Despite truces, Syria continues to suffer. Two hospitals in Aleppo were bombed at the end of April, killing civilians and doctors—including the city's last pediatrician. Among those killed were medical personnel and civilians. We publish this letter from Myrna, coordinator of the Faith and Light communities in Syria, written for the Feast of Light in February to share with communities worldwide what her country endures—and how light persists even there. Things have likely not improved since.
Dear friends, I want to share with you some moments of life that carry light into the anxiety, fear, and sorrow of these times.
In Aleppo, we live each day with hope that tomorrow will bring some small improvement. We cannot make sense of what is happening. Bombs and missiles fall continuously on our city. Gunfire echoes from the streets. Every day we learn of new deaths. Yet we continue to work, to visit one another, to travel to other cities.
Food, bread, fruit, and vegetables are still available. But clean water and electricity come and go. Supply lines can be blocked for weeks. People tire of hunting for water, carrying bottles and jerrycans to wells dug by the authorities to cope with the crisis. Those with generators can manage without power; the poorest cannot. Syria empties itself too. Each week, friends, relatives, neighbors leave. People risk everything to reach Europe. Peace seems impossibly far away. And yet we continue to witness small lights that brighten our days. Let me share some with you.
I was struck by the strength of one woman. A Hawn missile had destroyed her home, bringing death and devastation. She told me: "My husband has gone to bury our daughter, but I stayed to clean the house and wash away the blood, because our other children will be home soon." She was torn apart by grief, weeping—yet she held the door of life open. She remained available to life.
A young woman told me that all her losses seemed to accelerate her living. She has no time to mourn friends, relatives, neighbors who vanish. "Once I wanted to call a friend," she said. "I reached for the phone and then remembered—he was dead. He had died weeks before."
Interfaith communities matter deeply. In crisis, people with disabilities are most vulnerable, last in line for care and attention. Families are so overwhelmed by worry and fear that they have less time for their disabled child—less listening, less talking, fewer explanations of what is happening. At one interfaith gathering, a mother shared her exhaustion. She was close to collapse and had considered seeing a psychiatrist. Then came an invitation to the community meeting—a ray of light. After a few gatherings, she told us: "I don't feel the need to see a psychiatrist anymore. I feel encouraged. I don't understand what's changed—nothing has changed—but I feel better. I saw my son happy. I met other mothers like me. The community welcomed us both. This is a real family, and I belong to it."
Last week I visited a friend named Serjio from Faith and Light who was celebrating his birthday. He was overjoyed to see us. The party was simple—a small cake and coffee. Few of us were there. We laughed, talked, sang, remembered times we had lived together—some joyful, some sad. Then, as he always does, Serjio asked us to pray. For me it was like a ray of sun in darkness: to celebrate life when death surrounds us, to meet friends in a time of division, to know peace amid war, to touch quiet moments in the chaos.
I was also invited to a wedding. The ceremony was at three in the afternoon—an unusual time. In Aleppo, weddings are at night, with celebrations running from midnight until morning. It was beautiful to see the bride and groom surrounded by friends war had not taken away. There was no luxury in our clothes, our gifts, our gathering. Yet we stood with them to celebrate their commitment, to strengthen them with our encouragement. Their choice took real courage. It rested on faith in life, on hope for the future, even though nothing promised a peaceful end to this soon. Their decision kindled a great light of hope among desperate young people. This crisis reminded us witnesses what marriage truly means.
Our way of living brings to mind the foolish man in the Gospel: we built our sense of security—our house—on dreams, on sand: a fine home, health, money, friends, comfort, good work, family, children, education, status, reputation. Even on God behind it all. Then crisis came—rain, floods, wind—and it all collapsed. People are deeply disillusioned, lost, uprooted. They think life has no meaning, no future, no God. I have had to rebuild the structure of my sense of security. I understand now that it needs deeper listening and obedience to God's Word. When my security is rooted in God's love, my vision of life, of the future, of myself, of others, even of my enemy, will be entirely different. Nothing and no one will take it from me.
I saw an interview on television with a ten-year-old Iraqi refugee girl. She described how her life had changed, what she had lost—her home, her school, relatives, neighbors, her toys. She wondered where her best friend was. The journalist handed her the microphone and asked if she wanted to send a message to her friends. What struck me most was this: the child held no hatred for those who had forced her and her family to flee. She forgave them. She prayed for them and asked God to forgive them too.
Please pray for the Syrian people, for peace, and for me. Thank you.
Mirna Hayek, 2016