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San Francisco Chronicle
July 18 2005
Iraqi Christians find safety in Syria
Religious violence prompted many to flee homeland
Joshua E.S. Phillips, Chronicle Foreign Service
Damascus, Syria -- Seated in his parish office, Father Sarmad Yousef
reflected on his hard choices: to disobey his archbishop by remaining
in Syria or to return to Iraq, where his name has appeared on a
death list.
"After the Americans came, I was one of the people telling the Iraqi
Christians not to leave," he said. "After the violence started,
I stopped telling them that."
Christians all over Iraq face a similar dilemma as relentless violence
engulfs the country, some directly targeting them.
Staying in the midst of the threats is dangerous, yet leaving
means abandoning communities, church property and a heritage with
centuries-old roots.
Before the U.S.-led war, roughly 750,000 Christians lived in Iraq,
out of a population of 25 million. Most were Chaldean and Assyrian,
but there also were Armenian, Jacobite and Greek Orthodox Christians
and a small number of Protestants. Most of them lived either in
Baghdad or in northern Iraq around Mosul.
Since then, 15,000 to 20,000 Christians have fled to Syria, according
to Christian groups, out of "about 700,000" Iraqis, most of them
in flight from the war, according to the U.N. high commissioner
for refugees.
Yousef, a 30-year-old Chaldean Catholic who came here in August
2004, was the parish priest of Baghdad's St. Pathion Church, with 800
families under his stewardship. Today, he occupies a simple office in
Damascus, decorated with small portraits of St. Therese, the patron
saint of his new church, cradling a bouquet of pink roses.
He says he actively supported the United States when coalition troops
first entered Baghdad in April 2003 and helped organize community
meetings on their behalf. Such support came with grave risks, and he
narrowly missed two drive-by shooting attacks.
But when the Abu Ghraib prison scandal came to light, Yousef says,
his view changed. Nor was he alone.
"Before that, Iraqis loved Americans," said Yousef, his eyes lowered.
"Directly after that -- those photos, that scandal directly destroyed
the dignity of Iraqis."
Muneeb, an Iraqi Christian parishioner of St. Therese who didn't
reveal his last name because he said he did not want to attract
local attention, said general resentment toward the Americans was
transferred to Iraqi Christians. "Americans are Christians," he said,
"so we're automatically considered to be part of them."
Christian-owned liquor stores and beauty salons were attacked. While
kidnapping has soared -- both for terrorism and financial gain --
Christians felt particularly targeted since they are often associated
with successful businesses and financial support of families living
abroad.
With the rise of Islamic militancy, Muneeb said, his sister, a doctor,
was ordered to wear a veil outside her home -- a requirement that
didn't exist, he said, when Saddam Hussein was in power.
"I never thought of leaving Iraq," Muneeb said. "But as a minority,
we have no support."
Emmanuale Khoshaba, a member of the Assyrian Democratic Movement,
who regularly commutes back and forth to Iraq, is more optimistic.
Through his job as the movement's Syrian representative, he promoted
Iraq's Jan. 30 elections among absentee voters in Syria.
"Don't see the glass half-empty," said Khoshaba, who is the
organization's Syrian representative. "Now, we have rights: We have
our names, we have members of the National Assembly, and we have
35 schools that teach Syriac." Under Hussein, teaching Syriac --
the language used by Assyrians and other Iraqi Christians, and one
of the Middle East's oldest languages -- was strictly forbidden.
"We have coexisted for thousands of years," Khoshaba said. "The
problem was the repressive regime, and today we are in a transitionary
stage. But one has to stay and sacrifice something for it."
There have been many examples of such sacrifice.
One Sunday last August, a spate of bombings that struck five churches
in Baghdad and one in Mosul left 11 dead and scores wounded. Yousef's
church was spared, but he said Iraqi Christians increasingly had
started to leave soon after.
When Yousef took a previously planned trip to Damascus, he learned
his was one of 18 names on a death list. Thirteen of those people
had been killed the previous month. "I decided not to go back --
I felt that I was too young to die," said Yousef.
He left behind friends, family and his parish. The archbishop of
Baghdad instructed him return to his post, but he stayed in Damascus
to fill an opening at St. Therese.
Yousef's new church, wedged within Damascus' Old City of cobblestone
streets and crumbling houses, overflows with worshipers during Sunday
Mass. Of the 2,000 families now connected to St. Therese, 90 percent
are recent Iraqi refugees.
