By Zainab Chamoun
ONE month ago I left my heart, my home, and my cat in southern Lebanon. Now living with relatives in Beirut, forced into displacement by Israeli airstrikes, I’m struggling to keep my family – and myself – together, as we try to keep going and the bombs keep falling.
I wasn’t in Lebanon when my family was forced to flee, when I became one of the more than a million displaced people in my country. On 23 September 2024, a day I will never forget, I was not in Lebanon – I had been in Albania, ironically attending a conference about peace, and was about to catch a connecting flight home. That morning, my family was jolted awake in our village near Nabatieh, south Lebanon, by the deafening sound of an Israeli bomb hitting an empty piece of land next to our house. I woke to a flurry of WhatsApp messages.
The sound itself was nothing new. In the year since last October, when Israel began its assault on Gaza, we have become used to the deep rumble of bombings, and the exchanges of fire across the border. The occasional airstrike hit near us, but it was not yet a full-scale war.
So my family – I live with my parents; my two younger brothers, Ahmad and Hassan; and our beloved cat, Mouli – got on with their day. We assumed the bombing was like the others; just a one-time thing. They ate breakfast outdoors in the garden, which my father spends hours lovingly tending to every day.
But within a few hours, three more strikes hit the same yard, and more bombs spread across Nabatieh. Even though there was no formal evacuation order yet from Israel’s forces, and no communication from Hezbollah’s leadership, it felt like an unspoken command to leave.
An unthinkable choice
It was chaotic. As the danger escalated, in my family WhatsApp group relatives were urging my father to go. He seemed determined to stay, and the stress in the chat grew with every passing moment. When the third airstrike hit, there was no longer room for debate. Everyone had to leave, and fast.
I watched all of this unfold from abroad, in constant contact with my family. As they grabbed things to go, I tried to think of what I needed from home. All I had with me was the suitcase I had taken with me to Albania, full of summer dresses.
I spoke to Hassan and told him which drawer in my room had our passports, university degrees, birth certificates, and other important papers. A few minutes later, I called him back. “Pack my gold jewellery, and the bag of family photos,” I told him. Back in October, when Israel’s assault on Gaza began, I had prepared a small bag of clothes and other basics. But as time passed and it seemed like the conflict would be limited to the border, I unpacked it. I figured that all that really mattered were old family photos, and the few pieces of gold I own: Memories that can’t be replaced, and something to sell if needed.
The thing I cared most about was Mouli, who has been my constant companion in good times and – over the past year – bad. “Don’t forget his carrier, litter box, and food,” I instructed my brother.
Another series of raids hit. The doors to our balcony burst open, and Mouli, frightened, ran out.
My family split into different cars. Hassan left first, driving in a car filled with ashes and broken window glass. My parents followed in another car, enduring 11 torturous hours on the packed road to my sister’s house in a suburb of Beirut – a drive that would usually take just 75 minutes.
Ahmad left last. He waited for Mouli for hours. But as the bombing intensified and Mouli didn’t come back, he had to make a choice. Closing the door of the house that our parents had built and nurtured for most of their lives, he turned away and left. My heart broke in two.
Outside Lebanon, inside the chaos
Stuck outside Lebanon, airlines were cancelling flights left and right. I finally managed to book a last-minute ticket back from Istanbul. As I waited at the airport, my phone filled up with photos of bombings in our neighbourhood. I zoomed in, trying to see my house.
I desperately tried to stay connected with my family, as they drove through unknown dangers. The airstrikes were relentless, and the longer they were on the road, the harder it became for me to breathe. I was waiting, like them. Tired, like them. Hungry, like them. The only difference was that Israel’s bombs weren’t raining on me.
I watched helplessly as my family dealt with the same impossible choices we had seen play out so many times in Gaza. I kept thinking of the haunting phrase, “lucky are those who stayed in the north of Gaza,” which has been repeated again and again by Palestinians who fled the north under Israeli orders, only to be attacked and killed, or wounded, or forced to flee again.
Over the past year, I’ve wondered many times what I would do in a similar situation. My answer was always that I would stay home. As it turns out, that’s easier said than done.
As the hours passed, the numbers of martyrs began to rise, names and faces I knew began to appear on texts and in social media. The woman who taught me religion and Qu’ran at school was gone. My old school friend Zainab and her sister: both killed. The man who fixed things around our house, always with a smile, was no more. My Arabic teacher – the kindest person I’ve ever known – was gone.
I watched my younger brother mourn his friend with a post on Instagram, and I couldn’t hug him. I listened to my sister – usually so strong – break down on the phone, crying about how unjust it all was. I heard the quiver in my father’s voice as he spoke and I wondered if we had been right to pressure him to leave. He’s a man who belongs to a house, to a garden, to a place.
