Rudaina’s big black coat does not hide her swollen belly. A 32-year-old woman is nine months pregnant and could give birth at any moment.
Rudaina, a refugee from Sudan, is exhausted. On March 2, when the first Israeli bombs hit Lebanon, she and her husband fled the southern Beirut suburb of Burj el-Barajneh with their three children. He escaped on foot, in the middle of the night.
“We walked here. We walked for about three hours,” Rudaina explains. “All the walking hurt me. The children also suffered, especially my seven-year-old daughter who is autistic. We arrived here around one o’clock in the morning. We were wandering, not knowing where to go. The Sudanese people who work here told us about this church.”
For many years, the Jesuit parish of St. Joseph in Beirut’s Achrafieh district has welcomed immigrants and refugees with open arms. It hosts masses, social activities and cricket matches in its parking lot. For displaced people who come here, the church is an important lifeline.
Read more‘I left everything for my grandchildren’: In Beirut, families displaced by endless war
From Sudan, Ethiopia and Sri Lanka
When the war broke out, the parish quickly became an emergency shelter for migrants and refugees fleeing strikes, particularly women and children.
“Today, about 200 migrant workers stay here, we only have the capacity to shelter 80 people. They come from Sudan, Ethiopia, Sri Lanka and other countries,” explains Robert Gemayel, spokesman for the Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS). “There are many children, women and adults. We will provide them shelter, beds, food, water, electricity, hot water and we are planning to start educational and mental health programs from next week.”
Psychological support is especially important as many of these refugees have already fled war in their home countries – in Rudaina’s native Sudan.
The soft-spoken mother of three talks about the “mental, material and financial stress”. The pressure is constant and has haunted her since arriving in Lebanon.
“I came to Lebanon to join my husband who has been here since 2009. I didn’t come to work, I came here because of the situation in Sudan. Everything brings us misfortune. War follows us wherever we go,” she says.
The turmoil in Sudan began with the 2019 coup in which President Omar al-Bashir was ousted. A transitional government comprising civilian and military members was then established to oversee a peaceful handover. But in 2023, the rivalry between the two military factions sparked one of the world’s deadliest conflicts.
‘walked for two days’
“When the problems started in Sudan, I ran away from the bombing. I went to Syria, where I stayed for two days. Then I walked for two days to get to Lebanon,” she recalls, adding that her husband, who opposed the previous regime, could not return to Sudan to see her. “I carried my eight-year-old daughter, I didn’t have shoes when I got here.”
After Bashir was ousted, Rudayna hoped that “things would get better” and returned to Sudan.
“When the protests started, everyone thought the war had started. My husband, who was supposed to join us there, told me to go back to Lebanon,” Rudaina recalls in her harrowing account of self-pity.
“I know every tragedy, when I came here, there was Covid, then, the first war, then, the second, I have no news from my parents. And then there is my daughter’s illness. That hurts me more today. It costs $5,000 to send her to school. How can I get that much money?
“Our whole lives have been difficult. I hope my children will have a better life than we did.”
Read moreHumanitarian crisis in Lebanon: Displaced families face desperation
‘The war has caught them’
Refugees in St. Joseph are all too familiar with the bitter taste of war.
“Most came here without proper ID. Some have passports, others don’t,” Gemayel explains. “Some passed through Syria illegally, and now, the war has caught up with them. So they have to move again. Third time, fourth time.”
Anwar fled Darfur. Since the early 2000s, the region of western Sudan they call home has seen it all: genocide, forced displacement, famine.
In 2019, he moved to Lebanon. But when bombs started falling in the southern part of the country, he had to flee again with his wife and daughter.
Tired of walking to the seaside city of Saida, he abandoned the few belongings he had brought with him and continued on his way to Beirut.
“I was seven years old when the war started in Darfur,” he says quietly, but without revealing more. Anwar does not want to talk about his homeland.
“Today, we are lost. We don’t understand what is happening. I am a foreigner, but I am scared like everyone else,” he says.
‘Stuck’
The St. Joseph parking lot is almost empty. The heat is almost suffocating. There are only a handful of people outside. Some are chatting, others go about their business. Sitting on a chair in the sun, Usmane has his hair shaved off by another refugee. He is from Sudan, but has been living in Lebanon since 2010.
“I had friends in Lebanon. They told me to come, and today I’m stuck here,” he says, an electric razor polishing his smooth scalp. “I can’t go back to Sudan, because the war there is worse than here.”
Two days ago, two of his Sudanese friends were killed, but he doesn’t want to say anything.
Before the war started, he worked at a gas station in southern Lebanon. He hopes to return to his job as soon as possible, but for now he feels safe here.
“God only knows what will happen, we can only hope for the best.”
This article was adapted from an original in French by Louis Nordstrom.
(tags to translate)Middle East