Just outside the church doors, a group of parishioners from Yousef's
old Baghdad parish discussed how their lives have changed.
"Life was better -- we didn't have any problems," said Jamila Tama,
referring to the relative peace between religious sects under
Hussein. "There's killing, bombing and kidnapping. We have nothing
now -- even our house is sold."
Her son, Bassam Bahnam, was grateful for the haven in Syria. "But
I have three boys who worked in Baghdad, and they're all unemployed
now," he said.
Bahnam and his family want to return to Iraq -- when the violence
ebbs. "Of course there's no place like home," said his younger brother,
Hisham Bahnam. But he criticized Christian leaders' calls to stay
in Iraq.
"They're asking us to stay, but they're not giving us any solution,"
he said. "Even Christian leaders need an army to protect them whenever
they go outside."
George Abona, a former priest who attended a seminary with Yousef,
agrees. "When my Christian leaders say, 'Don't leave your heritage,'
what are they going offer me?" he said. "What will heritage do for
me and my son?"
In Iraq, Abona worked for the United Nations for seven years, before
and during the war, and was in its Baghdad compound when it was bombed
in August 2003. He survived, but the blast killed his brother, along
with the top U.N. envoy in Iraq, Sergio Vieira de Mello, and 20 other
U.N staffers.
Then last October, he was kidnapped for 19 days. He was released
after another brother paid a $20,000 ransom.
Despite all that, he said, "The security issue is not a big issue
-- it's that I'm not ready to raise my son in an extremist Islamic
society."
Syria has relaxed immigration rules for its Arab neighbors. But aside
from Palestinians, refugees are not allowed to hold jobs in Syria,
forcing most Iraqi newcomers to live off their savings. Government
assistance -- especially health care -- is limited, and the refugees
must return home periodically to get their temporary visas renewed.
Yousef tries to provide his new community in Syria with food and money
for medical needs. The main reason he and other Christians have fled
Iraq, he said, is "because we don't feel it is our country any more."
"I have bad memories now," he said of events since the invasion.
"Most of my friends were killed there, and we only saw cruelty and
blood. I don't think I'll ever be able to go back."
July 18 2005
Iraqi Christians find safety in Syria
Religious violence prompted many to flee homeland
Joshua E.S. Phillips, Chronicle Foreign Service
Damascus, Syria -- Seated in his parish office, Father Sarmad Yousef
reflected on his hard choices: to disobey his archbishop by remaining
in Syria or to return to Iraq, where his name has appeared on a
death list.
"After the Americans came, I was one of the people telling the Iraqi
Christians not to leave," he said. "After the violence started,
I stopped telling them that."
Christians all over Iraq face a similar dilemma as relentless violence
engulfs the country, some directly targeting them.
Staying in the midst of the threats is dangerous, yet leaving
means abandoning communities, church property and a heritage with
centuries-old roots.
Before the U.S.-led war, roughly 750,000 Christians lived in Iraq,
out of a population of 25 million. Most were Chaldean and Assyrian,
but there also were Armenian, Jacobite and Greek Orthodox Christians
and a small number of Protestants. Most of them lived either in
Baghdad or in northern Iraq around Mosul.
Since then, 15,000 to 20,000 Christians have fled to Syria, according
to Christian groups, out of "about 700,000" Iraqis, most of them
in flight from the war, according to the U.N. high commissioner
for refugees.
Yousef, a 30-year-old Chaldean Catholic who came here in August
2004, was the parish priest of Baghdad's St. Pathion Church, with 800
families under his stewardship. Today, he occupies a simple office in
Damascus, decorated with small portraits of St. Therese, the patron
saint of his new church, cradling a bouquet of pink roses.
He says he actively supported the United States when coalition troops
first entered Baghdad in April 2003 and helped organize community
meetings on their behalf. Such support came with grave risks, and he
narrowly missed two drive-by shooting attacks.
But when the Abu Ghraib prison scandal came to light, Yousef says,
his view changed. Nor was he alone.
"Before that, Iraqis loved Americans," said Yousef, his eyes lowered.
"Directly after that -- those photos, that scandal directly destroyed
the dignity of Iraqis."
Muneeb, an Iraqi Christian parishioner of St. Therese who didn't
reveal his last name because he said he did not want to attract
local attention, said general resentment toward the Americans was
transferred to Iraqi Christians. "Americans are Christians," he said,
"so we're automatically considered to be part of them."
