The Electronic Intifada 7 January 2025
Members of Gaza’s Catholic community gather for Christmas Eve in the Holy Family Church in Gaza city on 24 December.
APA imagesAs Israel’s genocide in Gaza rolls on, the territory’s tiny Christian community is threatened as never before.
Before 7 October, the community numbered some 1,000 people, mostly of the Greek Orthodox faith, who mark Christmas on 7 January.
Since then the numbers have dwindled further and members of the community estimate that only some 680 Christians remain in Gaza.
Though small, they have become symbols of resilience because most have chosen to stay in their historic churches – the Greek Orthodox Saint Porphyrius Church and the Latin Catholic Holy Family Church – in the north, despite Israel’s campaign of extermination there.
“Twenty-three have been killed directly in bombings. Seven succumbed to hunger, disease and the unbearable conditions,” Elias Jalda told The Electronic Intifada over the phone.
Jalda, a member of the Orthodox Arab Church Council in Gaza, was struggling to verbalize his grief over how Gaza’s storied churches have become makeshift and barely adequate shelters for his dwindling community.
Israel’s genocidal violence has not spared other Christian institutions. Schools, cultural centers and health facilities – including al-Ahli (Orthodox) hospital, the YMCA, the Orthodox Cultural Center and the Rosary Sisters School – have all been reduced to rubble.
History targeted
Saint Porphyrius Church, one of the oldest in the world, was bombed on 19 October.
Eighteen people were killed in the attack, mostly women and children. Among the victims was almost the entire family of Ramez al-Souri, including his three children – Suhail, Majd and Juliet.
“My children were my joy, my light during every Christmas,” Ramez told The Electronic Intifada, his voice audibly breaking even over the phone. “Now, they are gone. A whole family erased from existence. What kind of world allows this to happen?”
Like everyone else in Gaza, Israel’s unhinged military assault has upended lives and traditions. Families that once celebrated Christmas with midnight mass, festive meals and gatherings of friends now spend their days entirely in survival mode.
Displaced from their homes, they live in cramped tents or on the floors of church compounds. Solar panels provide only enough power to charge phones, while children play listlessly in the courtyards, their laughter replaced by an eerie silence.
A few have moved south in search of safety.
Tony Asaad and his wife, Amal al-Amouri, fled to the Mawasi area of Khan Younis. Now living in a tent, Tony, 65, reminisces about the Christmases they used to spend in Bethlehem with their children and grandchildren.
“We always got permits to visit Bethlehem, to pray and celebrate,” he said, his hands trembling. “Now, for the second year, I’m far from my family, sitting in a tent. There is no Christmas here, only emptiness.”
Amal, 62, sitting beside him, nodded solemnly.
“We used to pray together, and neighbors would come to wish us well. Now, there’s nothing. No joy, no peace – only prayers for an end to this nightmare,” she said.
Safety remains elusive.
Last Christmas
Others share similar stories. Mona, who chose to use a pseudonym, is displaced with her husband and elderly mother. They, too, live in Khan Younis, far from their destroyed home.
“How can we celebrate Christmas when our home is gone, our friends are scattered and we cannot even visit our loved ones in northern Gaza?” Mona asked.
A teacher at the Rosary Sisters School, Mona has seen her workplace bombed, her church targeted and her home destroyed.
Last Christmas, her sorrow deepened when her close friend Samar Anton was killed. On 16 December, Samar’s mother, Nahida Khalil, was shot dead by an Israeli sniper while walking in the courtyard of the Holy Family Church. Samar rushed to help her mother but was also shot and killed.
“They were innocent, seeking refuge in a church. What kind of safety is left for us?” Mona asked, her voice trembling with anger and grief.
The psychological toll is as devastating as the physical destruction. The war has not only decimated homes and institutions but also severed familial and community ties. For a small community like Gaza’s Christians, where strong relationships and traditions are a lifeline, the loss is profound.
Jalda tried to explain how the isolation impacts their lives.
“We are such a small group, less than 0.05 percent of Gaza’s population. Our children can’t connect with other Christians or find spouses within our community. The war has made this even harder, wiping out nearly two percent of our population in a matter of months.”
Yet despite their suffering, Gaza’s Christians refuse to lose hope. They continue to gather for prayers, light small candles in their makeshift shelters and cling to fragments of their traditions.
Amal described how she and Tony, both Catholics, lit a single candle on Christmas Eve, whispering prayers for peace.
“This is the season of the Prince of Peace, but there is no peace here,” she said. “We pray for Gaza, for its people, for an end to this war.”
The community’s resilience is a testament to their unyielding faith. But Jalda fears for their future.
“If this continues, I don’t know if there will be any Christians left in Gaza,” he said. “We are a small community, but we have deep roots here. This is our home, and we will not abandon it. All we want is for the war to end quickly.”
Fedaa al-Qedra is a journalist in Gaza.
