It’s the kind of footage that sits heavy in your chest. A child clutching a rosary under rubble. A man calling the adhan near the shattered remnants of a mosque dome. And somewhere in between, a priest sobbing over bodies laid in the courtyard of Gaza’s only Catholic church.
And you wonder—not for the first time—is this a war on Hamas or a war on hope?
Because from where we stand, in front of broken altars and demolished minarets, the line gets harder to see.
Aiming for Hamas, Hitting God?
Let’s start with what Israel says. According to officials, the strikes are aimed at Hamas targets: command centers, tunnels, rocket launch sites. If a church or mosque is hit, it’s because militants were allegedly using civilian infrastructure to shield themselves. The damage is labeled “unintended,” “collateral,” or—when pressure builds—“deeply regrettable.”
We saw this most recently in July 2025 when Israel bombed the Holy Family Church in Gaza, killing three and injuring a priest connected to Pope Francis himself. Netanyahu’s office expressed “regret.” Months before, the Church of Saint Porphyrius, another centuries-old sanctuary, met a similar fate. Again, regret.
But for many in Gaza, regrets come too late. They don’t raise the dead. They don’t rebuild pews or pulpits. And they certainly don’t stop the next missile.
More Than Mistakes? Critics Say Yes
Human rights groups, UN commissions, and independent watchdogs have drawn a darker picture.
-
Over 600 mosques and multiple churches have been damaged or destroyed since October 2023.
-
Many were sheltering civilians at the time of the strikes.
-
A UN Commission report called it part of a “concerted campaign to obliterate Palestinian life”—labeling it a war crime.
-
Some argue it’s “cultural genocide”—the erasure of memory, identity, and sacred refuge.
Even the U.S. State Department has quietly flagged the growing number of settler attacks on Christian communities in the West Bank—often with little accountability.
It raises a chilling question: When religious sanctuaries repeatedly fall under fire, can we still call it an accident?
The Strategy of “Collateral”
Let’s be clear: Churches are not being systematically hunted. The number of mosques destroyed dwarfs the church count. The Christian population in Gaza is tiny, barely 1,000 people. If there’s a deliberate strategy, it’s not anti-Christian per se.
But here’s what seems more plausible: In the calculus of this war, civilian life and religious heritage have become expendable. If a mosque sits above a tunnel, bomb it. If a church shelters families near a target, collateral. If a sacred place offers moral protection, tear that illusion apart.
This isn’t about singling out Christians or Muslims. It’s about a war strategy that has stopped differentiating. And that might be even more terrifying.
Because when bombs don’t discriminate, neither do the graves.
Erasing the Soul of a People
What happens when the places where people find meaning—where they baptize their babies, bury their dead, or bow their heads five times a day—are turned to dust?
It’s not just about demolishing structures. It’s about breaking spirit, forcing flight, and making the land feel unlivable. When churches fall, when mosques crumble, people lose more than shelter. They lose history. Continuity. The right to belong.
Maybe that’s the real target. Not just Hamas rockets or tunnel networks. But the threads that keep a people rooted in their place.
Final Thought: Who Are We Without Our Sanctuaries?
There’s something sacred about spaces of prayer—even for those who don’t believe. They mark where we grieve, love, hope, and remember. When they burn, something universal is scorched.
Israel insists it regrets each strike. Critics say those regrets ring hollow when patterns repeat.
I’m left thinking about that priest in Gaza, his voice trembling over bloodied stone. Or the imam leading Friday prayers amid ruins. And I wonder:
If war can’t spare the sanctuaries, what does it leave behind?
Maybe nothing worth coming home to.
Post a Comment