Christian-owned liquor stores and beauty salons were attacked. While
kidnapping has soared -- both for terrorism and financial gain --
Christians felt particularly targeted since they are often associated
with successful businesses and financial support of families living
abroad.
With the rise of Islamic militancy, Muneeb said, his sister, a doctor,
was ordered to wear a veil outside her home -- a requirement that
didn't exist, he said, when Saddam Hussein was in power.
"I never thought of leaving Iraq," Muneeb said. "But as a minority,
we have no support."
Emmanuale Khoshaba, a member of the Assyrian Democratic Movement,
who regularly commutes back and forth to Iraq, is more optimistic.
Through his job as the movement's Syrian representative, he promoted
Iraq's Jan. 30 elections among absentee voters in Syria.
"Don't see the glass half-empty," said Khoshaba, who is the
organization's Syrian representative. "Now, we have rights: We have
our names, we have members of the National Assembly, and we have
35 schools that teach Syriac." Under Hussein, teaching Syriac --
the language used by Assyrians and other Iraqi Christians, and one
of the Middle East's oldest languages -- was strictly forbidden.
"We have coexisted for thousands of years," Khoshaba said. "The
problem was the repressive regime, and today we are in a transitionary
stage. But one has to stay and sacrifice something for it."
There have been many examples of such sacrifice.
One Sunday last August, a spate of bombings that struck five churches
in Baghdad and one in Mosul left 11 dead and scores wounded. Yousef's
church was spared, but he said Iraqi Christians increasingly had
started to leave soon after.
When Yousef took a previously planned trip to Damascus, he learned
his was one of 18 names on a death list. Thirteen of those people
had been killed the previous month. "I decided not to go back --
I felt that I was too young to die," said Yousef.
He left behind friends, family and his parish. The archbishop of
Baghdad instructed him return to his post, but he stayed in Damascus
to fill an opening at St. Therese.
Yousef's new church, wedged within Damascus' Old City of cobblestone
streets and crumbling houses, overflows with worshipers during Sunday
Mass. Of the 2,000 families now connected to St. Therese, 90 percent
are recent Iraqi refugees.
Just outside the church doors, a group of parishioners from Yousef's
old Baghdad parish discussed how their lives have changed.
"Life was better -- we didn't have any problems," said Jamila Tama,
referring to the relative peace between religious sects under
Hussein. "There's killing, bombing and kidnapping. We have nothing
now -- even our house is sold."
Her son, Bassam Bahnam, was grateful for the haven in Syria. "But
I have three boys who worked in Baghdad, and they're all unemployed
now," he said.
Bahnam and his family want to return to Iraq -- when the violence
ebbs. "Of course there's no place like home," said his younger brother,
Hisham Bahnam. But he criticized Christian leaders' calls to stay
in Iraq.
"They're asking us to stay, but they're not giving us any solution,"
he said. "Even Christian leaders need an army to protect them whenever
they go outside."
George Abona, a former priest who attended a seminary with Yousef,
agrees. "When my Christian leaders say, 'Don't leave your heritage,'
what are they going offer me?" he said. "What will heritage do for
me and my son?"
In Iraq, Abona worked for the United Nations for seven years, before
and during the war, and was in its Baghdad compound when it was bombed
in August 2003. He survived, but the blast killed his brother, along
with the top U.N. envoy in Iraq, Sergio Vieira de Mello, and 20 other
U.N staffers.
Then last October, he was kidnapped for 19 days. He was released
after another brother paid a $20,000 ransom.
Despite all that, he said, "The security issue is not a big issue
-- it's that I'm not ready to raise my son in an extremist Islamic
society."
Syria has relaxed immigration rules for its Arab neighbors. But aside
from Palestinians, refugees are not allowed to hold jobs in Syria,
forcing most Iraqi newcomers to live off their savings. Government
assistance -- especially health care -- is limited, and the refugees
must return home periodically to get their temporary visas renewed.
Yousef tries to provide his new community in Syria with food and money
for medical needs. The main reason he and other Christians have fled
Iraq, he said, is "because we don't feel it is our country any more."
"I have bad memories now," he said of events since the invasion.
"Most of my friends were killed there, and we only saw cruelty and
blood. I don't think I'll ever be able to go back."