Iraq. Karbala, safe haven for Lebanese refugees

It is just after nine in the evening at Baghdad International Airport on 24 October 2024. The visa queue for foreigners is unusually long, made up mostly of Lebanese refugees, “guests” of Iraq, as officials have repeatedly told them.

Clutching their luggage, they hurry to the exit where spontaneous reunions with friends and relatives have already taken place. Some will be staying in Baghdad, like Kassem, who has met up with his mother, already settled here after fleeing the coastal town of Tyre, recently depopulated by Israeli bombardment.

Other travellers head for the cars that are waiting to take them to Karbala. After crossing through many checkpoints, we arrive there after dark beneath the gaze of huge portraits of Ayatollah Ali al-Sistani, Mohammad Sadeq al-Sadr, his son Moqtada and other great clerics of the Shi’ite Muslim faith that adorn the walls and streets of the city.

An historic connection

According to the United Nations Refugees Agency (UNHCR), as of the end of October 2024, over 25,000 Lebanese are living in exile in Iraq. Depending on the intensity of Israeli strikes, the flood of refugees has reached as much as a daily average of 900 persons since mid-October. They settle mainly in the holy cities of Karbala and Najaf, while others are distributed between various provinces in central and southern Iraq, especially Babil, Basra, Diyala and Salaheddin¹.

Relations between Lebanon and Iraq are reinforced by the strong bond of shared identity felt by the Shi’i of the two countries, a tie which grew deeper following the 1979 Islamic revolution in Iran. These ideological links intensified still further with the rise of Hezbollah, created in response to the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982 and with the growing influence of Iran after the fall of Saddam Hussein in 2003. The two communities have lively interactions attuned to the Shi’ite religious calendar and involving frequent pilgrimages to the holy sites in Iraq. The seminary in Najaf also constitutes a major centre for theological, social and political education, and many Lebanese students have studied there. The recent war in Gaza has strengthened their common struggle against oppression, consolidating their feeling of solidarity in the name of a pan-Arabism that is on the rise once again.

In downtown Karbala, the shop-fronts of barbers, street-food vendors, and shops selling veils and abayas are decked out with Lebanese and Palestinian flags. On the billboards charitable organisations post their appeals for donations. Under a bridge, you can see tents which have been pitched by the Hashd al-Shaabi, a collection of pro-Iranian Shi’i militias, where locals are urged to bring clothing, food and other contributions for the refugees in Karbala.

The tragic night of 23-24 October, marked by the most murderous and intense Israeli air strikes ever, brought a veritable flood of refugees. Ali Yassin, a young man of 17 from Sidon, the capital of South Lebanon, arrived here by car after that massacre, which everybody now calls “Black Monday”: “We left with just one piece of luggage each,” he tells me. “It took hours to get to Beirut, then through Syria to the Iraqi border crossing at al-Qaim. There were thousands of us fleeing the South”. Like Ali, many chose to travel overland, avoiding the main roads on account of the Israeli bombing of the border posts scattered along the porous Syrian border with Lebanon. The cost of this journey varies from $60 to $200 dollars per person and may take several days. Some choose to come by air, but only the Lebanese flag-carrier, Middle-East Airlines, offers a few flights each week out of Beirut, already fully booked and very expensive.

The safe havens first in line

In response to the growing humanitarian crisis, the Iraqi government has encouraged the Lebanese to take refuge in this country by prolonging the validity of their visas and by making available three billion dinars ($224m), according to sources at the Ministry of Immigration and Refugees, to meet their essential needs. The Shi’i leaders, like the black-turbanned Moqtada al-Sadr, former head of a militia and a popular figure in his community, have also called for donations to help Lebanese refugees.

It is mainly the administrations of the sanctuaries of Imam Hussein and Imam Abbas that are playing a key role in this process. Responsible as they are for the upkeep of these sites, they generate substantial incomes thanks to the pilgrimages and the donations of the faithful, as attested by the glass urns stuffed with banknotes visible everywhere on these holy sites. A crucial element in this funding is the significant increase of over 30 % for the religous endowments included in the government budget for 2024, amounting to 2,564 trillion dinars (nearly $1.748bn).

