Faith amid bombs: Priests minister to Christians in border towns of Lebanon and Israel

Jerusalem, Jul 16, 2024 / 05:47 am

On Oct. 7, 2023, when Hamas militants attacked Israel, hostilities between Hezbollah (a Lebanese Shia Islamist political party and militant group) and Israel resumed, putting Christian communities on both sides of the Lebanon-Israel border to the test.

Kiryat Shmona and Safad in Israel, and Deir Mimas and Naqura in Lebanon are a handful of locations known for their history of fighting and violence. But they are also towns where small Christian communities live.

CNA reached out to three priests who tirelessly continue to reach these communities from both sides of the border, bringing them closeness, words of hope, and spiritual and material aid.

Father Rody Noura, 37, a Maronite priest, drives every day from Acre, where he lives, to visit his parishioners — about 4,000 — in the Jewish towns of northern Israel. Like him, they are all Lebanese, having arrived in May 2000 after the Israeli army withdrew from Lebanon.

“It is possible to move around fairly safely, although sometimes you see missile explosions,” he told CNA. “When I leave, I say to the Lord: ‘Today, too, I am going out to do your will. Whether I return home depends on you.’”

Father Sandy Habib, 45, is the Maronite parish priest of Jish, an Israeli Arab village with a population of 3,000, 60% to 65% of whom are Christians (Maronites and Melkites). The village is located at the foot of Mount Meron a few miles from the Lebanese border.

“The belief in Jesus Christ gives me the strength to continue doing what I’m doing despite difficulties,” Habib said. “The hope that Jesus Christ gives us enables me to continue living in this place. We need peace, justice, and love, and that’s possible only through Jesus Christ.”

On the Lebanon side of the border, Father Toufic Bou Mehri, 55, superior of the Franciscan convent in Tyre, is the “itinerant pastor” for the Latin-rite faithful scattered in the villages of southern Lebanon. Every Sunday he travels 45 miles to Deir Mimas, 2.5 miles from the Israeli border, opposite the town of Metulla. At 11:30, he celebrates Mass for the few remaining faithful. “We have never missed a Sunday,” he said.

The situation in northern Israel “is apparently normal,” according to Noura. People work, and children go to school. But not everything is as it was before.

Many have relatives and friends on the other side of the border. Sometimes a wrong number in the phonebook can lead to accusations of collaboration with people “on the other side.” Because of this, he said, “we pray for one another, but we try to avoid direct contact.”

Noura visits the sick, families in difficulty, and those evacuated from high-risk areas who are now living in hotels (about 800 people), and he teaches catechism to children.

“Only with Christ,” he said, “even in the midst of war, there is hope; in the midst of death, there is resurrection.”

He brings to his faithful the message of God’s love for humanity, the same love that changed his life as a teenager.

“I was 13 years old when, from one day to the next, we fled from Lebanon and came to Israel,” along with thousands of people, he told CNA. All of them were considered traitors because they belonged to the pro-Israeli militia called the South Lebanon Army, like Noura’s father, or had relations and contacts with Israelis.

“I wondered: Why did all this happen to me? I’m just a child. I wanted to escape from this world; I had lost trust in everyone, even myself.” Then came an encounter with the Neocatechumenal Way, a Catholic community, and the message that “God exists and loves me as I am. It was the answer I was looking for. It restored my hope.”

For this reason, he continued, “in the face of this war, we want to choose the good — that is, Christ. Jesus said, ‘Love your enemies.’ Choosing Christ is choosing love, to love everyone.”

Habib, the parish priest of Jish, agreed: “The key word in Christianity is love: Love God and every human being, even the enemies.” This, he said, is the guiding light for him.

CNA met Habib in Jerusalem along with a group of 30 young people from the Apostolic Movement, a group that was founded 25 years ago in the parish of Jish with the aim of “bringing ourselves closer to Jesus,” Habib explained. “We try to achieve this through spiritual activities, social activities like trips, and by announcing Jesus Christ.”

The group was organizing a summer camp for children and adolescents scheduled for the first half of August. Last year, there were about 300 participants, and the same number is expected this year, despite the current situation.

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“The first months of the war,” he recounted, “we had to stop all the celebrations inside the church, which is on the second level of the parish building, and move everything downstairs. We also stopped almost all activities, especially with the children. We used to hear very loud artillery and sirens from time to time. This caused some panic.”

Since mid-February, the community has returned to the church and restarted the activities in the parish. “Jish is not really targeted, even though we have to take all the precautions. Life is semi-normal… until you hear the sirens or the heavy artillery.”

Habib tries to teach the youngest children “the importance of holding on to our faith, to trust in Jesus, who is the only one who can bring real peace in our hearts and in the hearts of everyone.”

“We pray for everyone because every human being is created in the image of God,” he underlined. “God, who is love, loves every human being, and he wants us to love as he loves.”

Father Mehri covers the last few miles separating him from Deir Mimas as quickly as possible. Israeli drones could mistake him for a Hezbollah militia member and strike him. For this reason, he never stays beyond 3 p.m.; it’s safer to return in daylight.

Of the 40 parish families who once lived in the village, only 18 remain. Some returned after the first few months because they couldn’t afford living expenses. “Near Beirut, rent costs $300 per month, but these people earn $150 at best. They tell me, ‘We prefer to die with dignity at home than to die of hunger elsewhere.’”

Every Sunday, Mehri brings food parcels and fresh vegetables thanks to the support of the Apostolic Vicariate of Beirut and of the association Pro Terra Sancta, affiliated with the Custody of the Holy Land.

“Deir Mimas is famous for its olive oil; people here live off agriculture but now it’s not safe to go out to work in the fields.” Additionally, “sometimes Hezbollah militants use the fields to launch missiles.”

Waiting for him every Sunday is a parishioner known as Mrs. Lena, who has always taken care of the church. “Every day she lights a candle in front of the statue of Our Lady and prays for peace. I provide the candles, and she ensures the prayers.”

There are no bunkers in the village. When missiles start whistling, it’s pointless to interrupt Mass; there’s no safe place.

In March, “four missiles fell in our field, just outside the village,” Mehri recounted. “One even hit the cemetery: The wall collapsed, and some graves were uncovered. For 10 days, I couldn’t approach because Israeli drones were flying over, searching for Hezbollah fighters.”

But even this doesn’t stop him.

“People call me ‘Father.’ To live as a parish priest, I can’t lose this bond of fatherhood. They are my children. I can’t leave them without Mass and sacraments; I can’t leave them alone.”