In the summer of 2014, ISIS fighters marched into Mosul, spreading fear through its narrow streets. Among those left behind were Camilla Haddad, a 98-year-old Christian woman, and her friend Mary. They were too old to flee; escape seemed impossible. The city trembled under threats of violence. The sun was setting one evening, and the sounds of distant explosions echoed off crumbling walls. From behind her door, Camilla watched people disappearing, shops closing, and prayers replaced by whispers of danger. Alone, she held onto her rosary, quiet in faith but fearful.

Then came a knock. It was Elias Abu Ahmed, a Muslim neighbor who had lived nearby for years. His eyes held concern more than fear. “You can stay,” he said. “I will protect you.” Elias’s family welcomed Camilla and Mary into their home, hiding them in back rooms. For weeks, the Hamas of fear hovered in the air: soldiers marched, rumors swirled, and strangers asked questions. Sometimes, Camilla heard footsteps outside, fearful they had
been seen. Each time, Elias’s calm voice soothed the danger away.

In the dim light of candle lamps, Mary and Camilla were given food, blankets, care. Elias’s children quietly brought water. One night, when fighters came looking for Christians, Elias denied seeing any — protecting his guests with his own life on the line. Long after the liberation of Mosul, when the shells quieted and homes were claimed again, Camilla survived—not alone, but because a Muslim family named Elias risked everything. In that moment, religion did not draw a line. Compassion did. Humanity did. Their story remains a quiet light: faith may divide, but compassion can bridge.