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)

"They welcomed us with 100 hellos," said Issa, who arrived 10 days ago with 26 people in his truck. "Bless them."

His friend, Hussein Rahmi, nodded. "It's safer with the Christians," he said.

In the church's courtyard walked Fadi Abdoush, a stocky, 23-year-old Christian from Rmeish, with the gait of someone who had taken charge. He worked at a grocery store, but since the conflict began, he had struggled to provide help for the displaced.

"There is no city council," Abdoush said. "I've become the city council now. I've become the mayor."

He turned on a faucet that let out dirty water. "This is what we're drinking," he said.

He walked past 11 steel vats from Holland for shipping hydrogenated vegetable fat that he had lined up next to the church. Filled with stagnant water, they were for washing clothes. He walked into the entryway of his house, where he had set up three large steel plates for baking bread. He pointed out a makeshift latrine, too small to serve so many people. Then he walked into a small concrete hut, with brown tobacco leaves hanging from the roof for drying, where he had put 28 people, one family, who came from Aita al-Shaab.

Sixteen days ago, their house was destroyed. They had walked to Rmeish at 3 a.m.

"We don't know what our destiny is," said Hussein Nassar, the 65-year-old patriarch. "We have no idea what awaits us."

Abdoush looked out at the family. "One day it might be our turn," he said, echoing the words of neighbors that were often repeated Friday.

Along the town's main road was a jarring scene: a rare, chaotic, desperate panorama of life in an otherwise desolate and deserted region. People milled about on the roads, looking for rides. "$500 to Beirut! This isn't a shame? It's not a shame?" Suheil Adeeb shouted. Others stood expressionless. They held bags with clothes, blankets in plastic bags and their cooking pots on the street before them, the metal catching the glint of the sun. "We're waiting for God's help," said Yusuf Jamil, a 24-year-old from Aita al-Shaab.

A convoy left the city. Other cars joined it, frantically, people believing that in numbers there was more safety.

"It's a disaster for them, and it's a disaster for us," said 30-year-old Yusuf Rida.