Sons of the Rivers
(Nestorians & Mandaeans)
They lived between the rivers,
before borders had names.
Before flags.
Before conquest disguised itself as order.
The Nestorians walked with books in their hands,
speaking the words of Christ
in Aramaic syllables that still echo in stone churches
now filled with dust and ruin.
They did not bow in councils.
They were branded heretics,
because their truth had no empire behind it.
The Mandaeans bathed in silence.
Not Christians, not Jews, not Muslims.
Just Mandaeans —
keepers of water,
followers of John,
whisperers of a light the world forgot.
They poured silver prayers into the Tigris
and were met with swords.
And still—
they endured.
In exile,
in back alleys,
in hidden temples
where candles flicker with memories
no one asks about.
Nestorian brothers,
Mandaean dreamers —
sons of Mesopotamia,
carriers of vanished alphabets,
keepers of things too old for this century.
The world calls you
minorities.
Remnants.
Ghosts.
But I see roots.
Roots that fed us all.
Before Rome.
Before Islam.
Before borders.
Before betrayal.
You are not forgotten.
You are not gone.
You are rivers
that refused to dry.