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

They sit beneath the statue in Martyrs’ Square – a symbol of Beirut and the sacrifices made by the Lebanese people. But the towering monument offers the Syrian families gathered there little protection from the scorching sun. With no space left in emergency shelters, it is the only refuge they have found after fleeing the Israeli air strikes pounding Beirut's southern suburbs. They live in utter destitution.

“Today it’s been nine days since we got here,” says Iman, a woman in her forties from the northern Syrian town of Raqqa. “Look, we’re still living on the ground, outside. We haven’t found a place in the schools, because the Lebanese are given priority.”

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

Since then, Iman’s neighbourhood has been subject to Israeli air strikes on a daily basis. Israel’s Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich has vowed that Dahiyeh shall meet the same fate as Khan Younis – the southern Gaza city that Israel's war on Hamas turned into an open-air cemetery.

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‘It’s death’

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

Iman does not even have a tent. She has nothing to shield her and her family from the rain, and nowhere where they can wash or relieve themselves. Just like her children, she dreams only of returning to their home.

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

Her youngest children play under the relentless sun. They might look 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 the names of her friends. It breaks my heart every time,” Iman says.

‘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 keep watch over his wife and their 11 children. “See that blanket,” he says, pointing to a navy blue cover. “It’s for 12 people. We left with nothing”.

Despite the hardship, Ahmed has not lost hope. “They came and got our names yesterday. Every day, they come and tell us they’re 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. Whole families camped out here because there were no space left in 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 far too few given the scale of the humanitarian crisis 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 killing 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 Karantina neighbourhood, a former slaughterhouse has become the country’s largest shelter for the displaced.

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

“It was in complete ruins. The site hadn’t been used in 20 years,” Cynthia Mahdi, a volunteer in her 20s, explains. “We cleared away all the rubble and rebuilt everything. We created four blocks: A, B, C and D, and inside each block, we set up rooms. We also installed toilets and showers outside. We tried to do everything from start to finish: we opened a pharmacy, and doctors started coming here as well as a psychologist for the children because all these people are frustrated, traumatised and need someone to talk to.”

One year later, displaced families are back in the shelter, which is doing everything it can to provide dignified accommodation. More than 1,100 people currently live here, while others are impatiently waiting for the last block to be finalised – hopefully within the next few days.

“The Lebanese are used to war, of course, but they’re frustrated, and angry,” Mahdi says. “They want it to end. I’m from the south myself, and I lost my home in October last year. I understand how they feel. But since 2009, things have only got worse in Lebanon. We’ve learned to expect the worst,” she says.

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

‘Didn’t know if we would make it back’

Mona, who is in her 50s, has lost 4 kilos since arriving at the shelter. It is hard to have an appetite when you have left everything you own behind. “I want to go back to my house,” she says. “I dream there will finally be real peace. Before the war, when we left the house we didn’t know if we would make it back in the evening.”

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

“Everyone wants this war to end, and that people aren’t killed every day,” says Mona as her husband Nabil hugs their two grandsons, aged six and four.

The 57-year-old grandfather is ready to sacrifice everything for the children, Nabil and Ali. In 2024, the two boys narrowly escaped an air strike. The bomb hit just 20 metres away, leaving them deeply traumatised.

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

“We were given a room, and since then, they feel safe. The room is small but it’s enough for us. They can rest, there’s space outside to play football and ride bicycles. A few days ago, there was a drawing activity organised. I haven’t seen them that happy in a year and five months.”

Those 17 months feel like an eternity, the grandfather endlessly repeats. 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 of returning to the village – even though they have their own beds, toys and belongings in the house,” Nabil says.

“There, you can hear the gunfire and the deafening roar of fighter jets. I left everything for them, my house, my car repair shop. It’s very hard. But I’ll only go back once the war is over.”

* The person's name has been changed.

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