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| By Salim Nasser |
In the northern hills of Lebanon, tucked between the tranquil slopes near the monastery of Deir Gherbta, lies a place that seems to have slipped through the cracks of time ,a village so obscure that maps hesitate to name it, and locals speak of it only in hushed tones.
Wata Safarta , the name rings like a forgotten tale pulled from the pages of legend. But this is no ordinary abandoned village. It’s said to be haunted و not by memories, but by spirits that refuse to leave.
We arrived laughing, unaware of what lay ahead. We left in silence, burdened with questions that had no answers as though we had passed through the forest’s mouth and come out the other side with something unspoken echoing in our hearts.
Some advised us not to go , to avoid disturbing the unseen , but we were undeterred. After all, what are village phantoms to those of us already haunted by the ghosts of politics?
At a narrow turn known only to locals, through a northern trail choked by trees, begins the path to Wata Safarta. Along a dirt road scented with cows and cloaked in monastic silence, we found the old spring long dried up, and trees whispering secrets no one dares say aloud.
Our first test came in the form of a massive black dog, snarling as if guarding an invisible kingdom. We retreated, then found another entrance: two rusted gates ,one green, the other black ,beyond which the world shifted into something unfamiliar.
Whispers Among the Trees
The village greeted us with silence. No voices, no footsteps. Only scattered remnants of a life long gone: a rusted Audi, an old shirt hanging from its door, overturned chairs, cracked pavement blanketed in leaves. We called out , the only reply was our own echo.
We opened a wooden door, behind which stood another, firmly shut. With no one in sight, we ventured toward the forest. Stone steps led us through brambles to the ruins of Mar Assia Church , an abandoned chapel still humming with forgotten prayers.
We rang the rusted bell. The silence quivered. A strange calm settled over us.
Inside, the church was coated in dust. The Virgin Mary’s statue stared silently ahead, and a few candles remained , as if someone had passed through a century ago to light them.
We prayed , not for peace, but for strength.
The Curse That Lingers
As dusk bled into the trees, we recalled the legends whispered about the village: A place where no boys are born, where women are either barren or only give birth to daughters. The few who remained eventually married and left.
The stories speak of a rassad , a supernatural guardian, perhaps a jinn , that has lived there for centuries, protecting a hidden treasure and punishing anyone who dares intrude.
Locals say he appears at night, roaming the roads, terrifying wanderers, banishing them from the village forever. Just a myth? Maybe. But how many myths have proven to be more than mere fiction?
Aql Nakhla, a man from the region, tells of a creature resembling the Sa’our , a shape-shifter that comes with rain and darkness. Once, this village was alive: it had a library, manuscripts, a wise elder. And now? Nothing.
The last home was shut in 1958, after the final remaining woman left, never to return. Since then, the village’s doors have only opened for the occasional wanderer… or a hunter brave enough to enter in broad daylight.
A Light No One Sees
In Syriac, “Wata Safarta” means “The Radiant One.” How, then, did radiance turn into dread? How did this Eden become a nightmare?
There are no answers. Only this: the village still stands, yet it no longer belongs to time.
No residents. No laughter. No running child. No fire crackling in a hearth. Only echoes… and perhaps a few spirits still lingering, unwilling to leave.
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