The blast in the port of Beirut: Testimony of Fr. Ronney el Gemayel, S.J

Dear Rachel,

I have just received horrifying news about what happened in Bethlehem after Joseph, the child, and I left that night… The king’s soldiers came and slaughtered the children without mercy. Neither the mothers’ pleas nor the fathers’ courage could stop them!

I feel as though the valleys we cross echo the ringing of the murderous swords, and the streams that run alongside us carry the tears of those who awoke to tragedy… At night, as we sleep on the roadside on our way to Alexandria, I hear your cries, the sighs of Levi’s mother, Salome’s weeping, and Naomi’s lamentations…

I hesitated greatly before writing to you. Do I have the right to offer comfort when I have not drunk from the bitter cup? Won’t words of consolation sound like the mere rhetoric of someone fortunate enough to escape before disaster struck? A terrifying question haunts me: did our visit bring this curse upon Bethlehem?

How did joy turn into this nightmare? That day, visitors from distant lands arrived, guided by a star that had pitched its tent over your homes and narrow, peaceful streets. As if to say that the smallest of Judah’s towns is great in the eyes of the One who adorned the heavens with stars.

These travelers carried great dreams. Their books had foretold of something important happening in our land, and they had come to discover it. They were kind and generous, bringing us precious gifts. They told us that King Herod was also eager to know the outcome of their search and journey. The king’s curiosity did not sit well with me… The interest of heaven and that of good-hearted people are not like the eyes of bloodthirsty spies who sow corruption and terror in our land.

In the middle of the night, Joseph woke up, convinced that we had to leave. An angel had appeared to him in a dream and warned him that Jesus was in grave danger, that Herod wanted to kill him. My life with Joseph has taught me to trust his dreams, even when they seem strange or illogical—like believing that a virgin could conceive a child. So when Joseph said, “Let’s leave,” I felt as though his words were giving voice to my own thoughts—thoughts I had not yet dared to express. We gathered what little we had, joined a caravan, and left behind fears that no one yet knew. We walked toward an unknown that resembled nothing but the darkness of the night stretching before us.

Joseph and I felt nothing but the danger threatening our child. I cannot shake the thought that we forgot about your children, that our fear blinded us from seeing that you too were in danger. Do we have the right to survive? … The cruelty of the one who ordered this massacre was far greater than our naivety. How can I not feel guilty? Why didn’t I tell you and the other

mothers to flee with us? Why didn’t I knock on the doors of Bethlehem to wake the sleepers that night?

And how can I not feel reproach as well? Why did the angel who spoke to Joseph not visit Jacob, Barak, Simeon, and all the fathers sleeping that night? Why does heaven remain silent when rulers speak with violence?

Dear Rachel,

I dare not write everything that crosses my mind… I do not know if this will bring you comfort… Can a mother who has lost her child ever be consoled?

Know that Jesus is alive because the death of your son and the sons of Bethlehem hid him from Herod’s eyes. It was not merely the cover of night on the roads of Egypt that saved him, but the river of blood in Bethlehem, which deceived the tyrant into believing his thirst had been quenched… Do you find any consolation in knowing that my son lives because the sons of Bethlehem protected him with their blood that night?

In this dark sea of violence, the children of Bethlehem gave birth to the one I thought I had borne. In that evening, the son of Mary became the son of the children of Bethlehem. Dare I ask you, dear Rachel, to consider Jesus as your grandson, the one your son left behind for you? Do not see him as the one who brought you the anguish of child loss.

It will be intolerable for you to live with your loss. And in honor of it, I will carry this debt for the rest of my life. I will bear the debt of Bethlehem upon myself and my family.

Every night, before Jesus sleeps, I will remind him that he must live not only for himself but for all those who died so that he might live. I will ask him to rejoice for himself and for them, to cry all the tears that were stifled in their throats, to fulfill not only his own dreams but all the dreams that the king’s wrath has silenced.

I will remind him that all the mothers of Bethlehem labored for him in pain, tears, and blood, and that in every home of Bethlehem, he has a uncle, a aunt, grandfather, and grandmom.

I will ask him to give sons to his friends and grandchildren to all the bereaved mothers. You know, Rachel, I will call him by the names of all the slain children. And I will ask him, to teach his children, and the children of his children, to never accept injustice, nor violence, nor the sword… And I will extract from him a promise: that when his time comes to die, he will accept it only if it is for the salvation of many.

Mary,

Mother of Jesus

Ronney el Gemayel, S.J.