Related articles and links |  1 of 2

Adel Hermiz Marogi, 47, proudly thumbs through the pages of a thick Bible. The green cover is etched with elaborate Arabic script traced in gold. Then Marogi disappears into the bedroom and reemerges holding a painting of the Last Supper in one hand, a portrait of Jesus in the other. These are among his family's most prized possessions.

But when talk turns to houses of worship here in Al Qa'im, the cheerful Iraqi with the salt-and-pepper moustache and thick black hair shakes his head and sighs.

"Our fathers and mothers tried to build one," Marogi said. "But they could not find the money to do it."

In the barren wastes that stretch from Al Qa'im up to the Syrian border, no one has the resources. The old Iraqi constitution under the despotic rule of Saddam Hussein explicitly protected freedom of religion. It did not protect against poverty. While the dictator would provide free building materials—and even pipe organs—for some churches, this kind of government largesse never reached isolated communities such as Al Qa'im.

Today, however, some are daring to dream again. American soldiers arrived recently and encamped just down the road, at the local railroad station. Marogi plans to visit the camp and ask the Presbyterian chaplain, Capt. Sungjean Kim, to conduct a service, and maybe even help build a church.

"I will speak with the captain and tell him I can collect all the Christians," Marogi said. "We want to have relations, Christian to Christian, and we will be very happy if he can help us have a church."

As Iraq grapples with its newfound freedom, Christians of all types are beginning to reach out, both to outsiders and to one another. Clive Calver, president of the evangelical World Relief agency, just returned from a trip to the country.

"There's the beginning of an opportunity to do something that's never been done before and that is communicate between churches," Calver said. "I went north and found eight churches where there was only supposed to be one. That tells you something. These folks don't know each other exists. It's amazing what can be done to network. It's a moment of opportunity."

Al Qa'im is actually a cluster of villages in northwestern Iraq. To get here, you have to traverse desert wastes dotted occasionally with scrub brush. Most of Al Qa'im's 40,000 people are Muslims. The 20 or so Christian families in this dusty border enclave near the Euphrates are Chaldeans. They are part of the largest Christian denomination in Iraq, which is in communion with the Roman Catholic Church but worships with an ancient Syriac liturgy.

In the Al Qa'im area, the locals still talk about that Sunday back in 1980 when a visiting priest conducted a service at a local home—an event that has not been repeated since.

The Christians have plenty of experience keeping the faith through tough times. In the absence of a church building, Marogi and his wife have filled their squat cinderblock house with religious items. A wooden cross hangs from one wall, a picture of a son standing at the altar in a distant church on another. Christmas cards ring the room. Photo albums overflow with pictures of family trips to Mass and baptisms.

Every year after school is out, Marogi sends his wife and four children to their ancestral home in Mosul. They attend Sunday prayers, in churches so full "you cannot find a chair to sit on all day," and take Sunday school classes.

As the war approached, family members made their way to a house down the road to huddle with other Christian families. There was no priest to preside. But those present lit candles, knelt in prayer for peace, and read the Bible.

next page... |  1 of 2

August 2003, Vol. 47, No. 8