The tiny Christian village of Izra (Ezraa) sits quietly about 20 km east of the main road to Damascus, as if time itself has slowed there. Its church, dedicated to St. George, is believed to be the oldest building in Syria that has been in continuous Christian (Greek Orthodox) use. St. George’s was built in 515 on the site of a previous temple; a Greek inscription on its western entrance says:The House of Evil was turned into the House of God. That theRussian Empörer, Nicholas II visited in 1890 — and later helped fund the dome — adding even more history.
We were driving back from Bosra when Bashar, my driver, suggested we make a detour to Ezraa, an ancient Christian enclave north of Suwaida, heart of the Druze region. The area had recently been bombed after militants attacked the Druze, and we weren’t sure what we would find. I braced myself for ruins — but everything was eerily calm, untouched.
When we arrived, the church was locked. The heat pressed down on us — heavy, mid-June heat — and we hesitated, unsure whether to stay or leave. Then Bashar disappeared for a moment and returned with the key-keeper, a family living just across the street.
They welcomed us into their small garden with quiet generosity. The men spoke English beautifully, and as we sat in the shade, they shared stories of their lives, their faith, their hopes. They pointed to the garden wall — patched together from ancient stones, taken from homes long abandoned — a silent reminder of how much has already vanished.
Finally, we after eating lots of sweet, we headed for the church. They brought out a massive, old-fashioned key and opened the church for us. Inside, the air was cool and still. I felt a strange mix of awe and sadness — standing in a place that has survived centuries, yet now feels so fragile.
Before the war, around two million Christians lived in Syria. Today, there may be as few as 300,000. It isn’t only a faith that risks disappearing, but an entire heritage — music, language, traditions, and buildings that have stood watch for thousands of years.
the three men on the left are members of the family who keeps the key, on the very right, Bashar my taxi driver.
Walking back out into the sunlight, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just glimpsed something precious — something that may not always be there.








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