Built in 1875 and modelled on the Chapelle Saint-Marc in Lyon, the church was originally intended to be the chapel for St Joseph University, which was opened by French Jesuits as part of France’s colonial-era “civilising mission”.
Its pale stone facade rises above a busy Beirut street. Today, it remains under Jesuit stewardship, with Father Michael Petro leading the parish.
“It’s an interesting space, because it is on the edge of Ashrafieh, a predominantly Christian, francophone area, which has plenty of wealthy Lebanese people living in it. But it also has their domestic workers. From the start of the first waves of migrants in the 70s, this place became known as a place for them,” he tells Al Jazeera.
Every Sunday, during peacetime, the gravel car park is transformed into a cricket ground. Indian and Pakistani migrant workers play softball cricket while families sit on the sidelines sharing home-cooked food, catching up with friends and enjoying one of their few days away from work.
Today, the atmosphere is very different.
Instead of the crack of a plastic bat and Bollywood music spilling across the church grounds, rows of mattresses line the floors, and laundry hangs from railings. Men slouch on plastic chairs littered around the church, scrolling through their phones. Women carry blankets and washed clothes in plastic tubs. Only the children seem able to break the subdued mood, darting between adults and filling the space with bursts of laughter.
“When the war escalated, we immediately had large groups of Sudanese and South Sudanese come here,” Father Michael says. “They showed up because they would ask community leaders what to do, and were told to come here, as it is the first place they trusted.
“On one hand, that’s very beautiful, because people thought they would be welcome here, and they were.”
However, the strain of being a first port of call for so many displaced migrants is beginning to show.
Supplies are low, and tensions occasionally flare among those sheltering at the church. Father Michael says the church reached its capacity of 250 people on just the second day of the war.
“We’ve turned away more than 100 people in the last few days,” he says. “It’s a disaster.”
Mohammad says daily life has become increasingly difficult, particularly since the arrival of their son.
“We do not have enough clothes, especially now that the baby is growing. Also, my wife’s nutrition is not great. Sometimes she gets constipated, and then the baby becomes ill. We need more protein and vegetables. The diet is a huge concern.”
Living in crowded conditions, surrounded by uncertainty, has taken a toll on people’s mental wellbeing, Rufaida says.
“Because of the atmosphere and mental health problems, small problems become big ones. I said good morning to someone, and they didn’t like it. There are no big fights, but there is an underlying tension.”
Both say they understand why tempers sometimes fray. Many of those sheltering at the church have fled war, lost homes and spent months or years living with uncertainty.
Small problems become big ones.
Their gratitude is rooted partly in what happened when Rufaida sought maternity care.
At Karatina Hospital, they say they were repeatedly overlooked by doctors in favour of Lebanese patients. “We were there to get papers so she could give birth in that hospital, but we were ignored, and Lebanese people were allowed into consultations first,” Mohammad says.
After waiting for three hours, a worker from the Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS), who had accompanied them to the hospital, intervened and helped ensure they were seen.
Through support coordinated by JRS and partner organisations, the entire cost of Rufaida’s pregnancy was covered, including prenatal care, the cesarean delivery and Ahmad’s vaccinations.
“It gave me comfort and peace that I was able to deliver in a safe environment,” Rufaida says.
Their experience is increasingly common among Sudanese migrants in Lebanon, many of whom have found themselves uprooted more than once — first by war in Sudan and then by conflict in Lebanon.
Rufaida’s story is far from unique. According to figures published by the International Organization for Migration (IOM) in August 2025, there are 164,097 migrants living in Lebanon, of which 14,854 are Sudanese nationals.
That number represents only a small fraction of the 4.4 million Sudanese who have fled their country since the outbreak of civil war in April 2023.
Some, like Rufaida, arrived on tourist visas. Others found jobs as concierges or domestic workers, under Lebanon’s kafala sponsorship system, which ties a migrant worker’s legal residency to their employer.
Human Rights Watch has described the system as, at its worst, a form of modern slavery.
About 3,800 Sudanese have also found asylum in Lebanon as registered refugees with the UN Refugee Agency.
For refugees in Lebanon, a UNHCR registration card can mean far more than a piece of paper. It offers a measure of protection from detention or deportation, can unlock access to aid and education where services exist, and, for many, represents their best hope of one day being resettled in another country.
Among them is 30-year-old Roudaina Mustafa.
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