Testimonies from the South of Lebanon: How do people live under war
This is the first account in a series that brings forth the voices of people from Southern Lebanon who are profoundly affected by the ongoing conflict. Their stories, often unheard, deserve to be heard and acknowledged.
What Surviving in South Lebanon Looks Like
“I had a dream yesterday. We were all at Teta’s[1] place, with our uncle there too, playing in the garden with my cousins. Suddenly, the house was hit by an Israeli missile. Then the houses around us, where our relatives live, were bombed one after another. Everything around us was destroyed. We were either dead or trapped under the rubble. Then I saw my eldest sister, who is 13, trying to rescue us from beneath the rubbles.”
This haunting dream shared by my 8-year-old niece two days ago while our family gathered in the tranquility of our lovely garden, searching for a moment of peace.
Sadly, conversations like these have become all too common, to the extent that this reality is becoming normalized. In the south, children talk about the war in Gaza and Lebanon openly. They ask questions, share their fears, and build their understanding and opinions. They even post about the bombings, the destruction, and the heartbreaking scenes of children crying over lost parents on social media.
I live in southern Lebanon, a region that is predominantly Shiite. We are relatively safer compared to villages closer to the border with Israel. Yet, the situation has been deteriorating over the past few months. Israel's bombings are now reaching deeper into the heart of the south. The sounds of war are everywhere; we hear, nearly all bombs exploding, missiles being fired from Lebanon and the terrifying noise of Israeli planes breaking the sound barriers as part of the psychological warfare. The latter is the most frightening. The loud, daily shattering sounds and the shaking of our house, make us fear that a missile might be headed our way.
My family, like all Lebanese families, has endured many traumas and conflicts. My parents have lived through the civil war and two Israeli invasions. I have memories of the 2006 war and the catastrophic port explosion in August 2020. Now, my niece and nephews are growing up amidst the ongoing conflict between Hezbollah and Israel since 8 October 2023. Each generation in our family has faced its own set of horrors, passing down our traumas through shared experiences and collective memory. Now, our collective traumas are accumulating and there is not time for healing, yet.
Despite the escalating danger, my parents refuse to leave our village. We are spared from bombardment for now, yet day to day living is very precarious and going to the city for groceries is risky. My mother who has experienced displacement before knows too well the hardship of leaving her home again. She says that fleeing means losing not just a physical space but also a sense of safety and dignity. Along with her family, she cherishes her plants that has lovingly tended for years. They have become a symbol of peace and safety for her. Each plant has a story—some she nurtured from seeds, others are cherished gifts from loved ones like her daughter, who has not been able to visit her for a year due to the security situation. For my mother, these plants are more than just greenery; they are an integral part of her life and a means of survival. Leaving them would mean abandoning not only the plants but also the comforting rituals that offer solace and a special connection with life. She says, “I couldn’t bear to see them turn yellow and die; it’s like losing a dear friend.”
When I heard my niece’s dream recollection and listen to her casual chats with her young siblings, I realized how deeply it encapsulates the fears and anxieties that plague our family and many others in South Lebanon amidst the ongoing war. Her vivid account exposes the emotional weight of living through relentless turbulence. It echoes the pervasive fears of children in the region and the PTSD they may endure for many years to come. While our love and attachment to this small part of the land doesn’t seem very logical, and despite the lack of security, it provides a sense of safety and belonging that no other place could offer.
[1] Teta; a term is commonly used in various Arabic-speaking cultures to refer to one's grandmother.
On October 8, a day after the Hamas-led "Al-Aqsa flood", rockets were fired from South Lebanon into Israel, marking the beginning of the ongoing war between Lebanon and Israel, in support of Gaza. Initially, the conflict was largely confined to border villages and focused primarily on targeting Hezbollah military officials. However, in recent months, there has been a significant escalation. Cities and villages in southern Lebanon have come under attack, resulting in bombed homes and civilian casualties. The escalation has affected other areas, where Israel bombed places including Bekaa, Baalbek, and most recently, Beirut. The war has resulted in 72,000 internally displaced persons (IDPs) in southern Lebanon, out of a total of 110,099 displaced people across the country, according to the International Organization for Migration’s Displacement Tracking Matrix.