Basima al-Safar retouches a picture of Jesus on an easel outside her
house overlooking the flat Nineveh plains, 30 miles north of Mosul.
The
murals she paints tell the story of her people, Christians in Iraq. But
with Islamic State militants nearby, she is worried that life in Alqosh
and towns like it could soon come to an end.
The Assyrian
Christian town of around 6,000 people sits on a hill below the
seventh-century Rabban Hormizd Monastery, temporarily closed because of
the security situation. Residents of Alqosh fled this summer ahead of
Islamic State militants. Around 70 percent of the town’s residents have
since returned. Still, a sense of unease hangs in the air.
Below
the monastery in the boarded up bazaar a lone shopkeeper waits for
customers. At the edge of town local Christian fighters staff lookout
posts, checking for danger. With Islamic State fighters just 10 miles
away, these men and most residents of the town are scared that they may
have to flee again.
In August, the Christian town of Qaraqosh, 18
miles east of Mosul, was overrun, along with neighboring villages, home
to Iraqi Christian communities for centuries. Islamic State forces came
close but never entered Alqosh.
Al-Safar, who has been painting
murals of Christian life for 34 years, was born in Alqosh and shares her
brightly painted home with her cousin and nephew. Earlier this summer,
like many of the town’s residents, she fled to Dohuk, a Kurdish city on
the north of Iraq.
“When I returned Alqosh was like a ghost town,” she said.
She
began decorating her house with religious murals after the death of her
mother three years ago. But now she looks at her depictions of biblical
figures, potted plants, feasts and angels and wonders if she will ever
paint again.
Before 2003, there were an estimated 1.5 million
Christians in Iraq. These days, about 400,000 remain. In July,
Christians fled Mosul in droves after Islamic State militants gave them
an ultimatum to convert, pay a tax or be killed.
Mrayma and Athra Mansour, two Christian brothers, are trying to adjust to the new circumstances.
Athra Mansour used to teach the Syriac language to children in neighbouring Tel Isqof.
“Tel Isqof is empty now,” he explained, sipping a small cup of coffee.
Mrayma
Mansour, who used to work as a local disc jockey and has since taken up
arms as part of a fledgling Christian militia, said he wants
international protection for his people, in the form of a safe zone,
weapons and training.
“If this doesn’t happen I will get my passport, family and try to go to another country because it won’t be safe,” he said.
Thaer Saeed echoes the frustration.
Thaer Saeed echoes the frustration.
“No one is working here,” he
said, while playing with his three grandchildren. “I drive a taxi from
Baghdad to Alqosh and I can’t work because it’s too dangerous and there
are no customers.”
At 4:30, the St. George Church bells chime. A
few women and children gather for the service led by Deacon Salim Qoda.
Most of the aisles are empty. Prayers are read in the ancient Syriac
language, a dialect of Aramaic believed to have been spoken by Jesus.
Wadhah
Sabih, another deacon from the town, is proud of the Assyrian history
of his town. The people of Alqosh have defended themselves in the face
of many would-be invaders throughout the centuries, he said, but now “we
are living cautiously; every family is ready to flee.”
Back in her home, al-Safar smokes a cigarette and reflects.
“I will paint the Christians as homeless people, emigrating with bags,” she said. “I will paint the truth.”
