While an explosion reverberated across the valley from Beirut to the foothill village of Mansourieh, two men puffed on their cigarettes in resignation. Israeli jets were striking another apartment building in the Dahiyeh region of Beirut, Lebanon’s capital city, likely killing a Hezbollah militant or targeting an underground weapons depot within the tightly packed urban area.

Neither man cared about politics or the war, brought to their doorstep by last year’s decision of the Shiite Muslim militia to launch rockets into Israel to support Hamas. Tit-for-tat attacks had crossed the southern border for the 11 months that followed, as neither side wanted to engage in a larger conflict. That fighting displaced tens of thousands on both sides while leaving the rest of Lebanon largely unscathed—yet ever worried about an escalation.

It came in September. On the 17th, Israel declared the return of northern citizens to their homes to be an official war goal. Hours later, an Israeli sabotage operation exploded Hezbollah pagers, killing 13 and wounding around 4,000 militia-linked individuals. Then, on September 23, Israeli missiles struck throughout Lebanon, and hundreds of thousands fled their homes. Lubnan Assaf, a 42-year-old Shiite Muslim, and Awad Saab, a 72-year-old Greek Catholic, somehow found their way to the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary (ABTS) guesthouse—and became friends. At its peak, the evangelical institution housed almost 250 displaced individuals, about one-third of whom were fellow Christians.

ABTS offered daily chapels and provided three meals a day—but no televisions. Isolated from the news and away from static entertainment, couples walked in the seminary gardens while children rode scooters down the access road from the library. Assaf and Saab played a Rummy-like card game until 10 p.m., exchanging details about their abandoned neighborhoods.

Assaf gave Saab the daily update that his auto-accessory shop on the edge of Dahiyeh had not been looted. Saab replied that his eight-month pregnant daughter, one of 15 people who remained in their southern village on the frontline of the Israeli ground invasion, was still doing all right. Both whittled away the hours in relative boredom, as each over time expanded his spiritual horizons.

Assaf’s Story

Assaf’s apartment in the working-class Shiite neighborhood of Ouzai, located in Dahiyeh near the Beirut airport, overlooks a local café and the Mediterranean Sea. His shop serviced mostly middle-class Christians who frequented the area, well-known for its inexpensive furniture and manufactured goods.

Over the years, Assaf saved up enough money to build a home in his family village of Younine, 11 miles northeast of Baalbek, an ancient Roman city preserved in the Bekaa Valley, Lebanon’s agricultural heartland. Driving from Beirut means passing by marijuana fields that fuel an unofficial economy run by local Shiite tribes that reportedly collaborate loosely with Hezbollah.

Artful calligraphy from the Quran adorns the walls of Assaf’s home. His wife, Mira, and their 15-year-old daughter wear the hijab. When war came to Dahiyeh, they relocated for safety, while Assaf returned to Beirut to oversee his shop.

The next day, an Israeli missile flew over Younine. The whistle and nearby explosion rattled the home, as the Baalbek area suffered widespread bombing. Frantically, Assaf’s wife, Mira, reached out to her husband. After one night of terror, she hired a taxi at three times the normal fare to reach a Christian area just east of Beirut. Another phone call went to her cousin, Abed Zein El Din—an assistant professor of practical theology at ABTS.

Zein El Din had become a Christian in his early teenage years but had preserved family relations and was now in a position to help Mira. He secured a place at ABTS for Assaf, Mira, and their two children. Mira volunteered to help in the kitchen and attended the daily chapels.

Meanwhile, Assaf ate breakfast at 7:30 a.m. in the ABTS cafeteria. Chapel followed an hour later, but by then Assaf was heading to work. He went not to serve his customers—few Ouzai residents remained—but to protect his shop from thieves. A neighborhood watch that patrolled the streets at night disbanded in the morning, and rumors of stealing circulated in several abandoned Shiite areas.

Assaf kept to Christian areas as he entered Beirut and passed by statues and shrines of favored saints. On light poles were banners displaying the encircled cedar-tree insignia of Lebanese Forces, the popular Christian political party known for its opposition to Hezbollah. But as Assaf drove west across the capital, the demography changed, and with it the political markings.

Banners on light poles displayed the bearded, smiling face of Hezbollah chief Hassan Nasrallah, killed on September 27 by a massive bunker bomb. Other tributes were to “martyrs on the road to Jerusalem,” as the militia calls its fallen soldiers. Present also were the green flags of the Amal Movement, the secular face of Shiite politics, which cooperates with the Islamist party to dominate the sectarian scene.

On some days, a makeshift checkpoint, erected to keep drivers away from the area of an announced Israeli strike, interrupted Assaf’s commute. Ignoring the details of war at ABTS, he did not follow Israel’s regular warnings to evacuate selected buildings and the surrounding 500 yards.

