45 Christian Children Kidnapp3d and Locked Inside a Truck… Miracle in Egypt
The driver’s body was still warm when they closed the truck doors over us. 45 children and I locked in darkness while I heard the men placing locks on the outside.
Locks that none of us could open. Locks that would become our mobile tomb. However, what those men did not know was that there are bolts that even heaven itself can break.
My name is Miriam Yousef. I am 38 years old and for 11 years I was a teacher at the Coptic Christian Goodeperd School in Minya, Egypt.
That Tuesday, April 27th, [music] 2021, at 3:15 in the afternoon, my life and that of 45 little ones should have ended in the desert.
We should have become just another statistic of missing Christians in Egypt. But God had other plans, and what happened inside that truck defies all human logic.
I will never forget the face of Akmed, our driver, a 52-year-old Coptic man, father of four children who every afternoon transported the kids back to their homes in the nearby villages.
He had a perpetual smile and always sang hymns while driving. That afternoon, his voice was silenced by a shot that resonated like thunder inside the bus.
The children screamed. I screamed. Ahmed’s life slipped away before my eyes as the man with the gun ordered us to get out in a guttural Arabic that made the air tremble.
There were seven, seven men with scarves covering their faces, with weapons that seemed too large for their hands, with eyes that dripped with a hatred I had seen before, but never so close.
They made us walk toward a cargo truck parked a few meters from the bus.
The desert sun beat down on us mercilessly. Some children cried out for their mothers.
Others were paralyzed by shock. Yasmin, a 5-year-old girl with messy braids, clung to my skirt so tightly that I could feel her nails digging into the fabric.
“Get in now, Christian dogs!” Spat the tallest of them, the one who seemed to be in charge.
My hands trembled as I helped the children climb onto the back platform of the truck.
“It was a dark space without windows that smelled of fuel and something worse, something I don’t want to name.
The floor was dirty and it was unbearably hot. I counted mentally 45 children from Omar, 12 years old, the oldest, to the twins, Marcos and Lucas, barely five.
All under my responsibility, all under my inability to protect them. One of the men climbed up behind us.
His beard was reddish, and he had a scar running across his left cheek. He looked at us with disdain while speaking loudly on a cell phone, as if he wanted us to hear, “Yes, 46.
All children except the teacher. No, [music] we won’t touch them until we arrive in Libya.
They will decide what to do with them. Some buyers have already asked about children, those who are not useful, you know.
My heart stopped. Libya, traffic, execution videos, the stories we had heard on the news suddenly became our reality.
I looked at the terrified faces of my children and something inside me broke and strengthened at the same time.
I couldn’t let them see my fear. I couldn’t allow the darkness to win too soon.
The man got out of the truck and I heard the metallic sound of the locks closing.
1 2 3 external locks. The darkness became absolute when they also closed a metal gate.
Only small slits remained where thin lines of light entered. The engine roared and the truck began to move, swaying over what must have been a dirt road.
The cries erupted like a broken dam. I want my mom, screamed Miriam, 7 years old.
They are going to hurt us, sobbed David, nine. I’m scared, repeated little Sarah over and over.
I sat on the floor of the truck with my back against the metal wall and opened my arms.
The children crowded around me, some sitting on my lap, others hugging each other. The heat was suffocating.
The smell of fear was palpable. But then I remembered something my grandmother used to tell me when I was little and had nightmares.
When darkness surrounds you, sing because the light of God travels in the songs of his children.
Children, I said with a voice that tried to sound firm. We are going to sing.
Do you remember Jesus loves me? I don’t want to sing. I want to go home, wailed one of the twins.
I know, my love. I do, too. But while we are in this truck, we are going to remind Jesus that we are here.
We’re going to sing loudly so that he can hear us. Ready? My voice trembled as I began.
Jesus loves me. This I know. At first, only a few children accompanied me with voices broken by tears.
However, little by little, more voices joined in. Their words make me see that the children belong to him who is our faithful friend.
We sang that song once, twice, 10 times, 20 times. I don’t know how many times we repeated it.
The truck kept moving, bumping over the uneven ground. Through the cracks, I could see that the daylight was beginning to fade.
It must have been around 6:00 in the evening. We had been in that mobile hell for almost 3 hours.
The younger children began to fall asleep from emotional exhaustion, huddled together like scared puppies.
Omar, the oldest, sat next to me. He had dry tears on his cheeks, but was trying to look strong.
Teacher Miriam, are we going to get out of here? He whispered. I wanted to tell him yes for sure.