Cardinal Czerny meets with Syrian refugees in Kfardlakos, northern Lebanon
By Salvatore Cernuzio in Kfardlakos, Lebanon
The Refugee Camp 004 for Syrian refugees in the village of Kfardlakos, Zgharta district, northern Lebanon, is one of fifty camps scattered throughout the country. 125 people, 25 families, and over 60 minors continue to struggle in difficult living conditions eleven years after their escape from Syria, where life is even more difficult. Cardinal Michael Czerny, Prefect of the Dicastery for Promoting Integral Human Development, wished visit this place during his ongoing mission to Lebanon.
Children on the streets
The issue is complex and there is also the blocking of humanitarian corridors by European governments. Also the UN subsidies are not able to meet people's needs. Every dollar received is swallowed up by the debts the families accumulate in nearby shops to buy food and other goods. One thousand, fifteen hundred, two thousand dollars. "Debt, that's what we have. Nothing else," says Fteim, 50, a Syrian from Hana, in Lebanon since the war broke out in 2011. She speaks during a conversation with the Cardinal under a tent where rain drips down: "We have water everywhere, above and below, but not to wash ourselves. Our children are dirty, they don't have clean clothes and they don't go to school because they aren't allowed to get on the buses." The kids are sent to work in the fields or to sell packs of tissues on the street.
Hungry and cold
"We are hungry, there is nothing," echoes the shawish, the local leader. "Ramadan is about to start, we want to live the month properly." "The children feel the cold strongly, they are sick," explains another woman. "My son the other day saw on the phone a child eating meat. He got very angry..." They all scream, as if they want to exaggerate their demands to get something in the immediate future.
The adults cry, the children smile. They try singing and greeting in Italian with Father Michel Abboud, the Carmelite president of Caritas Lebanon. They follow the Cardinal around the camp, curiously watching this tall man in a red cap and a wooden cross with a nail. They shout and play the whole time, with clothes that do not fit, without toys but using whatever they find on the ground.
Mobile clinic for women
Some mothers are very young. Women make up half the population, and due to religious reasons, they do not go to medical centers unless accompanied by their husbands or fathers. Therefore, Caritas has set up a mobile clinic: on a cart, a pharmacy where blood pressure is measured and daily medications are distributed. In one of the "rooms," a small stone tunnel, damp and cold, which serves as a medical office, medical doctors Dalia and Pierre have set up a bed and a portable ultrasound machine. "We visit at least fifty people a day, and 10-15 cases are pregnancies," they explain. The same service is provided by the local Caritas through eleven mobile units in all other refugee camps and for Lebanese in the poorest villages. There are no priorities or preferences, only emergencies.
Fteim's "home"
In Camp 004 of Kfardlakos, the emergency is continuous: sometimes due to infections, lack of water and electricity, but mostly the scarcity of food and the inability to live in a stone cell with seven, eight, or even ten people – as happened during the war – with rugs on the floor and walls, and a small kitchen behind a curtain that also serves as a wardrobe.
"Come, I’ll show you," Fteim always urges, inviting the Cardinal and the delegation into her "home." She gestures with her hands to show the cramped space, her sick husband, her three-year-old grandson sleeping under two blankets: "They just brought us blankets from Caritas, but look here – she says, pointing to the 'kitchen' – there’s nothing." Crying, the woman presses her forehead against the Cardinal's hand, who embraces her and places his head on her veil. The husband also joins in for an embrace, and so does Mohammed, 37, who appeared suddenly. He had been shouting about having seven children and needing an intervention. He cries with clear, almost glassy eyes, which stand out against his dark skin. He smiles with teeth that seem glued together, a sign of a body that isn't receiving enough fluids. He nods when Father Abboud explains that they must call the Caritas helpline to register and receive aid, but then he follows all the priests, whispering to give him some money.
Hopes to return to Syria
The wish of all is to return home to Syria: "We want life to go back to the way it was," says the shawish. The problem is that "there's nothing in Syria." No one has gone to check, and there is a fear that the "new situation" may transform and become worse than what they fled from. Meanwhile, the Lebanese, weighed down by the economic crisis, falling wages, and lack of work, can no longer support the one and a half million people on their territory. An endless cycle. "If someone guarantees us a house in Syria, we can return," they say. "Help us," they scream. And they express thanks for the presence of such an esteemed guest in the camp. "Baba Francis!" "No, it’s not Pope Francis. It’s one of his collaborators," a priest corrects.
"The Pope weeps with you"
"We have come to know you and listen to you, and we share your hope of returning home, to Syria," Cardinal Czerny states. "The Pope is happy that I am here among you. We weep for your suffering. The Pope weeps with you, he loves you." On the return journey to Harissa, he comments on the visit: "I am speechless after seeing a life lived at the extreme. The conditions are impossible, people fight to survive, they want to return home but they know that in Syria it is difficult. In fact, there is no home there anymore."
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