Hope

Doing what I do, living in a 'war zone' (speech marks as my day to day life is fairly stable, at a distance from front lines), constantly seeing the effects of violence can make hope seem a bit thin on the ground. Sometimes I need to actively search for it. Sometimes I have to pray that I will find some diamond in the dust as it were to keep me going. And just as every rotation is more tiring than the last, I think every rotation I need to seek hope more and more to keep me going. I even had a tattoo on my ankle last year to remind me that I have a hope that is an anchor for my soul, sure and steadfast. It's a good reminder as my emotions are not sure and steadfast on their own.

Part of my job is strategic - where will we be needed next and what do we need to do to be ready. At the moment for me, that boils down to one word - Mosul. The re-capture of Mosul city and it's surrounds is on-going and it's time to start thinking about how we can respond within the city itself. Which led me this week to carry out a security assessment of a town on the outskirts of Mosul as a possible option for a new base.

We travelled out towards this town, getting held at various check points along the way - negotiating access permissions and convincing officials we were not journalists looking for a story. An hour and a half later we arrived at what can only be described as a ghost town, it looked like a scene from a film about the end of the world. Buildings were rubble, roads potted with craters from airstrikes, shops completely looted and destroyed. There was no one except military personnel on the streets, and we could hear the distant sounds from the front line. We slowly drove through the streets and found a single man opening up his shop with a small generator to provide some power. We stopped to talk to him, to find out his story, the story of the town, trying to glean information for our decision making. He was re-opening his photocopying shop at the request of the Mayor who was trying to begin working from the town again. This town was originally ethnically Christian, but then over the last few years had become a little more mixed in it's population. As soon as they heard ISIS were approaching 2 and a half years ago, the population fled as they all knew they would be targets due to their various ethnicity's. He said the only people who stayed were those who were too old to leave. He said no one knows what happened to them. This is such a familiar story here, and in reality we do know what happened to these elderly residents, we just don't know how it happened. ISIS have not only taken their lives, but they have also denied their families and friends the ability to grieve them properly. It's these kind of conversations that can leave you feeling drained and hopeless.

But then I started to ask about the big church in the town which we had driven past. It was damaged, but still standing, and in what was a predominantly Christian town, this would have been a very important building. He told me that although no one has moved back to this town yet, and that many people have managed to gain refuge overseas; those of them that are still in Kurdistan gathered together in this church building on Christmas Day to hold a service. Even though for 2 and a half years this community has been displaced, even though their homes have been damaged so badly they can't yet return home; they were able to celebrate one of the most important days in their calendar together in their church - the symbol of their faith and their community. They were able to celebrate the birth of Jesus, who Himself was born in to displacement, in the very place they had to flee because of their faith. And there it was, hope filled my heart again.