Shiite Pilgrimage Leads to Church

As thousands of Lebanese take refuge in the Christian village of Rmeish, some are drinking water drawn from a fetid pool. The green-tinged water is also used to bathe, cook and wash dishes. (By Lefteris Pitarakis -- Associated Press)

"17 days without water!" one person shouted. Another pointed to the hillsides. "There are still bodies there," he yelled.

In peace, Rmeish was a village of 7,000, picturesque with its red-tiled roofs and tidy streets. Since Israel ordered Lebanese to flee their villages along the border, as many as 10,000 have come, perhaps more. Isolated from the rest of the country, Rmeish suffered the same fate as its neighbors: no fuel for cars even for those who want to leave, no electricity, and supplies of food dwindling, even as stores remained open. To bathe, wash dishes and cook, the displaced draw water from a fetid pool filled by winter rains. Some said they were drinking from it. Diseases like scabies were spreading. The municipal government, overextended in the best of times, has virtually collapsed.

A ride to Beirut, once $10, now costs as much as $400, sometimes more.

"It's so miserable," said Carla el-Hage, a 19-year-old from the village. "This is what you read in history books."

The displaced have gathered in homes, a school and a convent. As many as 700 went to the Tajali Church, part of it unfinished. On a concrete steeple, roofed in red tile, stands a cross. Windows await their stained glass. On the church door was a letter pleading for order: a curfew beginning at 7 p.m., no lights at night and no trucks on the streets that might be targets.

In the basement was Khadija Rahme, a 29-year-old woman, eight months pregnant with her first child. She grasped a half-burnt candle. Her face drawn, she complained that there had not been enough water for bathing in 17 days.

"I'm so scared," she said, pleading. "I'm so scared I'm going to have to give birth here."

Next to her was 50-year-old Haniya Srour, who started crying.

"She's 95 years old," Srour said, pointing to her mother, Malika, lying listlessly on a mattress.

"Look how we're eating," she said, pointing to week-old bread, crumbling in her hands. Nearby was a bottle of drinking water, tinted green. Around the room were mattresses in small spaces, pans and silverware soaking in pots, plastic bags stuffed with clothes, a Koran and their identity papers, and cheap rugs marking the extent of each family's domain.

"Come look at the bathroom," she said, walking into a pitch-black room, the toilet a plastic bucket.

Not everyone in Rmeish was happy with the flood of displaced Shiites. Some complained that a few had broken into deserted houses, searching for food. Others worried that they might become squatters. And there was a sense of relief as thousands managed to travel the dangerous roads and flee toward Beirut since Thursday. But even the displaced were struck by the generosity they found in a village that, almost without exception, they thought the Israelis might not attack because it was Christian.