Many strikes were very precise. In the cosmopolitan Ras Beirut section of the capital, a missile hit its ground-floor target next door to a popular gaming store and three blocks away from a Baptist church. The blast strewed debris and shattered glass into the street, while the apartments above were left untouched. But across the street was a gas station that, if hit directly or indirectly, could have engulfed the area in flames.

Residents were wise to limit traffic, for the nature of strike was unpredictable. In the Haret Hreik neighborhood, a larger missile brought down an entire apartment building, and its shattered hull collapsed atop the Malek al Tawouk restaurant chain. But drivers were also aware that pinpoint drone strikes could take out a single vehicle, impacting no other cars on the road.

Changing his route due to the checkpoint, Assaf would eventually reach Ouzai and slowly navigate its narrow alleyways until he arrived at his shop, where he would fiddle with his cell phone until about 3 p.m. That is when the neighborhood watch group re-formed, keeping everyone off the streets at dark.

Videos circulated in some areas of discovered burglars tied and hanging from street poles, with signs of “thief” hung across their necks in shame. Assaf had known his neighbors since youth, but in recent years, many left and rented their apartments to less-known Syrian refugees. Best not to hang around after hours, he decided.

Back at ABTS, he would find his family, have dinner, and smoke his cigarette. The seminary showed them love, Assaf said, and communicated that Jesus motivated their service. But neither senior leaders nor general staff ever asked them to believe as they do. Earlier in life, he had been without work, but fellow Shiites in the patronage networks of Hezbollah and Amal would only help the politically affiliated. At the guesthouse, there were no strings attached to anything.

“Evangelicals are the best people,” Assaf said. “There is no sectarian spirit or self-interest. They just cared for us.”

Saab’s Story

Deir Mimas is a village in Lebanon located 55 miles southeast of Beirut. It once had a population of 4,600 people. It boasts seven churches, with a Protestant community noted in travel literature as early as 1875. Its grand treasure—apart from more than 100,000 olive trees, many dating back hundreds of years—is the Monastery of Saint Mamas, a third-century shepherd and martyr under Roman persecution.

The monastery, built in 1404, became the center of a Christian community within the sloping hills of the Lebanese south. Located only 43 miles from Jesus’ hometown of Nazareth, Deir Mimas borders the Shiite village of Kafr Kila, where Hezbollah maintained a dominant political position. The Hezbollah-Israel war in 2006 led to the destruction of the medieval cloister. Qatar funded its rebuilding in 2010.

That war contributed to a reduction of Deir Mimas’s population. It dwindled to around 1,000 Christians as people moved for better economic opportunities, and then to 350 as hostilities began anew with Israel. By comparison, locals said that Lansing, Michigan has over 700 now-Americans originally from the tiny village.

One who remained in Deir Mimas was 67-year-old pastor Maroun Shammas, now suffering his seventh displacement from the troubled region. Originally from the village and born with scoliosis and only 30 percent lung capacity, he has led its Baptist church since 1998. Hezbollah’s support front and the Israeli response drove him and many parishioners away, and he lived with family in a large Christian town near Sidon. But unable to abandon his congregation in war, last summer he rented an apartment in a nearby Christian village to make the 20-minute weekly commute back for Sunday service.

Twenty people were attending the Baptist church on a Sunday in July when a missile exploded only 500 yards away. Most judged the area no longer safe, and by September, Shammas and 34 other villagers, including 12 church members, had found refuge at ABTS.

Saab was one of them, but his pregnant daughter stayed behind with her husband. Travel to Beirut was still possible, and Deir Mimas was not an Israeli target, but out of precaution they sent to Saab their 12-year-old son, who kept up with his online studies from the seminary premises.

Before the war, Saab was not a religious man. He believed in God and acted ethically, but he never went to church and only politely engaged with his wife in spiritual discussions. Three months ago, however, headaches sent him to the hospital, where a CAT scan revealed aneurysms in his cranial veins. Doctors warned him the operation might be fatal, and during surgery they cut him open from chest to scalp. But Saab made it through, and though as a side effect he is increasingly forgetful, he no longer forgets God.

Asked about the war, he said simply, “I have my health. Whatever God gives us is good.”

And at ABTS, he began to read avidly—the Bible, theological books, whatever pastor Shammas gets him. Every morning, he attended chapel, singing along with Arabic praise songs. But Saab wanted more, and on Sundays he joined in the services of two churches that rent space on the campus grounds.

Nabil Costa, chief executive officer of Thimar, the Baptist development ministry governing ABTS, said help to the displaced “preached Jesus without preaching.” Only one-third attended chapels, but at meals they listened to prayers thanking God for their daily bread. A leading Shiite media personality given refuge said on television, “Evangelical service has been outstanding.” And the principal of the affiliated Baptist school said one family displaced from Dahiyeh enrolled their child on the recommendation of a sheltering Shiite leader—even when told he would study the Bible.

Similarly, the impact on Saab was substantial. 

