‘I left everything for my grandchildren’: in Beirut, displaced families exhausted by the endless war

They sit beneath the statue in Martyrs’ Square, a symbol of Beirut and the sacrifices made by the Lebanese people. But the imposing monument offers the Syrian families gathered there little protection from the scorching sun. With no room in emergency shelters, it is the only shelter they have found after fleeing Israeli airstrikes hitting Beirut’s southern suburbs. They live in absolute misery.

“Today it has been nine days since we arrived here,” says Iman, a woman in her forties from the northern Syrian city of Raqqa. “Look, we still live on the ground, outside. We haven’t found a place in schools, because priority is given to Lebanese.”

Iman fled Syria 12 years ago, when her home was destroyed in fierce fighting that broke out between Islamist rebels and government forces loyal to Bashar al-Assad. She and her husband then built a new home in Dahiyeh, in the southern suburbs of Beirut, with their five daughters. Now they have had to flee again. This time after the Israeli army issued an evacuation order before attacking the Hezbollah stronghold.

Since then, the Iman neighborhood has been the target of daily Israeli airstrikes. Israel’s Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich has promised that Dahiyeh will suffer the same fate as Khan Younis, the southern Gaza town that Israel’s war against Hamas turned into an open-air cemetery.

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‘It’s death’

“The nights are very difficult,” says Iman. “It’s cold and we’re worried about the safety of our daughters. There are people hanging around outside and we can’t sleep. Last time it rained and we had to take shelter in a building. It’s death, it’s death.”

Iman doesn’t even have a tent. She has nothing to protect her and her family from the rain, nor any place where they can wash or relieve themselves. Like her children, she only dreams of returning home.

Since the beginning of the war, Iman’s family has relied exclusively on the help of others to survive. The situation has become even more difficult due to the Muslim fasting month. “They bring us sandwiches and rice, but during Ramadan we need to eat healthy food,” he says, adding that he has been suffering from stomach pains.

Their youngest children play under the relentless sun. They may seem carefree, but they are not. “They keep telling me, ‘We want to go home. We want to go to school. We want our things.’ The youngest cries and repeats her friends’ names. It breaks my heart every time,” Iman says.

‘They are going to get us out of here’

Ahmed* looks exhausted. He is also Syrian and lived in Dahiyeh until the war broke out. Now he stays awake every night to watch over his wife and 11 children. “Look at that blanket,” he says, pointing to a navy blue blanket. “It is for 12 people, we are left with nothing.”

Despite the difficulties, Ahmed has not lost hope. “They came yesterday and got our names. Every day they come and tell us that they are going to get us out of here,” he says, referring to an NGO that helps them.

Not long ago, Martyrs’ Square was packed with people. Entire families camped here because there was no room left in the emergency shelters. Lebanon’s Social Affairs Minister Hanine el-Sayyed says more than 500 emergency accommodation units have been opened since the start of the war. But they are still very few given the magnitude of the humanitarian crisis that is unfolding.

The United Nations says more than 700,000 people have been forcibly displaced since Hezbollah fired rockets into northern Israel on March 2 to avenge the assassination of Iranian Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei, prompting Israel to respond immediately and with overwhelming force.

The ‘slaughterhouse’

Not far from Beirut’s port, in the impoverished neighborhood of Karantina, a former slaughterhouse has become the country’s largest shelter for displaced people.

It is a kind of no man’s land, and its hangars were built by the NGO Offre Joie in record time in 2024, during the last war between Israel and Hezbollah.

“It was in complete ruins. The place had not been used for 20 years,” explains Cynthia Mahdi, a volunteer in her 20s. “We removed all the rubble and rebuilt everything. We created four blocks: A, B, C and D, and inside each block we installed rooms. We also installed bathrooms and showers outside. We tried to do everything from start to finish: we opened a pharmacy and doctors and a psychologist started coming for the children, because all these people are frustrated, traumatized and need someone to talk to.”

A year later, the displaced families have returned to the shelter, which is doing everything possible to offer them decent accommodation. More than 1,100 people currently live here, while others are eagerly awaiting the final block to be completed, hopefully in the coming days.

“The Lebanese are used to war, of course, but they are frustrated and angry,” Mahdi says. “They want this to end. I am from the south and I lost my house in October last year. I understand how they feel. But since 2009, things have only gotten worse in Lebanon. We have learned to expect the worst,” he says.

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In the large patio the children play soccer. The screams and laughter offer a brief and welcome respite from the deafening sounds of bombs falling in the south of the country. Adults are dispersed in small groups. Some smoke shisha, others wait for a doctor’s appointment or for medication to be dispensed. Today, these services are provided by Doctors Without Borders (MSF). Meals are also being distributed since there is no kitchen for families to cook for themselves.

“I didn’t know if we would come back”

Mona, in her 50s, has lost 4 kilos since she arrived at the shelter. It’s hard to have an appetite when you’ve left everything you have behind. “I want to go back to my house,” he says. “I dream that there will finally be real peace. Before the war, when we left home we didn’t know if we would return at night.”

Despite agreeing to a ceasefire with Hezbollah in November 2024, the Israeli army has continued its airstrikes in the Nabatieh region of southern Lebanon.

“Everyone wants this war to end and for people not to die every day,” says Mona while her husband Nabil hugs their two grandchildren, aged six and four.

The 57-year-old grandfather is willing to sacrifice everything for his children, Nabil and Ali. In 2024, the two children narrowly escaped an air raid. The bomb fell just 20 meters away, leaving them deeply traumatized.

“I’ve spent a lot of money to help them recover, but they only started to get better when we got here,” Nabil recalls.

“They gave us a room and since then they feel safe. The room is small but it is enough for us. They can rest, there is space outside to play football and ride a bicycle. A drawing activity was organized a few days ago. I have not seen them so happy in a year and five months.”

Those 17 months seem like an eternity, Grandpa repeats incessantly. He praises the generosity of Offre Joie, a charity founded in 1985, without which the “slaughterhouse” – as the shelter is called – would not exist.

“The children are afraid to return to the village, even though they have their own beds, toys and belongings at home,” says Nabil.

“There you can hear the gunshots and the deafening roar of the fighter planes. I left everything for them, my house, my car repair shop. It’s very hard. But I will only return when the war is over.”

*The person’s name has been changed.

This article was adapted from the French original by Louise Nordstrom.