Founded by the Phoenicians more than 3,000 years ago, Sidon is located on the coast south of Beirut, a 40-minute drive from the Lebanese capital. As Israeli attacks continue to plague the country, the former metropolis has become a refuge for people fleeing violence in the south.
In the city’s old souk, the merchant Wissam stands at the entrance to his small clothing stall, calling to passersby.
“Tafaddali sabaya! Tafaddali!” (“Come closer, ladies, come closer!”)
“Do you need anything? Four items for $25.”
But most people still walk through the narrow alley of the historic market. Since few customers stop, the 43-year-old reorganizes his display: he unfolds and refolds shirts and sorts suits for men, women and children.
Wissam took over the store from his father three years ago.
“Since the war started, you can feel the difference,” he says. “Displaced people come to buy clothes because they left their homes with almost nothing. But they don’t have much money.”
Suddenly, a scooter races down the crowded hallway. Pedestrians press against the walls as the driver speeds by and disappears into the maze of streets.
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“We had prepared festive clothes for Eid al-Fitr,” says Wissam, pointing to the back of his shop. “But the displaced people mostly need simple things: tracksuits, everyday clothes. I had to put the holiday clothes out of sight. Maybe next week some of the losses will be made up.”
A few more people wander around the souk, but most just look.
“Everyone is very sad,” he adds. “Displaced families sleep on the seashore, schools are full and many people who come here have nothing.”
Fewer shoppers, quieter streets
Dania, a 50-year-old grandmother from Beirut, has arrived in Sidon with her five-year-old granddaughter. She cradles the child while searching for clothes and pastries, a specialty of Sidon.
She pauses to admire a bright purple dress paired with a white faux fur jacket, a princess outfit likely intended for Eid al-Fitr, the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. Traditionally, families buy new clothes for the celebration, especially for children.
“I always shop here,” says Dania. “The souk is beautiful and there are always nice things. But with the war, there are fewer people.”
Still, he says it’s important to maintain normal routines.
“We have to maintain our habits and stay positive,” he says.
But beyond the market, it is impossible to ignore the impact of the war.
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Makeshift tents have been erected along the promenade. Some families sleep in their cars after leaving their homes behind. Air strikes in the Sidon area have intensified in recent days.
“I wasn’t afraid to come,” says Dania. “I checked the news before leaving Beirut. But you can feel that the atmosphere here is different. People come to the market quickly and leave quickly. Many have stopped working because of the war, so they don’t buy.”
“The season is ruined”
Mahmoud, a 63-year-old salesman who sells children’s clothing, smiles after completing a sale to Dania.
She has run her stall in the labyrinthine souk for five years, specializing in sparkling rhinestone-covered outfits popular with young girls.
But this year business has been disappointing.
“The season is ruined,” he says. “Usually people start shopping from the beginning of Ramadan. This time they are just starting. People are afraid. They don’t know where they will have to go next. There are alerts all the time.”
He remembers how in 2024 an entire market in the southern city of Nabatieh was destroyed.
“Even here in Sidon I had to move for a while because the building next to mine was threatened,” he says. “But losing money is not the most important thing. The important thing is to stay alive.”
Rising prices
The narrow alley opens onto a busier street where vendors shout over the sound of passing cars.
Sweets, fruits, vegetables, herbs – sellers call to customers in a constant chorus.
Khaled doesn’t need to shout: customers crowd around his vegetable stand.
For 50 years, this 64-year-old man has been selling agricultural products here, practicing the same trade as his father and brothers.
“Even if death was close, I couldn’t stop working,” he says. “I’m not a government employee. I live day to day.”
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“Thank God we are still alive,” he adds. “But this war has affected us a lot. War is expensive. May God help Lebanon.”
She moves quickly among customers, weighing vegetables and packing bags.
Prices, he says, have increased considerably.
“Some products are up 30 percent, others 60 or even 70 percent,” he says. “Tomatoes, for example.”
Tomatoes are normally grown in southern Lebanon, but Israeli strikes and the displacement of farmers have stopped the harvest. Lebanon now imports them from Syria and Jordan.
“Some merchants are ruthless,” says Khaled. “I sell tomatoes that I bought for 160,000 Lebanese pounds (1.56 euros) for 170,000 (1.65 euros). Others sell them for 200,000 (1.95 euros) or even 250,000 (2.43 euros). I hardly make any profit. I try to keep prices low for people who don’t have much.”
An economy in tatters
Ali, who fled Nabatieh ten days ago, does his shopping in the souk. He considers himself relatively lucky because he managed to rent a house in Sidon to house his family.
“I rented the same place we stayed in 2024,” he says while shopping in the souk’s covered market. “But the price went from $800 to $1,500 (696 euros to 1,305 euros).”
The cost has almost doubled, but some expenses, he says, cannot be reduced.
“We try to be careful with money, but not with food,” he says. “We have children.”
All around him, vendors continue to shout their offers: “Cucumbers! Tomatoes!”
Ali’s experience reflects a broader reality in Lebanon: the country is grappling with an economic crisis that predates the current conflict.
Between 2018 and 2021, the Lebanese economy collapsed and the Lebanese pound lost around 98 percent of its value, according to the world bank. Today, approximately 44 percent of the population lives in poverty. While many products are priced in dollars, salaries are still paid in Lebanese pounds, leaving families struggling to keep up.
Still, for Ali and other shoppers, the souk remains a place to go.
Ali shrugs. “This is a popular market,” he says. “Prices are still reasonable. We’re just trying to live as normally as possible.”
This article was adapted from the French original by Natasha Li.