“God willing, I will be an evangelical soon,” he said. “And when we return to Deir Mimas, I will be the first one in the church.”

Ceasefire

In late November, rumors spread that a ceasefire could be immanent. By then, fierce fighting was taking place in Deir Mimas, with Hezbollah mentioning the location 12 times in its description of operations as it boasted of destroying an Israeli Merkava tank. Saab’s The attack came as Saab’s son-in-law was in Beirut, leaving the pregnant mother alone in a house located only ten yards from the combat zone. The previous two nights, she and the other remaining residents slept in a two-story villa in the heart of Deir Mimas, not only for mutual encouragement but also to put maximum distance between themselves and the exchange of rocket fire in the battlefield.

Residents reported seeing Israeli forces walking through the streets, issuing warnings for everyone to stay inside. Video footage also emerged of troops sheltering inside the monastery, mocking Christian rituals in a pretend wedding between two soldiers.

Saab called it a “shame” but reported that an Israeli officer later came with the mayor from Metula, a Jewish village across the border, to offer apologies to the local priest. Israel officially condemned the act and said it would investigate the soldiers involved. Jesus told his followers to turn the other cheek, Saab continued, so he asked God to forgive them.

Nonetheless, he worried constantly. At night, Saab was regularly up until 3 a.m., despite taking sleeping pills. He passed the time with occasional visits to his brother’s barber shop in Beirut.

The ceasefire came on November 27. The agreement calls for Hezbollah to relocate away from the Israeli border beyond the Litani River, with Israel to withdraw from Lebanese territory within 60 days. The Lebanese army is to deploy in the south and ensure the dismantling of Hezbollah’s military infrastructure. An international committee led by the United States, with representatives of France, Israel, Lebanon, and the United Nations, will monitor violations. So far, Israel accused the militia of transporting weapons, while Lebanese media reported Israel uprooting olive trees in Kafr Kila—where Shammas said he has many close friends.

In Beirut, Hezbollah portrayed the ceasefire as a victory. Cars filled the streets, honking horns as supporters waved high its signature yellow flag with uplifted green Kalashnikov rifle. While sympathetic toward the Palestinians, many Lebanese disagree with this assessment and are angry at the militia for imposing a foreign conflict on their nation. The World Bank estimated the cost of rebuilding would exceed $3 billion, while Israel estimated its domestic repair costs at $273 million.

International law forbids embedding military infrastructure in civilian areas, as Hezbollah established its leadership operations in Dahiyeh. But this also greatly encumbers Israel’s options, as the Geneva Convention states that forces must refrain from attacking a target if the loss of civilian life or damage to civilian objects “would be excessive in relation to the concrete and direct military advantage anticipated.”

In the south, an Associated Press review of satellite data revealed that in each of 11 villages along the border, between 100 and 500 buildings have been destroyed or damaged. Outside the specific 13 points of the ceasefire agreement, Israel has forbidden civilians from returning to 10 locations. The displaced were encouraged to delay their return to over 60 additional villages—including Deir Mimas.

The Deir Mimas municipality agreed with the assessment. The mayor asked residents to stay away and said local officials would coordinate with the Lebanese army to determine the timing for a safe return. Pastor Shammas spoke of the Christian responsibility to carry the cross, to return eventually to Deir Mimas despite the volatile setting and depressed economic conditions, in order to be a light in the regional darkness. This he identified not with Hezbollah or Israel but with the spiritual reality that exists wherever Christ is not Lord. War is only one mark of evidence.

Meanwhile, Saab checked in on his daughter. A few days later, a local priest in the nearby Christian village of Qlayaa successfully secured Lebanese army permission to pass the checkpoint and take her ten minutes back to his church. From there, the Red Cross transported her to the larger town of Marjayoun, where she took a taxi back to Beirut. The roads were quiet. Within two hours, she was reunited with her husband and soon thereafter began the search for a local obstetrician. This week, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

When the time comes, their home church in Deir Mimas will need repair. While the sanctuary is undamaged, shock waves from the blasts shook free several of the traditional red-orange tiles from the roof of the adjacent hall. Inside, damage was worse, as corresponding ceiling tiles crashed to the ground. Several homes—including those of Shammas and of Saab’s daughter—had windows blown out and doors knocked off their hinges. Nine homes, Saab counted, were severely damaged in the fighting.

Assaf was more fortunate; his home suffered only minor cracks in the walls. An evacuation warning for a house only ten yards from his own made the family nervous, but it turned out to be one of many prank notices that added to the overall stress of wartime life. His shop is back open, but business is slow. He called Saab to wish him congratulations for the safe delivery of his grandson.

Meanwhile, ABTS invited Assaf’s family to its annual Christmas party, delighting his wife. The children received gifts. It was a grand reunion of formerly displaced friends from every corner of Lebanon, back again at their temporary home.

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• International
• Israel-Hezbollah Conflict
• Jayson Casper
• Lebanon