Nicosia, Cyprus – On a Wednesday evening, a group of Cypriot Maronites has gathered at the Maronite Archbishopric in the capital city of Nicosia for choir rehearsals. As the choir concludes the last verse of Silent Night, the conductor, Georgia Markou, shakes her hand into a fist in the air.

“Was my Arabic OK?” asks Georgia, turning to her audience of a few Lebanese refugees who fled last September’s attack on Lebanon by Israel.

“It was funny but it was fine!” replies a young man leaning against a table as a Lebanese girl who has joined the choir looks at him, smiling. Maria and Georges are a young couple who recently arrived from Lebanon. “Our last name is Kamar, it means moon,” Maria says, her eyes shining.

They come from Hadet, a village on the outskirts of Beirut and are just two of thousands of Lebanese who have sought shelter in Cyprus in recent months.

Many have been assisted by people like Georgia, who lives in Nicosia but is originally from Asomatos, one of the traditional Maronite villages on the island. While members of her community speak Cypriot Greek in everyday life, a few still speak Sanna, an ancient Arabic dialect spoken by Cypriot Maronites.

Today, they are preparing for the concert: “We will perform Silent Night in four languages,” explains Georgia. “We will sing in English, Greek, Arabic and Sanna.”

A man in his 70s from the Maronite village of Kormakitis is singing in a low voice, his eyes on the text, repeating a few of the verses.

“This is Sanna,” he says, looking up. “I learned it when I was a child, but my wife and my daughter don’t know it, there are few of us who still speak it.”

The choristers resume singing and Maria moves her head to the rhythm of the music. She is silent during the Greek parts, as she is still just learning the language. When it comes to the Arabic parts, she joins in with a strong voice.

As a ceasefire deal in Gaza has raised hopes that the Israeli bombardment there may have finally come to an end, Israeli forces are still occupying parts of Lebanon despite a ceasefire agreement reached there as well at the end of November.

In Cyprus, the Mediterranean island with one foot in Europe and the other in the Middle East, the existing Lebanese community which has been settled for decades has been ready to offer help, along with the Maronite Church, which has been present on the island for more than 1,000 years.

‘Many arrived without even winter clothes’

“The majority of Lebanese that are living in Cyprus are settled around Larnaca, all along the gulf until Paralimni,” explains Father Akl Abou Nader, who is sitting at his desk in the rectory of Saint Joseph Church on St Lazarus Square in Larnaca, a city in the south of Cyprus.

“There are about 35,000 Lebanese in this area and between 13,000-15,000 of them are Maronites. Our community has grown in numbers because of the war.” He, himself, is of Lebanese heritage.

For many families, material support from the Maronite community has become crucial, he says: “Many arrived without even winter clothes, thinking they would stay a few weeks, and they are still here. We help them pay the rent, provide legal support, help with medical expenses. These are the basic needs that people have”.

As he is speaking, his phone buzzes. “Sure, I can translate into Arabic!” he exclaims into the handset. Then, turning to us with a smile, he adds: “Sorry, a Lebanese just arrived – needs help with papers!”

A few steps away from St Lazarus Square, a Lebanese bakery is busy with customers. From early morning, they bake bread with za’atar, a mixture of herbs – mainly oregano and thyme.

“I came here 21 years ago, I always worked in renovation,” says Rony Frem, 52, owner of the bakery, who is preparing to go up to the church to distribute bread and other baked goods after mass. “But in 2017 I started this shop.”

Rony used to live in Beirut but he is originally from Jezzin, further south. He came to Cyprus, he says, because he saw no future in Lebanon: “There is no hope, and the situation is worsening. Those who can are leaving the country.”

In August, Rony’s brother arrived on the island with his own family. “It started to be too dangerous to stay there (Lebanon). Here, we live well, but unfortunately we cannot feel safe also here, war is not so far.”

After walking along to St Joseph’s Church where he sets up his cooker, Rony checks the temperature of the griddle before he starts cooking the saj, a typical Arab bread popular in Lebanon. Once it is burning hot, it’s time to bake.

