The Problem with Christian Martyrs

Faith at the Sword’s Edge

In a modern-day Golgotha, on a desolate beach in Libya ten years ago, twenty-one men in orange jumpsuits were marched to their deaths by black-clad executioners. The world watched as ISIS broadcast their final moments against the endless Mediterranean. A militant declared in flawless American English, “People of the cross, followers of the hostile Egyptian Church.” Those words made it clear that their crime was their faith, and their sentence was death.

Each man had been given an ultimatum; renounce Christianity or die at the sword. They all chose the sword.

Their final words, as shown in the video before their brutal decapitation, were not cries for mercy but a prayer: “Ya Rab Yasua,” or “O Lord Jesus.” These words echoed pointedly in Egypt. In the West, however, few seemed to understand the remarkable expression of faith they had witnessed.

Ordinary Men, Extraordinary Faith

These men were not soldiers. They carried no weapons and waged no wars. They were construction workers and laborers who had been kidnapped by the brutal Islamist group. They were young men with dreams for a better life. Among them was Samuel Stephanos Kamel, a 23-year-old electrician from el-Aour, a small village in the city of Minya, Egypt.

Samuel had left home two years prior in search of work to provide for his family. Specifically, he wanted to help his brother raise money for a wedding. The older brother, Beshoy, knelt beside him on that shore. Samuel was known for his sense of humor, his ability to bring levity to any situation, and his service as a deacon in his local church. He also volunteered with "Brothers of Christ," a program that anonymously delivered food and clothing to the needy.

“My uncle taught me that kindness does not need to be loud to make a difference,” his nephew told me.

Three days before the world saw the video, their families received photographs of the men in orange jumpsuits. At first, the images sparked hope that their loved ones were still alive. But they also signaled that the worst was yet to come. There were no demands and no negotiations. Just an ultimatum that had already been answered. On that beach, there were no dreams left to hold, only the certainty of death and the quiet courage of men who knew to whom they belonged.

Their God Is My God: The Choice That Cost a Life

Another man that stood apart was Matthew Ayariga, about whom little is known. He was not born into the Coptic men’s country or their faith, yet when the moment of decision arrived, he made it his own. According to an ISIS militant who was later captured, Matthew was given a final chance to save himself. He could renounce Christianity and walk away. Instead, he looked at the men beside him and said, “Their God is my God.” With those words, he knelt alongside them, embracing martyrdom as his own.

Western Denial of True Martyrdom

Three days after the world saw the video, a traditional Coptic prayer service was held in el-Aour. Grief gave way to something surprising: joy, even pride. The families spoke not just of loss, but of victory that their sons had chosen faith over life.

When their bodies were found and returned to Egypt, they were canonized as saints. Their icons adorn many church walls, and their courage is told in children’s storybooks.

Yet when the infamous video made its way onto the nightly segments of American and other western news shows, the world did not weep. While some American Christian news outlets displayed clarity, journalists and elected leaders resorted to vague or diluted language that avoided addressing the true reason for their deaths. News outlets danced around the truth of why they were killed. The White House referred to them merely as "Egyptian citizens." There was a cold, clinical unease in the way their murders were discussed—if they were discussed at all.

Why the West Refused to Mourn

This is the problem with Christian martyrs. Not their existence, but rather the discomfort their fate reveals. A martyr does not allow us to remain neutral. He reminds us that faith is not just an intellectual exercise but a question of life and death.

For many in the West, where faith is often seen as a cultural artifact rather than a force that shapes lives and fates, this is deeply unsettling. It is easier, then, to dismiss their sacrifice, frame their deaths as an isolated act of terrorism by refusing to acknowledge the reason they were killed, and see them as tragic victims of the wrong place and the wrong time. This misses the true nature of their testimony.

A martyr, like Samuel and his brother, forces the West to reckon with the ultimate question: how much does our faith define us? These men, in the face of a gruesome death, stood firm. They demonstrated that even when the alternative was the sword, faith was the conviction that shaped who they were.

Samuel’s family does not speak of revenge. They speak of faith. They speak of how his sacrifice has strengthened their own faith. The church and the families do not mourn as those who have no hope. They see these men not as victims but as victors.

Saints in Orange

In the final frame of the ISIS video, the men’s blood darkens the ocean waves. To ISIS, this scene was a declaration of conquest and a symbol of their domination. To the Copts, it was something else entirely: a baptism, a sacrifice of conviction, and an eternal symbol of courage sealed in water.

These twenty-one men are not just another tragic footnote in the long and bloody history of Middle Eastern Christianity. Their sacrifice is not a passive loss but an active testimony to their unwavering faith. In a world that resists acknowledging their sacrifices as a defense of their faith, the story of these men remains a pointed challenge to our understanding of and commitment to faith. 

Mariam Wahba

Research Analyst at the Foundation for Defense of Democracies