Closer than you think

We drive to St Samuel's Monastery in the desert south of Cairo. The road there has been guarded by the police since the attacks on a group of Coptic pilgrims. On 28th April 2017, a group of IS jihadists from Libya attacked the convoy of some Christians. The Islamists wanted to force the Copts to renounce their faith. When no one was willing to do so, they killed 28 people, including several children. The police let us pass without any further questions. At the scene of the incident, we see crosses stuck in the sand in a semi-circle at the side of the road. Some of the victims are buried here. Feelings rise up in me that I find hard to control and even harder to put into words. Something of what happened here is palpable.

We reach the monastery and the driver takes us to a small chapel that has only recently been built. We quickly realise its purpose: it commemorates the tragedy of the attack on 28th April, but also the loyalty of the pilgrims. Photos of the victims with their names and ages are hung on the door, on the walls and at the back of the chapel. As I enter the chapel, I am completely overwhelmed with emotion. Tears stream down my face and I have to isolate myself a little. But what's going on here? I am neither a Copt nor an Egyptian, and none of these people were personally known to me. Nevertheless, I feel incredibly close to them, beyond denominations, culture, language and nationality. They are sisters and brothers who, threatened by weapons, have stood firm and paid for it with their lives.

In the face of death, our differences disappear. Only the essentials remain: ‘One Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of us all, who reigns over all, works through all and lives in all’ (Ephesians 4:5-6).