After mass, worshippers – both locals and Lebanese newcomers – crowd around the table as Rony distributes the saj sprinkled with za’atar or stuffed with cheese melting into the hot, crispy bread, to celebrate the Feast of the Immaculate Conception in December.

Father Akl has arrived as well. “Our first task is spiritual support,” he explains. “This also means not letting people lose their connection to Lebanese culture, also through food. It helps people feel at home.”

It’s not easy in a war situation, he says. The community even cancelled its annual celebration of the independence of Lebanon on November 22 last year. “We could not celebrate it in this situation.”

Sipping tea and holding plates of tomato, mint and cucumber salad, people talk about the events of the day.

The stories of those who have lived here for years intertwine with those of the newcomers. One 75-year-old woman who doesn’t want to give her name says she has serious health problems. She was supposed to have a kidney operation but has no access to the public health service and the operation costs 35,000 euros ($36,000).

The community will try to help her pay for the treatment but until the money has been raised, she will have to wait.

A young couple with a two-month-old baby, who also do not want to give their names, tell Al Jazeera they have serious financial problems. The father only earns 20 euros ($21) a day at a cleaning company and without the social support of the community, which provides help with the costs of rent and food to those in need, they would struggle to provide for their child, they say.

A ‘disaster’ in Lebanon

In Nicosia, The Maronite Archeparchy of Cyprus, Selif Jean Sfeir, is seated in an armchair in the Archbishopric. He is recounting the history of the Cypriot Maronite community which arrived on the island 1,200 years ago from Lebanon and Syria.

“There were tens of thousands living in 83 villages. But now you have to go to Kormakitis, one of the last Maronite villages, to understand the Maronite community,” he says. Today, about 10,000 remain. “We probably reach 20,000 with the Lebanese diaspora – they integrate and strengthen our community,” Sfeir adds.

The young couple who arrived from Lebanon last year, and who were taking part with the choir, have stopped by to say hello.

Georges explains that he arrived before the summer to work and Maria joined him in September when full-scale hostilities with Israel were starting. “It was a disaster,” she says, shaking her head. She is grateful for the community they have found in Cyprus.

“The Maronite community was very important for us. Thanks to them I managed to find work as a physiotherapist. I also participate in the choir; this is the third time I have come to rehearsals.”

Back in Larnaca, a strong sea wind is blowing in front of the castle near the beach, where a few hundred people have gathered, displaying banners and flags. It is a demonstration called by the Cyprus Peace Council, a protest march “against the transformation of Cyprus into an aggressive launching pad for the USA and NATO”.

In September, there was another demonstration organised by the same pacifist group in front of the British base of Akrotiri, a legacy of the island’s colonial past, from which the attacks on Yemen began in early 2024.

“Cyprus is close to the conflict, many people don’t think about it, but just look at a map,” says Mattew Stavrinides, a young activist from the group Genocide-Free Cyprus. He explains that cooperation between Israel and the Republic of Cyprus is nothing new: “Just think that in 2017 the Israeli army held exercises in the Troodos Mountains, in the centre of the island, to simulate war situations in southern Lebanon.”

“It’s the highest flag!” exclaims one young man, smiling, as he nods his head and points to the Palestinian flag flying at the end of the long fishing rod he is holding.

Hamad* is 32 years old, from Gaza. “I live in Limassol,” he says. “I have been here for two years, but I have travelled to many countries. I try to attend all the demonstrations against the war with my friends – the situation is terrible, and it is not only a problem for Palestine.” As he walks, he shows a map of Gaza city on his phone.

“This was my home,” he explains, pointing at the screen. “In this building, right next to al-Shifa Hospital. Now everything is destroyed. But my parents are fortunately alive.”

Like the Lebanese refugees who have sought shelter in recent months here, he thought he would be home soon after he arrived, but ended up staying.

“I called my father two weeks before the war started, I told him I would be home soon, he was happy. As soon as it is possible I want to go back, to rebuild.”

*Name changed for anonymity