Lebanon: The Journey of Devastation and Displacement, and Return

Dana Hourany

I didn’t want to leave. Even as the war in southern Lebanon escalated, I insisted on staying in our home in the southern Beirut suburb of Chiyah. My mother tried to persuade me, but I stubbornly clung to the idea that our home was a safe haven. By then, both of my grandmothers and extended family members had already left their villages of Aynata and Bint Jbeil in south Lebanon during the early weeks of the Israel-Hezbollah conflict that started on October 8, 2023.

My uncle’s family from Aynata was the only one to relocate to Nmairiyeh. The rest relocated to the southern suburb of Beirut, also known as Dahiye.

We all believed the displacement would be temporary and that this was just a typical crisis in the long series of crises that Lebanon has been through. I remember reassuring my maternal grandmother, who stayed in Dahiye close to us, that she would soon return to her fig and lemon trees, her flowers, and the plants she nurtured so lovingly. She disliked being in Beirut and yearned for the peaceful familiarity of the south.

That hope, however, began to falter as time stretched on. By September 23, 2024, nearly a year later, Israel began carpet-bombing various locations in south Lebanon, killing over 500 people and injuring nearly 2,000 within the span of mere days. By the war’s end that number had risen to 4,047 people, most of them killed since a September escalation, including 316 children.

Even then, I refused to leave Dahiye. But my mother, gripped by fear, pleaded that we head to a safer location. Her unease became my guilt. We had no family outside the southern suburbs to take us in. For her sake, I agreed.

Beneath years of political imbalances and intricate partisan rivalries, the wounds from Lebanon’s civil war—embodied in egregious sectarian discrimination, geography and demographic fears—resurfaced. Apartments marked at $600–$800 per month, expensive at the time but still within reach, came with an unspoken rule. Landlords either rejected us outright because my family members wore hijabs, or they flatly refused to rent to Shia Muslims, or displaced people perceived as supporters to Hezbollah.

The rejection shattered me. At work one day, I broke down in tears. I knew about the deep wounds of the Lebanese Civil War, when various factions battled each other ruthlessly, but I had always believed our generation had moved past that phase.

One landlord seemed willing to rent to us, but only after demanding an exorbitant $1,000 deposit, which was beyond our means. Left with no choice, we settled for an apartment in Tabarja, north of Beirut, close to a highway that I disliked. It wasn’t ideal, but as strikes began targeting Dahiye, especially Ghobeiry behind our neighborhood, we hurriedly packed what little we could and moved.

Then came September 27—a day of devastation. Israel launched one of its largest airstrikes on the southern suburbs, killing Hezbollah Secretary-General Hassan Nasrallah and many others. The airstrikes shook my family to its core. “It felt like they happened to our building,” some relatives told me. That was the breaking point. Our remaining family members in Dahiye, including my grandmother, her sister, my aunt, my father, and younger brother, joined us at the rented house in Tabarja.

For a fleeting moment, I thought we could settle into this new life. The sea was nearby, the neighbors seemed kind, and the area offered respite from the constant bombings. But on October 14, Israel bombed the Christian-majority town of Aito, killing 21 people. The strike alarmed our landlady, who lived in Aito. The next day, she called us, demanding we vacate the apartment by November. She didn’t care about the three-month lease we signed or that we had nowhere else to go.

The humiliation was unbearable. She didn’t care that our family was peaceful and included a retired army officer and three elderly women. To her, we were potential targets, a risk she didn’t want to take. Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones evicted that week. Many landlords began forcing Shia tenants out of their properties, driven by fear and sectarian prejudice, as Israel continued to target more areas that were otherwise perceived safe.

With time running out, I contacted every real estate agent I could. Apartment prices had skyrocketed, with most now asking for $1,500 or more. Worse, nearly every landlord rejected us for the same reasons. A new level of humiliation was added when a landlord asked for background checks on every member of the family after eventually agreeing to rent to us.

“Go cut your hair and make sure you don’t look intimidating,” I told my younger brother, fearing how our new neighbors might react if they saw his dark beard and assumed he was some kind of operative.

Overthinking began to take hold. What if the neighbors complained to the landlord and we were kicked out? And if that didn’t happen, what if they treated us poorly or let the paranoia take hold? It is worth noting that several Christian areas across Lebanon welcomed displaced people with open arms, as did Sunni and Druze majority areas. However, our experience was less than ideal.

Ultimately, the financial burden was insurmountable. The upfront costs—three months’ rent, a deposit, and commission fees—totaled more than we could afford. With no other options, I turned to the northern city of Tripoli.

Initially, the idea of Tripoli seemed unthinkable. It was far from Beirut, a city I longed to remain close to. But a house near the sea, at a relatively affordable price, became our lifeline. We moved in November. The house was cramped and lacked adequate storage, making it difficult to adjust. On our last trip back to Chiyah, I collected winter clothes, but my mother refused. She clung to the belief we’d return home before the harsh winter set in.

Then, in mid-November, our neighborhood in Chiyah was bombed. My mother’s house sustained heavy damage, and we’re still uncertain if it’s livable. The grief I felt was overwhelming. Those walls weren’t just stone; they held our memories, safety, and warmth.

“What if the Israelis are staying in our house in the south?” my grandma asked in a heartbreaking jest. I was unable to respond to her query. We don’t know how far the Israelis will go or even how long they’ll stay. At the time, Israeli military reportedly established a roadblock on the road between Marjayoun and Nabatieh in southern Lebanon on November 22, therefore limiting travel to the nearby community of Marjayoun.

Despite the pain, I tried to find solace in Tripoli. The city is vibrant and full of life in its own way. I explored its bustling markets, like the historic Old Souks, where vendors sell everything from spices to textiles, and ate at its renowned seafood restaurants by the coast. I walked along the serene coastline near al-Mina, taking in the views of the Mediterranean, and even visited the Palm Islands Nature Reserve for a quiet escape. Tripoli’s charm is undeniable, with the stunning Citadel of Raymond de Saint-Gilles offering a glimpse into the city’s rich Crusader past. The city’s welcoming attitude toward my hijabi family members also brought a sense of comfort. But no amount of charm can replace home.

I often close my eyes and envision Chiyah or the lush greenery of my parents’ villages in the south. I wonder when, or if, we’ll return. Our family, once closely-knit, is now scattered across Lebanon, and the distance makes gatherings nearly impossible.

As February approaches, I worry about what lies ahead. Our lease in Tripoli will soon expire, and I dread the prospect of searching for yet another apartment. The process is draining, humiliating, and a constant reminder of our displacement.

On November 26, a ceasefire was announced. Glued to the TV, we stayed up late into the night, watching as Israel carpet-bombed Beirut with unrelenting intensity, seemingly determined to end the war with brutality before the agreement would come into effect.

Nevertheless, with the early hours of the morning, relief washed over us as the first photos and videos of people returning to their homes in the south surfaced. Finally, it was happening. We—the people of the south and Dahiye—could go home. The overwhelming feeling of joy was like a lifeline, as if life itself had been restored.

But our happiness was short-lived. While we could technically return, our house has sustained significant damage and needs time to be repaired. Home is within reach, but only from a distance.

As Israel continues to violate the terms of the ceasefire, we can only hope for a return that would allow us to finally reclaim the lives we once had, even if only echoes remain.