01-10-2012 - Traces, n. 9

SYRIA
Eastern Christians


War and Destiny
We were there more than a year ago, at the beginning of the fighting, and now we have returned to the hills on the Lebanese border, where the nuns of the Azeir convent continue to live alongside the people of this village, in a life marred by the fanaticism of the hooded Musalahin, arms trafficking, and the fear of speaking. Members of the Christian community relate how they have seen their country change.

by Gian Micalessin

The chant of the “Our Father” in Arabic has dissolved into the evening darkness; Compline, the prayer after dinner, has ended. Sister Mariangela has turned off the organ, and Sister Marita clears her throat. Sister Maria Luisa guides the sisters toward their rooms. Sister Adriana and Sister Annunciata listen to another song, another very familiar voice, coming from the valley where the Janoubi River separates the mountains of Lebanon from the high plains of Syria. “Tal Kalakh,” Sister Marita murmers. “As always,” whispers Maria Luisa.

“It’s the heavy artillery.” The five Trappestines of the Azeir convent know that sound well. It has been accompanying their prayers for months, often coming far too close. Maria Claudia, a 53-year-old native of Como, Italy, leads me up to the roof, opens a door onto the darkness, and points toward the flashes and booms. “Do you hear it? It’s the heavy artillery. Do you see the glare from the explosions?” She names no names, but her finger is pointed directly at Tal Kalackh, the border city where the armed Musalahin rebels are. This is where weapons enter from Lebanon, to be moved to Homs, Aleppo, Damascus, and Hama.
The monastery of the Trappestine sisters, built on a hill that dominates the Christian village of Azeir, is at the crossroads of that traffic, the crossroads of the war. “Right in the middle,” sighs Mariangela, 73 years old, from Brescia, Italy, seconded by Sister Adriana, a 66-year-old Sardinian, and Sister Anunciata, a 73-year-old from Lodi, Italy, who is a guest at the convent for a brief period. While for Annunciata the Azeir convent is a short-term experience, for the others it is a life choice that threads together faith, war, and destiny. “I began to think about it after the death of seven of our brother Trappists in Tibhirine, kidnapped and killed by Algerian fundamentalists in 1996. I had just turned 50, and I was looking for a new beginning,” recounts Marita. Neither she nor her fellow Trappestines imagined that their choice would have propelled them into a situation very similar to that of their brothers swallowed by Algerian hatred and fundamentalism. “When we arrived, Syria was still the country of tolerance. The Maronite Christians of Azeir and the Alawites of the village below here worked side-by-side with the Sunnis of the other village at the crossing with the highway for Homs. Then the war came and changed everything,” recounts Sister Marita, showing the collection of shards and bullets gathered at the entrance. “And these certainly are not all of the material that has landed around here,” she smiles.
One day, the Musalahin also arrived. “We saw them after Lauds; there must have been around 30 of them, moving around with masked faces, carrying Kalashnikovs and other weapons. I realized right away that they were preparing to ambush the army, and so I began praying, but the soldiers realized what was happening too, and came in force,” recalls Maria Claudia. That morning, two armed rebels died in the fighting that moved throughout the holy land of the convent. Notwithstanding the tragedy, notwithstanding the pain, Sister Maria Claudia and Sister Marita cannot find it in themselves to blame the soldiers. “We all felt a terrible sadness, but we are here to share and understand the reality of this blood-stained land. When the monastery was hit, it was almost always because the rebels were shooting at the garrison. Only once were we hit by mistake by a government militia grenade.” Sister Marita continues, “I have never seen a soldier commit gratuitous violence. That morning, when the rebels were arrested, a soldier supported the eldest rebel, giving his arm as one would to a father. Unfortunately, I have witnessed other episodes of violence...”
In one of the most gratuitous episodes, two Christian brothers were struck in Azeir, the Maronite village where the sisters meet the faithful during Mass. It was last winter, “the days of the siege of Homs, when the Musalahin had entered the city,” recalls Sister Maria Claudia, “and these two brothers of Azeir supplied bread to the Alawites, the religious minority to which President Bashar Assad also belongs. The rebels first warned them, then threatened them, and, in the end, killed them. The foreign television broadcasts blame the soldiers.” Sister Marita is much less diplomatic: “This is a war fought with deception and trickery, a disguised invasion. We see it with our own eyes. The Sunnis themselves, those closest to the Musalahin if only because of religion, repeat that these are not the methods for bringing freedom. Certainly, the government is guilty of many things, and must change many things, but the war is not the solution.” To understand what Sister Marita means, it is enough to speak with the Christians who have fled the village of Xer on the Lebanese border. “In Xer,” recounts George, a Christian forced to abandon that zone, “we lived together with the Sunnis, but then the armed men came and dictated their rules. You Christians–they said–must follow our orders or leave. Now our homes are empty and Xer is completely Muslim.”

Going back 50 years. “The faithful of the village here below always tell us,” adds Maria Claudia, “that if the rebels win, we’ll return to the way things were 50 years ago. Assad and his father gave dignity to us Christians and imposed tolerance on the Sunni Muslims. Clearly, they defended the minorities because they, too, came from the Alawite minority, but the system worked. Throwing it away would be a tragedy. Here in Syria, al Qaeda and fanaticism have never had a home. Now, instead, they are arriving, following those who advocate freedom and democracy.”
The sisters speak openly, but the Catholics of Azeir avoid sharing their fears with other foreigners. In church and in the village, the fear is palpable, concrete–it is the fear of being denounced to the enemy, the armed men who patrol the paths of the district every night. When we take the highway the 20 odd miles that separate the convent from Homs, and enter the alleys of Bab Assiba, we see the stories of the five Trappistines in their concrete reality. Evident. In this labyrinth of small streets devastated by the January battles, snipers continue to kill for control of a frontline drawn through buildings and homes, mosques and churches. The Christians, instead, try to reassemble the pieces of their homes.

Carla’s fear. Carla Bitan, a 32-year-old mother of three, is one of them. “Look at what they’ve done to our house of prayer!” she cries as she stands in the front door, facing what remains of the Catholic Church. It is hard to tell whether the caved-in roof, the devastated nave, the smashed pews and alter were the work of the rebel rockets and mortars or the government tanks. Certainly, however, the fear that kept Carla, her husband George, and their three children far from their house was propagated by the rebels. “When they occupied the neighborhood, they closed the school and asked all us Christians to stay at home and not be seen around town. Those who left their homes risked being kidnapped, and then the family had to find the money to get them back alive. Now, the army has returned and calm has also returned. ”