Although Iran actively supports some Iraqi Shi’i factions as well, its role in direct financing of the shrines is not clear. The theological seminary at Najaf, with its long tradition of independence vis à vis the political authorities, contrasts with Iranian seminaries like that at Qom, whose clerics are under the direct authority of Ayatollah Khomeini. Thus some sources say that Iran may prefer to invest in groups loyal to its regime rather than any of those at Karbala, which are all connected with Najaf and hence perceived as counterbalancing Iran’s influence in Iraq.

The Shi’i Muslim authorities have requisitioned many hotels, normally reserved for the faithful from all over the world, to provide the refugees with lodging and several meals a day. Among these establishments is the Hotel al-Noor, just a twenty-minute walk from the Qibla Gate, leading to the Imam Hussein shrine.

In the name of the same higher moral and religious principles, restaurant owners cook free meals while hotel managers take in whole families free of charge, quite apart from the aid offered by the Shi’i organisations. “It’s our personal decision to house the women and children”, the manager of the Hoda al-Wali Hotel tells us. Hayat, like many other Lebanese I have met, expressed her profound gratitude for this warm reception. With some amusement she describes how Iraqis keep coming up to her in the street saying they are “at her service”, and going so far as to offer her their home, their car and even, she joked, their last sheep.

Like many of the other refugees, Mohammad, a mature young man of around twenty from the devastated southern suburbs of Beirut, has no idea whether his house is still standing and if he will be able go home one day. He tells me how his life is still driven by a sense of emergency and how worried he is for his uncles, his grandparents and other relatives who are still back there. “When there is another attack, I have to make sure everybody is OK”, he explains.

Every evening, almost like a ritual, the Lebanese refugees gather in the hotel lounges to swap accounts of difficult journeys or families split up, as well as reminiscences of past conflicts. Some describe their emergency evacuation on the way to the border, sick with fear and anxiety about an unknown future, with rumours circulating about refugees stranded in the desert without food or water. Their nights are spent between nostalgia and a heavy silence, gathered around a pot of tea, or staring at a television screen where images of horror are broadcast non-stop.

“A familiar land of welcome”

Despite all the uncertainty, Mohammad still hopes for the best. “Iraq is our second country, we’re safe here”, he assures me, sitting on one of the velvet sofas in the hotel lobby to the distant sound of bombardments from the videos on his neighbours’ mobiles. His feelings are shared by Ghida, a young Lebanese woman from Nabatiyah in South Lebanon, who has been settled a few blocks away in the Hoda al-Wali Hotel. She explains that for her and her family Iraq is a familiar land of welcome. They come to visit once a year during Arba’in, one of the world’s biggest religious get-togethers. This commemoration, Ashura, marks the last of the forty days mourning for the death of the Imam Hussein, the prophet Mohammad’s grand-son. In fact Ghida was here in August 2024 and she remembers days marked by tributes to Gaza and support for the Palestinian cause. Today she notices how the pilgrims from all over the world sympathise with Lebanon. “We are lucky to feel close here to the Imam Hussein, and we sincerely believe that our prayers will help us”, she declares.

Every morning, the Lebanese faithful mingle with the crowd that moves towards the Imam’s mausoleum with its shiny gilded dome. The interior is magnificent, adorned with mosaics of countless colours, sparkling mirrors, crystal chandeliers and ornate Islamic inscriptions on the walls.

The women push through and try to touch or kiss the tomb. They jostle, wail, weep or shout “Labbaika ya Hussein!“ (Here I am at your service, O Hussein!). In that atmosphere, steeped in piety and spirituality, where sorrow is mingled with hope, Yara says to me: ”Our faith is our weapon."

For these Lebanese women, the Imam Hussein represents a school of life. The lessons to be learnt from his martyrdom and that of his family, from his sacrifice, find a deep response in them:

“Hussein was oppressed, and so are we. We weren’t present at the battle of Karbala, but if we had been, we would have fought by his side without hesitation. Now, we say ’Labbaik’ in reply to his call, following his path and his teachings. We are all blessed to be near him here.”

For many Lebanese, loss and exile are sadly part and parcel of their history, an endless cycle. But here in Iraq, at the shrine of the Imam Hussein, their faith gives them the strength to resist. “Our house was destroyed during the war in 2006 and we rebuilt it. This time we’ll go back to Lebanon and rebuild it again”, Ghida declares defiantly.

Translated from French by Noël Burch.