This is a few-months-old post; I am reposting it now.
These are the beautiful Druze people—my people. I am profoundly proud to have been born among them in that unique corner of the world.
Today, they gather in a public square, singing through their tears, mourning with dignity and grace.
They have once again been subjected to a brutal, barbaric massacre at the hands of Islamic extremists, targeted only because they are Druze, not Muslims.
The Druze are a secular, peace-loving people who have survived for over a thousand years in one of the harshest and most unforgiving places on Earth. They preserved their identity and held fast to their humanity by rejecting jihadism and takfirism.
At times, they kept their spiritual beliefs and philosophy about God, life, and death hidden deep within—not out of shame, but to avoid offending those who could not tolerate free thought or diversity—in a land where the charge of apostasy is ever ready and the punishment swift and merciless. Yet they never bowed down when attacked.
This time was no different. On July 13, thousands of barbaric ISIS and al-Qaeda fighters, supported by the extremist regime in Syria, stormed their city, executing families in their homes, looting and burning neighborhoods to ashes, and slaughtering nearly 4,000 innocent souls. Their only crime: they were Druze.
Even in the face of unimaginable horror, the Druze stood their ground. They fought back, defended their city, and drove the savage invaders out. Only Israel came to their defense and helped immensely in halting the genocide planned for them, while every other country in the world looked the other way. Now the city stands under siege, its people grieving but unyielding—surrounded by the silence of a world that seems to have forgotten them.
They are mourning the fallen, holding pictures of their loved ones. They are not broken. Their tears are sacred. Their strength is eternal.