War in the Middle East. The edifying testimony of a Lebanese Maronite priest in the chaos of his Christian village
“The bombs are raining around us but for the moment, Hajjeh, my village, where I have been a priest for twenty-seven years, remains spared. But since the Israeli border is 45 kilometers away, we wonder when our turn will come. Of the 800 inhabitants, only a hundred still live there, it is a ghost village. It all started on September 23, 2024, that famous Black Monday, when Israel began massively bombing the region. As there is no shelter, families have fled. I often think of these displaced people when I take the road to Beirut, the capital. The landscape appears sad, full of abandoned cars. This Black Monday, it took about thirteen hours to travel forty kilometers. Some vehicles did not hold up. Since then, the Christians remaining in Hajjeh have found themselves alone in the world. The curtains of bakeries, supermarkets and pharmacies have closed. The villagers go to look for provisions a little further north, fifteen kilometers away. There is a shortage of gasoline because Israel prohibits tankers from supplying the region for fear that they will supply Hezbollah. The residents who remain did not choose it, they are often the poorest. They cannot miss the olive harvest season, their only livelihood. They also find themselves watching over their neighbors’ empty houses, as some take advantage of the chaos. Rumor has it that Syrian refugees are sending false evacuation messages and then looting homes.
Prayer can heal
For my part, I do not want to abandon my parishioners. Every day, I celebrate a time of adoration at 5 p.m., followed by mass. I only did it once a week before. Prayer can heal and bring us peace, at least inner peace. But the war always catches up with us. I no longer count the number of times the sound of bombs broke the silence of prayers. At that moment, in the church, everyone jumped, the women screamed, the children tried to run away… The deafening noise of the bombings traumatized them. But we resume, we pray for those who have just been attacked, far away, for their souls to rest. We also think of the rescuers, also victims of the bombings. I cannot hold back my tears thinking of this father of three who lost his life while helping the injured. He was a Christian. We all know that we can die tomorrow. This is why I prepare my faithful to die properly. I was thus able to reconcile two brothers who had not spoken to each other for years.
Our life reminds me of the 2006 war, when Israel bombed the south of the country for 33 days in a row. I was already in Hajjeh but my family had taken refuge north of Beirut. When I visited him, I drove under the bombs, I stopped on the side of the road to vomit, terrified. Likewise, now we cannot live without fear. Without the anger either. Many Christians are angry with Hezbollah for bringing war to our country. Its members go so far as to build villas in our villages, close to the border, solely to hide rocket launchers. I do not want to consider Hezbollah as our enemy. We belong to the same homeland. We are far from the Lebanese civil war (1975-1990) where the country’s communities clashed. Since then, we have engaged in the work of mutual forgiveness, particularly under the leadership of Christians. Today, all Lebanese are united against Israel, which is the enemy. But as a Christian, we must pray for those who massacre us and drive us from our lands. »