In the whirlwind of rapid news about the war in Lebanon, individual stories are lost and human faces fade behind the numbers of displaced people and reports of bombing. Yet the reality, as the testimonies on the ground reveal, is much deeper and more painful than the headlines suggest. In this “time of war”, hundreds of thousands of Lebanese people live in a condition of repeated displacement, as if it were a destiny that is renewed with each new wave of violence. But in the midst of this darkness, human faces also emerge, seeking to restore meaning to life.

Since escalation began and with the increase of air raids and evacuation orders, displacement is no longer an exceptional event, but has become a way of life. No longer are individual areas evacuated, but entire regions, from the south to the Beqaa to the heart of the capital Beirut. In this context, the number of displaced people has surpassed one million, in one of the largest waves of internal displacement in the country’s recent history. Many civilians have lost their lives.

Behind this number, however, there are human stories that encapsulate the tragedy. Zeina Chahine conducted some interviews to convey the pain of people and, at the same time, the greatness of humanitarian action that becomes encounter, consolation and collective strength against injustice.

Marwan, evacuated from the south, summed up the experience with a painful phrase: “We are slowly withering”. It is not just a metaphor, but the description of a life that is gradually consumed, in which people are losing their home, work and stability without however entirely losing hope… though that hope is worn down. Marwan adds that even the idea of returning has changed: he no longer dreams of his home, but simply returning, in any possible way.

Nawal instead recounts the moment of the forced flight: a phone call in the middle of the night, a few minutes to gather what could be carried, then the escape under bombardment. “What should we bring with us?” is a question that captures the helplessness in the face of the sudden collapse. A small suitcase in exchange for a lifetime left behind. She, like many others, had the experience of displacement not once, but over and over again, until going back to “square one” became part of the experience itself.

Children and young people also pay the price. Sixteen year old Suleiman finds himself out of school, in a temporary shelter and sums up the war by saying: “It is my cross in this life”. Words that show how war steals not only the present, but also the innocence of youth.

But alongside this pain another image exists, no less present: that of human solidarity. From schools transformed into reception centres and overcrowded corners of cities, volunteers and individual initiatives emerge that try to fill the void of absence. People sleeping on the floor, with a severe lack of the most essential good, while gradual attempts are made to provide mattresses and blankets. The need is not only for food and water, but also for everything that preserves human dignity, such as personal hygiene products… because even in displacement, people need to have their dignity.

Abir, a mother and a volunteer, sees help as a human duty first and foremost. She says that what is most striking is “the fear in people’s eyes”, that constant anxiety about an uncertain future. But at the same time she also observes a strong drive towards solidarity: “People rush to help, without expecting anything”. In a context where institutions are sometimes limited, individual initiatives become the first line of defence for humanity.

This encounter between pain and solidarity reveals a strong contradiction: war divides people, but at the same time creates unexpected spaces of solidarity. It is as if society, in moments of collapse, rediscovers itself through its individual people.

Despite the differences in opinions and affiliations, there is a common sense of feeling uprooted and the rejection of war and its tragedies. Over time, even the form of hope changes: from “if God wills we will return to our homes” to simply “if God wills, we will return”. A hope that diminishes but does not extinguish.

A question remains on everyone’s lips: “Where will we go tomorrow?” It is not a question about a specific destination, but about destiny itself.

Yet, despite all the suffering, these testimonies reveal a twofold truth: war wounds human being deeply but it cannot erase humanity. Between a tent and a shelter, between loss and nostalgia, another form of resistance is born: the resistance of solidarity.

Thus, while some slowly wither, others water them with as much solidarity as they can, keeping life possible. Because faith in human brotherhood is a reality that we have internalized by living and practicing it, it has been handed down from our parents and grandparents, until it has become like the blood in our veins and part of our civilization.

Elaborato da Rima Saikali
Al Madina Al Jadida

Photo: ©Pexels-Mohamad-Mekawi