The faces of everyone waiting with me at the airport were pale. Sighs filled the air at the gate, punctuated by sounds of Israeli bombings coming from videos on our phones. We all just wanted to get back home, or at least to Lebanon.
Displacement
Eventually, we were all reunited at my sister Amal’s house. Altogether, including my aunt, nine of us are staying here. Even though the threat of bombings is constant, at least we’re together, and that makes me feel a bit more at ease.
It may sound strange, but returning to Lebanon, for once I wasn’t thinking about the bombs or the danger. It’s like I had already absorbed that as part of my new life and was just focused on making sure my parents were safe. I also wanted to jump into my car and drive straight to find Mouli. But my family insisted I stay with them.
I wake up every morning and try to find the energy to focus on my job, to keep it together. Every day, I also check in with an organisation that has been rescuing animals in the south, asking them if they have made it to my neighbourhood yet. Every day, they tell me that it’s too dangerous. I think about Mouli, scared and hungry.
We all work from the living room, with the constant background noise of the news on TV and the playful giggles of my nephew, who is just over a year old. When I struggle to concentrate, I play with him. He’s the best distraction from this war.
In the afternoons, my dad takes a walk around the neighbourhood, trying to familiarise himself with his new surroundings. Ordinarily, he spends his afternoons in our garden, leaving one of my brothers to tend our shop. He has a routine: In the front yard, he waters the grass and flowers, checks on the two olive trees, and trims the jasmine. In the back, he expertly grows tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuces, avocados, lemons, oranges, beans, and much more. Sometimes I bring him coffee, and we drink it together outside.
Every summer, he brings bags of cucumbers into the kitchen, and my mom, a little bit exasperated, asks him: “Who is going to eat all this?” We end up sharing the bounty of our garden, rich and modest, green and thriving, with family and friends.
Over the past year, my dad has spent more time in the garden than ever. Even when the distant sounds of a bomb broke the stillness, he kept working. It’s like the garden became a shield.
These days, we spend our nights on my sister’s balcony, checking WhatsApp. My siblings and I do our best to keep the mood light for our parents, encouraging them to stay active and talk with us. But it’s tough. They live independent lives in the south, but here, everything is new and strange. Watching them struggle from afar was unbearable. Now I carry a new kind of burden, of watching their silence and sadness.
I know I can start over from scratch if I have to, but they are older, and this isn’t their first war. They’ve survived multiple wars with Israel but still built a home, a garden, a family, a business. They shouldn’t have to be in survival mode at this stage in their lives. Nobody should.
We often talk about 2006, when Israel and Hezbollah fought for 34 days, and Israel destroyed entire villages in the south. I was only 12, and our home was still being built while we lived in an apartment in Nabatieh. My parents stayed in the south for 23 days before they fled to my aunt’s apartment in Beirut.
It was crowded, with me, my parents, and siblings all sharing a room. Even though the conditions were worse, my parents say it’s harder this time. They’re not sure why: maybe because it was so sudden, or because of what we have already seen in Gaza?
The lucky ones
Inside Lebanon, we are the lucky ones, because we are alive and we have a roof over our heads.
Around 1.2 million people are said to have been displaced in Lebanon now, more than one in five of the population. There have been waves of displacement: the people who had to leave villages close to the border starting in October, first taking refuge in Nabatieh and other southern cities; the people who fled their homes in Beirut’s southern suburbs (known as Dahieh) when the bombing began there in September. They are sleeping on the streets, in shelters, or with friends. Many go back to their homes during the day, if the skies look calm.
I’ve always loved seeing and walking Beirut’s famous seaside walkway – the Corniche – busy and full of life. Now it’s lined with tents. I feel guilty that I can’t be there to help. But I feel like I’m still collecting myself, and have to trust the efforts of the many volunteers who are already on the ground.
Since we left Nabatieh, the horror there has only expanded. Last week, Israel killed the mayor and 15 other people in one day. Some of them were in the midst of distributing aid. If it gets worse here, I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t want to see my family displaced again. I can’t look at the hollow look in my parents’ eyes anymore. I already left my heart in the south. How can I leave Beirut? Leave Lebanon?
“I’ll keep living until the last minute, until I am bombed.”
When Israel first started bombing near the border last year, life didn’t stop in Nabatieh. Businesses stayed open, despite the uncertainty and the danger. My friends who live further north often asked me: “How are you still going to get coffee, playing tennis?”
My answer was that living my life was my act of resistance. I said: “I’ll keep living until the last minute, until I am bombed.”
I haven’t been bombed yet, but I’m suffocating. I long for the southern sunsets; for my cat and the two lonely olive trees in our front yard; for the sight of my father, tending to the garden; for a cup of coffee with him, and some quiet.
Edited by Annie Slemrod.
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The New Humanitarian puts quality, independent journalism at the service of the millions of people affected by humanitarian crises around the world. Find out more at www.thenewhumanitarian.org.
