The back wall of Mar Elias Church in Damascus' Al-Douala neighbourhood remains broken open, with just green netting covering it. Plywood hides the bomb crater on the sanctuary floor. Yet, on that makeshift altar of wreckage, someone has set a single candle, a flickering reminder that the chapel still exists.
Father Boutrous, the parish priest, recalls being thrown behind rubble as the explosion ripped through the sanctuary. "I thought I was dead," he told me on my recent trip to Syria. "I felt peaceful, as if I had entered Heaven. Then I realised I could still breathe."
When he shoved the debris away and stood, the scene before him was beyond comprehension: smoke, bloodshed, and an eerie calm. Then the wounded's cries reached his ears. Children, parents, and elderly parishioners were injured and bleeding around him. Father Boutrous walked across the sanctuary, assisting the wounded and blessing the dying.
He refused to allow anyone to clean the blood off the church walls for several days. "I smelt it like perfume," he told me, "because it was the blood of saints — the same ones we used to read about in books, except now they were in front of me, and I buried them with my own hands."
The Mar Elias massacre is not an isolated tragedy; it is part of a larger degradation of Christianity in Syria. Before the war began in 2011, there were an estimated 2.2 million Christians in the country. Today, less than 500,000 remain, representing a roughly 80 percent drop. Entire communities in Aleppo, Homs, and Raqqa have disappeared. The bloodshed follows a gloomy pattern observed in neighbouring Iraq, where Christians have declined following waves of targeted attacks in the 2000s. The danger is that Syria is on the same track.
The situation has deteriorated since December 2024, when the militant Islamist faction Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) defeated Assad's soldiers and seized control of major Syrian cities. In March 2025, interim President Ahmed al-Sharaa signed a constitutional decree that placed Syria under Islamic governance for five years. While HTS initially pledged not to implement extremist religious policies, persecution of Christians and other minorities has increased. Militants have attacked churches, desecrated cemeteries, forced Christian women to follow Islamic dress requirements, and seized Christian homes.
In the midst of bread shortages, displacement, and economic collapse, those who remain face a daily struggle for existence. "We're just living for today," one survivor told me. "We don't know about tomorrow."
During my recent journey to Syria to check how survivors and the church were doing, one of the most striking conversations I had was the refusal to respond to murder with vengeance. Survivors reported hearing the following voice during the attack: "Do not be scared. I'm with you. Rima, who lost her 15-year-old daughter in the attack, emphasised forgiveness: "We pray for those who harm us. Our God does not kill. We don't want to cause anyone damage."
When he shoved the debris away and stood, the scene before him was beyond comprehension: smoke, bloodshed, and an eerie calm. Then the wounded's cries reached his ears. Children, parents, and elderly parishioners were injured and bleeding around him. Father Boutrous walked across the sanctuary, assisting the wounded and blessing the dying.
He refused to allow anyone to clean the blood off the church walls for several days. "I smelt it like perfume," he told me, "because it was the blood of saints — the same ones we used to read about in books, except now they were in front of me, and I buried them with my own hands."
The Mar Elias massacre is not an isolated tragedy; it is part of a larger degradation of Christianity in Syria. Before the war began in 2011, there were an estimated 2.2 million Christians in the country. Today, less than 500,000 remain, representing a roughly 80 percent drop. Entire communities in Aleppo, Homs, and Raqqa have disappeared. The bloodshed follows a gloomy pattern observed in neighbouring Iraq, where Christians have declined following waves of targeted attacks in the 2000s. The danger is that Syria is on the same track.
The situation has deteriorated since December 2024, when the militant Islamist faction Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) defeated Assad's soldiers and seized control of major Syrian cities. In March 2025, interim President Ahmed al-Sharaa signed a constitutional decree that placed Syria under Islamic governance for five years. While HTS initially pledged not to implement extremist religious policies, persecution of Christians and other minorities has increased. Militants have attacked churches, desecrated cemeteries, forced Christian women to follow Islamic dress requirements, and seized Christian homes.
In the midst of bread shortages, displacement, and economic collapse, those who remain face a daily struggle for existence. "We're just living for today," one survivor told me. "We don't know about tomorrow."
During my recent journey to Syria to check how survivors and the church were doing, one of the most striking conversations I had was the refusal to respond to murder with vengeance. Survivors reported hearing the following voice during the attack: "Do not be scared. I'm with you. Rima, who lost her 15-year-old daughter in the attack, emphasised forgiveness: "We pray for those who harm us. Our God does not kill. We don't want to cause anyone damage."
Services at Mar Elias have resumed—two per week, shortly to be three. Catechism lessons and Sunday schools are returning. Scouts gathered. The church hall downstairs is tight but full to capacity.
"They are not going to scare us, and they are not going to drive us away," Father Boutrous said at the first mass after the explosion. "We want to stay and hold our ground even more than before. "Because that is our faith."
Global Christian Relief continues to stand in the gap, never forgetting those who are suffering for their religion. We assist Christians stay connected to their homeland through collaborations with local churches, humanitarian programs, and support networks.
"The prayers of Christians around the world are what strengthen us," Father Boutrous told me. "It means so very much when we know that a brother in Christ at the other end of the earth is remembering us." A widow put it to me: "If we didn't know Christians outside [of Syria] were supporting us, we would be devastated and destroyed."
On my final day, I stood at the blast site while construction workers hammered in the backdrop. The green tarpaulin floated where a wall had once stood. The candle continued to burn on the plywood that covered the crater.
The Syrian church's future is questionable. Christians used to make up 10% of the population, but currently account for fewer than 3%. Extremism, distrust, and poverty crowd in. Despite this, they continue to light candles among the remains.
Before I departed, Father Boutrous glanced at me, his eyes weary yet determined. "We are still here," he replied. "And as long as there is even one candle, the church will live."
"They are not going to scare us, and they are not going to drive us away," Father Boutrous said at the first mass after the explosion. "We want to stay and hold our ground even more than before. "Because that is our faith."
Global Christian Relief continues to stand in the gap, never forgetting those who are suffering for their religion. We assist Christians stay connected to their homeland through collaborations with local churches, humanitarian programs, and support networks.
"The prayers of Christians around the world are what strengthen us," Father Boutrous told me. "It means so very much when we know that a brother in Christ at the other end of the earth is remembering us." A widow put it to me: "If we didn't know Christians outside [of Syria] were supporting us, we would be devastated and destroyed."
On my final day, I stood at the blast site while construction workers hammered in the backdrop. The green tarpaulin floated where a wall had once stood. The candle continued to burn on the plywood that covered the crater.
The Syrian church's future is questionable. Christians used to make up 10% of the population, but currently account for fewer than 3%. Extremism, distrust, and poverty crowd in. Despite this, they continue to light candles among the remains.
Before I departed, Father Boutrous glanced at me, his eyes weary yet determined. "We are still here," he replied. "And as long as there is even one candle, the church will live."