As an Egyptian, it saddens me to know that my people are being persecuted at least once a year. A handful of people are chosen to die, and their only fault is their religion. How is that justice? How could anyone willingly kill innocent people, especially mothers or daughters, fathers or sons? How could someone watch the damage they have done, and be satisfied? Is there no conscience? Is there no regret? I guess I will never know.
These people went to church. They went to church. Were they prepared? They probably had plans after. Where they going to work? To eat out with their friends? To go home and spend time with family? They had tasks that were left incompleted. They had events they wanted to attend. They had places they dreamed of visiting.
What’s the difference between the martyrs that died and me? Just one. The country.
What if that was me? It scares me to know that when I am standing in church, the safest place I know, that my life can end in a blink of an eye. It scares me to know that I may go and never see my family again. It scares me that the “goodbye” I yell as I walk out the door, may be my last goodbye.
A picture of me on cultural day.