Dressed in a long green abaya and her face surrounded by a light brown veil, Zahra, a 25-year-old Sudanese refugee, gazes at her little Lina, barely one month old, who has dozed off beside her, on a bench. Hussein, two years older than him, keeps busy as best he can. They now live on the first floor of the Saint-Joseph church in the Beirut district of Monot. In the large, basic room where they are staying, piles of mattresses are piled up along the walls. With drawn faces, Zahra recounts the terrible journey undertaken with her husband Daoud, Sudanese like her, concierge in a villa, with their two children, to flee Nabatiyé, in southern Lebanon, on September 25.
Having left under a deluge of Israeli bombs, they reached Beirut, of which they knew nothing. “The first night we slept outside, under a bridge. I didn't even have milk to give my baby.”she whispers. Thanks to word of mouth, the family finally found refuge in Saint-Joseph. The church, which until then served as a day center for migrants, has been transformed into a shelter since the start of the violent Israeli bombing campaign in Lebanon on September 23.
That day, Brother Michael Petro, head of the Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS) at Saint-Joseph Church, saw a first family arriving from the southern suburbs. “Today, 75 people are installed in the church, we have transferred 30 others to a convent in Bikfaya, in Metn”he explains. Having left under bombs, some of these migrant workers do not have any identity papers. Others were abandoned by unscrupulous employers who left without giving any news.
65% women
Lebanon has some 160,000 migrant workers of different nationalities, mainly from Asia and Africa, 65% of whom are women, according to a report by the International Organization for Migration (IOM), published in 2023. They are governed by the system of kafalaa sponsorship process making them dependent on their employers and extremely vulnerable. On site, Brother Michael relies on around forty volunteers. “We coordinate with several NGOs, Caritas, the Amel association, ARM, Kafa… Some embassies help us with meals”he said.
Upstairs, Zahra, lost, does not know what her future will look like, weighed down by the bombings. “We have not heard from my husband's employers. Daoud tries to find work, but with the war, it is very difficult. » Her tears flow when she remembers her family in Sudan, from which she fled in 2022, and from whom she has no news. His phone was stolen during his night spent under a bridge.
“We have nothing left”
Opposite her, Eysus, a young Ethiopian with expertly braided hair, tenderly looks at her firstborn, Haroun, born a month ago by cesarean section at the Italian hospital in Tyre, in southern Lebanon. “I can’t breastfeed her, it’s probably because of the shock of the bombings”she whispers, looking tired, as children rush into the room, screaming. Not long ago, Eysus was living happily with her Sudanese husband, a caretaker in the village of al-Hoch, on the edge of Tyre, in southern Lebanon, after running away from the home of a “madam”, who mistreated her .
When a violent Israeli strike targets cars right in front of her building, Eysus, terrified, flees with her husband and baby. They sleep on a beach in Tire, before undertaking a twelve long hour journey to arrive in Beirut. The family first stops in Bir Hassan, south of the capital, but there is no room for them in the displaced centers, which are crowded and reserved only for Lebanese. According to authorities, the war has displaced nearly 1.2 million people in Lebanon.
On an outdoor balcony, Redwan Habib passes the time scanning the news from the south, surrounded by his Sri Lankan wife, Jiante Hemalata, and other migrants sitting on mattresses. They came from a small village near Tyre. “My house was destroyed a few days ago, sighs the former taxi driver. We have nothing left. »
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