Faith During War

FAITH DURING WAR

Sunday Age, 6/8/06

 

It was like a scene out of Life is Beautiful – the 1997 movie that earned Roberto Benigni an Oscar for portraying a Jewish father buffering his child during the holocaust.

 

From the 1500 meter altitude above the clouds, just below the village of Ehden in North Lebanon, my child and I gazed down at Tripoli. When the clouds rolled into Ehden, the only visible landmark was the nearby antenna at the peak of Mount Aito.

 

The juxtaposition of the spectacular sunset over the Mediterranean Sea was an awesome sight to behold, conjuring up images of Creation. Indeed, Ehden was named after Eden, where Adam and Eve lived, according to Lebanon’s prospective next saint, 17th century Patriarch and historian Istfan Doueihi.

 

“Is that a thunderstorm in the clouds?” asked my child, pointing to sudden explosions and reflections of light near the Tripoli sunset. Keen to avoid conjuring the bloody scenes on television, I explained that the amazing lights were fireworks from celebrations such as weddings. But I could hear warplanes humming high overhead and knew exactly what they were doing.

 

When we went to farewell our relatives down the street, we were reassured by repeated claims that Ehden was immune from bombings, and that our relatives would remain safe. Within minutes of entering their house full of young children, the first missile had struck the nearby hilltop antenna and broadcast station at Mount Aito.

 

In the multi-storey building and throughout the street, only two words were louder than the deafening thunder of the explosions: faith and family. The origin, purpose, frequency, proximity and precision of the bombing were simply irrelevant to those around us. Indeed, the echo of the impact was disorienting and we had no idea which direction and which hilltop was hit.

 

Children’s faces became pale, mothers were hyperventilating, some startled from their summer siesta, some rushing out of showers dumb-founded, others running like ants from a destroyed molehill. Indeed, this is how it must appear to the boys with the toys above.

 

We saw young and old in neighbouring homes fleeing to lay hands and eyes on their family, as if this was the Last Book of the Bible.

 

When the second bomb hit, the families huddled together with terror filled eyes. All previous promises about safety and my tales about fireworks were now bombed like the landmark antenna. The sky that had been a source of inspiration and beauty was now the source of terror. It was now raining down not with life-giving water but life-taking fire. The place that was renown for Creation and the Beginning was now tainted with destruction and the end.

 

Those who could not reach their family members fell collectively to their knees and commenced the rosary. I had never seen children pray so intensely, clinging to whatever sacred relics, crucifixes or saint icons they could reach. Cell phones were now out of order so rosaries became the hotline to heaven.

 

Beyond the hills, the antennas, the planes and the skies, innocent families fled to their faith, as the only source that was higher, literally and figuratively. All the psychological skills I could muster to calm their spirits had paled into insignificance when I witnessed the power of prayer, and the visible effect on their faces.

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