Intima’ – إنتماء in Syriac means belonging: the sense of connection and bond with a community, a culture, an identity. It is the word that encapsulates the lives of Christians in Syria: a visceral tie to land, faith, and community, now threatened by sectarian violence and the divisions that erupted after the fall of the Assad regime. Here, grief and resilience intertwine, along with waiting and the search for hope.

In Damascus, in the Christian neighborhood of Dweila, Intima’ lives in suspended mourning. Thaana, widowed after the attack on the Church of Mar Elias, continues to pray every day among memories of her husband. Siham, who survived with an amputation, keeps returning to church despite her fear. George, a coffin maker and father of two, is preparing his family’s exodus because “there is no future here.” And in Harhan, a law student in Kharaba, the memories of a childhood without divisions echo—memories difficult to reconcile with today’s hatred.

Further north, in Rojava, Intima’ becomes defense. In the Assyrian Nutoro units, young women patrol the remains of churches destroyed by ISIS. Ornina and Kamila, commanders barely twenty years old, proudly claim the Assyrian warrior tradition: “We fight for our people; without this uniform, we would be slaves.”

And finally, Intima’ is dialogue. At the Monastery of Mar Musa, Father Jihad continues the work of Paolo Dall’Oglio, transforming ruins into an oasis of prayer, work, and hospitality. “Syria is a mosaic,” he says, “but divided by fundamentalism. Here we seek harmony and encounter, against the wounds of history.”

Thus, amid grief and resilience, weapons and prayers, flight and dialogue, Intima’ remains the word that safeguards belonging: the deep root of those who, in a land marked by war, continue to seek peace.