My friend sister Nabila Saleh is a petite, warm woman with a mischievous sense of humor. We first met at mass on a sunny November day in Gaza two years ago, and over coffee she then told me about her life as a nun in the Order of the Holy Rosary, running a primary school and charity projects in the Gaza Strip. Since the war broke out in October last year, his home, the small compound of the Holy Family Catholic Church in Gaza City, has become a refuge for hundreds of displaced people. While the town around it became a wasteland, the church remained remarkably intact. That changed on December 16, when the church was attacked by Israeli forces, killing two women and injuring seven, shattering the illusion that any place in Gaza could be safe.
That morning, I had messaged Sister Nabila to see how Christmas preparations were going, along with my usual questions to check on her safety amid what appeared to be intensifying fighting in the north. Most days we texted, even during the war, she responded with caricatures and holy words. GIFs, like Mary with clasped hands or a baby blowing kisses and brief assurances that she was safe. On December 17, however, she responded: “It’s not going well for us because they shot two women in front of me. »
The church is located in the Rimal neighborhood of Gaza City, and its name reflects the immense spiritual significance of Gaza for Christians, which was noted in the Bible as a stopover for Jesus, Mary and Joseph during their journey to and from Egypt. . Gaza was once home to a thriving Christian community, but a count this year, there were only one hundred and thirty-five Catholics there, among one thousand and seventeen Christians, according to the Catholic Church. Those who remain speak of feeling an ethnic connection to Gaza, as Palestinians, and a spiritual connection, as Christians. Relations between Christians and Muslims in Gaza are peaceful: the parish emphasizes the participation of parishioners in interfaith action with the elderly and the poor; Christian schools, including a primary school run by Sister Nabila, educate thousands of Muslim children.
Typically, in late December, some Gaza Christians received Israeli exit permits to travel to Bethlehem and Jerusalem for Christmas. This year, of course, permits were out of the question. In December, the Church of the Holy Family welcomed nearly three hundred people, most of them Christians. Having hosted people during previous conflicts, the church had reserves of supplies, which it was able to replenish during the temporary ceasefire in November. But now supplies were dwindling. Cornelia Sage of Catholic Relief Services said her organization had been able to provide some humanitarian aid to Gaza residents in the south, but convoys trying to reach the north had no guarantee of their safety after Israeli forces fired on a UN convoy later. December. (The Israel Defense Forces said soldiers fired warning shots only after seeing the U.N. convoy and that they were taking “possible precautions to mitigate harm to civilians.”) My friend Rami, a social worker who took refuge in the church, told me at the end of December that the rations were getting smaller and smaller to conserve food. On Christmas Eve, he sent a photo of himself at mass and he looked noticeably thinner. Since the start of the war, he says, he has lost around thirty kilos.
Despite dwindling rations, the church grounds seemed relatively safe. In early October, diplomats from some Western countries reported to Israeli military liaison that the Holy Family Church was sheltering civilians who could not evacuate to the south. According to emails provided to Policy, Catholic Relief Services and U.S. Senate staff had flagged the church for protection with Israeli authorities. And yet, on the morning of December 16, an Israeli tank fired on a residence on the church grounds that houses fifty-four disabled people, destroying the building’s only generator and damaging the solar panels and tanks. of water, according to the Latin Patriarchate. Everyone inside was safe, but there was less fuel for residents’ needs. With unreliable cell phone service, Father Youssef, a Gaza priest, attempted to call the Patriarchate for help, trying to get Church leaders to let Israelis know they were aiming for a security zone.
Shortly after, around noon, Edward Anton, one of my former colleagues from Doctors Without Borders who is staying at the church, thought he saw Israeli soldiers nearby and shouted to the people in the building not to come out. He thinks his elderly mother, Nahida Anton, didn’t hear him. She went out into the courtyard to use a bathroom in another building. Edward says she was immediately shot three times. Hearing the gunshots, her sister Samar ran outside and tried to bring their mother’s body to safety. Samar was also killed. Seven other people, including Edward and his father, ran into the yard and were shot and wounded before leaving their bodies behind.
Sister Nabila says that for hours they watched their bodies remain in the yard, fearing that any movement would provoke more bullets. “They were before our eyes, and we were close to them, unable to approach them until Father Youssef spoke to the Patriarchate of Jerusalem,” she told me.
After Nabila’s messages, I consulted the Holy Family Facebook page. A priest had posted images of wounded people lying on thin mattresses at the foot of the church altar, receiving communion from their beds. I immediately recognized Edward. In the photo, he looked surprisingly pale as he extended his head from the mattress to receive the guest. Rami told me Edward was shot in the leg. He said the Church tried to coordinate with Israel to have Edward taken to a hospital in Egypt, to no avail.
I spoke to Edward on December 21, five days after the shooting. Edward told me he thought the shooting lasted about ten minutes. His father, his wife and three nephews, aged twenty-four, sixteen and fifteen, were all injured, along with two other people. At that point, they had not yet reached one of the few remaining hospitals in Gaza, unsure if the area was safe enough to travel. Meanwhile, men dug new graves in the church garden for Samar and Nahida. The same priest posted a photo of their bodies, wrapped in white blankets during their funerals. Sister Nabila is in the background, holding a Bible in her hand, seemingly lost in thought. Zooming in, his mouth is wide open, his brow furrowed, and I see the shock and sadness on his face.
Finally, just before Christmas, the fighting in the neighborhood seemed to have calmed down and the church felt it was safe enough to take the injured to the nearby Al-Ahli Hospital. The ride was nerve-wracking and the hospital was chaotic, Edward told me. Al-Ahli was one of the first hospitals to be hit during the war, and controversy arose over whether the Israeli army or Palestinian militants were responsible. On December 19, the Israeli army had went to the hospital and staff members detained, leaving only two doctors, four nurses and two janitors, according to the Rev. Don Binder, who works for the Anglican diocese, which oversees the hospital. (They were released weeks later.)
An X-ray taken at Al-Ahli revealed that Edward had bullet fragments in his leg. He would need surgery, as would his nephews, but they would have to wait until surgical capacity was restored. He attended Christmas Eve mass in a wheelchair.
After the bombing of Al-Ahli on October 17, tensions between Christian churches and the Israeli government appear to have reached a historic level. Then they got up. On the evening of the Holy Family attacks, the Latin Patriarchate’s statement was the strongest to date, directly identifying the Israeli army as the perpetrator of these attacks and declaring: “No warning was given, no notification was not provided. They were shot in cold blood inside the parish walls, where there were no belligerents.
