Ten years ago, the city of Mosul fell to one of the most brutal forces the modern world has ever known: ISIS.

For the Christians who had lived here for generations, life was changed forever. Given an ultimatum to convert, flee or die, they packed what they could carry and left their homes behind, many believing they would return in a matter of days. But it would take three long years before ISIS was finally defeated; and when the Christians did return, many found their homes destroyed.

I recently traveled to Iraq to meet the survivors and hear their incredible stories of faith and perseverance. For one week, I traveled with our EWTN News In Depth, and partner agency ACI Mena, and crew.

Our first stop brought us to the ancient monastery of St. Behnam and Sarah, just outside of Mosul. Here, you can see the physical scars left by ISIS. Father Mazen Mattoka, the abbot, pointed to the desecrated walls, where once-beautiful Christian inscriptions had been violently scraped away. “They destroyed these markings because they believed we worshipped the cross, the saints, and all these other symbols,” he said, his voice heavy with sorrow.

The Islamic militants went from room to room, chiseling and breaking off the wall any marker they saw of Christianity. Yet among the ruins, one symbol was miraculously spared: an octagon, a Christian sign of the Resurrection, mistaken by ISIS for Islamic art. “Even when they tried to erase us, God left us a reminder of life.”

Across the Nineveh Plains, the destruction is overwhelming. In Qaraqosh, once Iraq’s largest Christian town, the blackened remains of burned-out homes stand like tombstones of the past. Churches, once places of prayer and joy, were desecrated; crosses torn down, Bibles and hymnals burned, and religious statues smashed.

The Church of the Immaculate Conception in Qaraqosh, one of the most historic Christian sites in Iraq, was used as a firing range by ISIS, its sacred walls riddled with bullet holes. “They tried to make sure we could never come back,” one resident told me. “But here we are. We are back.”

The statistics of suffering are staggering. During ISIS’s reign of terror, more than 1,132 Christians were killed, and 120,000 were forced to flee their homes. The Christian population in Iraq, which stood at around 1.5 million before 2003, has now dwindled to fewer than 250,000. And the land where Christianity has existed for nearly 2,000 years is at risk of losing its Christian presence altogether.

So how did this happen? How did a group filled with such hatred grow so fast? Well, the reasons are many and complex, but Archbishop Bashar Warda of Erbil talked to me a bit about this on camera. He explained that radical ideologies take root in communities where young people feel lost and directionless. “If you give young men no opportunities, no jobs, no sense of purpose, they will turn to something that makes them feel powerful,” he said. “ISIS exploited that vacuum. They gave young people a cause, even if it was based on destruction and terror.”

The archbishop lamented the failures of Iraq’s government to address these deep-seated issues. “For decades, Christians and other minorities have been marginalized, but even many Sunni Muslims felt abandoned by their own leaders. That is how ISIS was able to manipulate entire communities; they preyed on grievances and made people believe they were fighting for something bigger than themselves.”

The Church, on the other hand, has always tried to give people real hope. “We remind our people that their faith is their strength," Archbishop Warda said. “Our faith has survived every persecution, every war, every hardship. And that is why we are still here.”

Across these towns and villages, I met families who had returned to rebuild. Rand Sabeeh, who was just 20 when ISIS arrived, recalled how her family fled in the night. “We slept on the roof for days because of the heat and power cuts. We could see the rockets lighting up the sky,” she recalled. “We thought we’d be gone for a few days, but then our town fell, and we realized we had escaped just in time.”

Returning home was just as painful. “When I came back after three years, I couldn’t enter my house at first. I found ISIS books and remnants of their presence everywhere,” she said. The thought of leaving for good crossed her mind many times, but something stronger held her in place. “This is our land. This is where we belong. If we don’t stay and rebuild, who will?”

The scars left by ISIS extend far beyond the physical destruction. The psychological wounds run deep. Many Christian families returning to Mosul and surrounding villages live in fear, knowing that the ideology that gave rise to ISIS still lingers in some communities.

For many, rebuilding was not just about bricks and mortar but about faith. Archbishop Warda remembered the chaos when thousands of displaced Christians flooded into his church compound seeking shelter. “They refused to go to U.N. camps. They said, ‘The church is the only place we know will not abandon us.’” Despite the fear and uncertainty, young Christian volunteers like Devar Sher and Alan Raam stayed to help. They helped distribute food and medical supplies to the thousands of internal refugees who had gathered in the grounds outside the church. “It was overwhelming, but we had to do something,” Alan explained. "Even when my mother called, begging me to come home, I couldn’t leave those people alone.”

While some Christians chose to stay and rebuild, others saw no future in Iraq. The statistics are grim: More than half of Iraq’s Christian population has fled in the last two decades. “We lost 57% of our people,” Khalis Esho said. “They went to Australia, Canada, the U.S., our churches, graveyards, monasteries destroyed. Our history is erased. But our spirit? That they could never erase.”

It is the spirit of hope that Pope Francis promoted during his historic visit to Iraq in 2021. Standing among the ruins of Mosul, he called for reconciliation and peace. “We are peacemakers,” said Father Raed Adel, one of the organizers of the visit. “No pope ever visited our city before, but this Pope did so. And he was very brave to do so. He wanted to visit the city where what happened to us was like a world war, a Hiroshima, Iraq’s Hiroshima. But the Pope visited to say that we are against murder and terrorism. Today, the city is being rebuilt and reconstructed. And much of this reconstruction is due to the Pope’s visit.”

The scars of ISIS still linger, and the threat of extremism has not vanished.

But hope has taken root in the rubble.

As Esho put it, quoting the novelist Gheorghe Gheorghiu: “Hope is a plant that grows even on tombstones. The language of peace must prevail.” And for the Christians of Iraq, that hope is their greatest weapon.

The future remains uncertain. But walking through these villages, speaking to the people who have endured so much and yet still find the strength to carry on, one thing is clear: They are not giving up.

Sitting in her kitchen, over a cup of coffee, Sabeeh reflected, “You know, sometimes God gives the hardest battles to the strongest warriors.”

As the sun set the night before we were due to depart from the country, I stood with Archbishop Warda outside his church. “We are a Church of the martyrs. We have survived persecution for centuries,” he said. “For Iraq, I dream of a thriving country, a peaceful country, a country where every family has the chance to live in peace. And this is not just a hope that we wish, but it’s a hope that we should work for as well.”

In a land where civilization began, Iraqi Christians, despite all the persecution and the pain, the suffering and the deep sorrow, are writing a new story — a story of resilience, of courage, and of hope. A decade after ISIS tried to erase them, they stand strong, rebuilding not just their homes but their lives, their faith and their future.