. I am sitting in a small room in Syria right now, the country where I was born, the country I love, the country that has caused me so much pain.
My hands shake as I speak these words, not just from age, but from everything I have seen, everything I have lived through.
I want to tell you my story, not because I want your pity, not because I want to be called a hero.
I want to tell you because the world needs to know what is happening to Christians in Syria, what have been happening for many, many years.
And I want to tell you because my faith in Jesus Christ is the only reason I am still breathing, still here, still able to speak.
I was born in a small village Hello viewers from around the world. Before our sister from Syria continues her story, we’d love to know where you are watching from, and we would love to pray for you and your city.
Thank you, and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony. I was born in a small village in Syria in 1951.
It was a different time then. Syria was beautiful. My village had narrow streets with old stone houses.
And we had olive trees and fig trees. In the spring, everything bloomed with colors I can still see when I close my eyes.
Purple flowers on the vines, red poppies in the fields. The sky was so blue it hurt to look at it for too long.
We were not rich people. My father worked with his hands. He was a carpenter, like Jesus was a carpenter.
My mother stayed home and took care of us children. There were six of us.
I was the third child, three boys, three girls. We were Christian, Syrian Orthodox Christian.
Our families had been Christian in this land for hundreds and hundreds of years, long before Islam came to Syria, there were Christians here.
My grandmother used to tell me this. She would say that our ancestors knew Jesus’ disciples, that the faith came to Syria in the very beginning, in the first days after Jesus rose from the dead.
I I do not know if this is exactly true, but I know that we have been here a very long time.
This is our home. Syria is our home. But even when I was a small child, I knew we were different.
I knew that being Christian meant we had to be careful. My parents never said this directly to me when I was very young, but I could feel it.
I could see it in the way my mother’s face changed when we walked past certain people in the village.
I could hear it in my father’s voice when he told us to come inside before dark.
There was always something underneath the normal life we lived, something like fear, but we did not call it fear.
We called it wisdom. We called it being smart. I remember when I was 7 years old, maybe eight, I was walking home from church with my older sister.
It was a Sunday morning. We had our best dresses on. My mother had braided my hair.
I was holding my sister’s hand. We were happy. We had just sung hymns in church.
The priest had blessed us. I felt clean and good inside, the way a child feels when they believe God is watching them with love.
Three boys saw us. They were older than us, maybe 12 or 13 years old.
They started following us. At first, I thought they were just walking the same direction, but then one of them said something.
I will not repeat the exact words. It was a curse word, and then he called us Christian dogs.
My sister grabbed my hand tighter. She told me to keep walking, to not look at them, but they came closer.
They picked up stones from the road, small stones the size of figs. They started throwing them at us.
One stone hit my back. It did not hurt too much, but I was shocked.
I had never been hit by anyone except my mother when she disciplined me, and that was different.
This was hate. I could feel the hate coming from those boys like heat from a fire.
Another stone hit my sister on her leg. She made a small sound, but did not cry.
She just pulled me faster, and we started running. The boys laughed. They shouted more words at us.
We ran all the way home. When we got inside our house, my mother saw our faces.
She knew immediately what had happened. She did not need us to explain. My sister started crying then, and my mother held her.
I did not cry. I just stood there, confused. I asked my mother why those boys hated us.
What did we do to them? My mother looked at me for a long time.