Israel intensified its attacks on Hezbollah starting October 2023. Even after the November 2024 ceasefire, Israeli drones and helicopters are still hovering over Lebanese cities. The latest episode is proving to be the deadliest in the series of the decades-old Israel-Lebanon conflict. Trapped in the cycle of recent escala𒁃tions are innocent people. But they don’t leave. Lebanon is home, they say. They tell the💞ir stories ... of death, destruction, damage, loss and love for their land.
Story 1: The Enemy Bombed My Beloved City
On September 23, 2024, at 6 am, the people of Tyre, a city in South Lebanon—not very far from the southern border region where the Israel-Hezbollah war has intensified since October 2023—woke up t𓆉o the sounds of missiles. Gia (24), her family, and the others knew they had to evacuate and rush to a safe zone. “I was packing, and I heard a ‘whoosh’ sound, and then ‘boom’ it went off. We could see the smoke from our window. I told my sister, 18, not to panic. But we knew we had to leave,” says Gia.
The family left home, all their stuff, and more importantly, their precious memories—not knowing when they would be back. On the main road, they encountered millions of cars, all leaving the city, heading to safer places. Gia and her family reached Mount Lebanon—a mountainous region in central Lebanon—at 11:30 pm. “The traffic was hectic. After arriving, we started looking for a house where we could stay for a few days. At least 🍸two-three families were living in one house. It was tough. I am recalling all that now,” says Gia, choked with emotion, in a voice note sent on WhatsApp from her grandmom’s house in Tyre.
In November end, when Israel-Hezbollah announced a ceasefire, people started returning to Tyre. “We left the same day, at 8 am. It was so g𒊎ood to be back home. It was then that I 🐼realised how much I loved my home and my city. When we were hiding in the mountains, I could not breathe. I felt as if someone was putting a knife through my heart. I prayed every day that my home was not bombed,” she says.
The city, however, was not the same. Many buildings had collapsed♚. People are now gradual✤ly rebuilding, brick by brick.
“Sometimes, your human side supersedes your journalistic side. Beyond ideology, beyond humanity, a daughter losing her father and crying for him is just raw emotions.”
In the voice notes, Gia often talks about her beloved Tyre. When she opened her Instagram account (gia.views), her intention was to tell people how beautiful her city and South Lebanon are, but after the recent escalations,ꦉ she now uses her account as a platform to tell the world what the actual situation is like and to tell the enemy that the people of Tyre will not be silenced. Her Instagram is ওnow full of different kinds of stories—of evacuation, homecoming and rebuilding.
Amidst the destruction, Gia often remembers how things were when the situation was normal. “We were living regular lives. We would go to the beaches and restaurants. Yes, there was an economic collapse, but we were rebuilding. Even after October 2023, the situation was quite normal in Tyre. People in the border regions were more at risk. But September 2024 changed our lives completely. The fear of death, destruction and loss is very🧔 real now,” says Gia.
Women and children are suffering at a different level. While children are too young to understand that they are in a war zone, they do understand that something is terribly wrong. “They hear bombings and missiles. They are sc🌌ared and traumatised, but their parents are not in a position to give them emotional strength because they are dealing wi🤡th a different kind of trauma. Women continue to be caregivers even though they themselves have not healed. Working women are not able to go to their workplaces, leaving them dealing with a strange void. As many families are forced to share space, the privacy of women is hugely compromised,” says Gia.
She was barely five in 2006 when the Lebanon War—a 34-day armed conflict between Hezbollah and Israel—happened. “I was petrified of the sounds of helicopters🅷 and planes zooming past. Even after so many years, the sound of airplanes still leaves me horrified and gives me anxiety attacks. So, I can imagine what these children must be going through,” she says.
This is the reason why she is determined to keep her Instagram page alive—to remind people how beautiful Tyre is and that rebuilding is still an option. Does she feel scared while putting herself out on a social media platform? “Sometimes, yes. I feel scared for myself, my family, my friends. That’s ꧂because our enemy is very harsh. Our enemy does not know what humanity is. But this is also the reason why I will continue to post—I want to tell the enemy that we are not scared, and we will not be silenced. Positive reactions from people encourage me to💎 continue,” she says.
There seems to be no e🦂nd date to the ongoing Israel-Hezbollah conflict. Amidst so much uncertainty, people are adopting different coping mechanisms. “As a family, we have decided not to watch TV news and read conflict-related news on social media. That has really helped us. We are focusing on rebuilding—our lives and ou🐼r city.”
What is the first thing she would do once the war ends? “The border areas have suffered widespread damage. I would definitely go there, document the loss through photography and help them in whichever wa💞y I can,” says Gia.
Story 2: “For journalists & photojournalists, the line between personal & professional is often blurred”
Witnessing and surviving a war can be extremely challenging. But what if your profession requires you to go out there and ওcover a war so that you have stories to tell? João Sousa, a photojournalist from Beirut, has been doing just that since the recent escalations began.
“Unlike other journalists who were parachuting in and out of Lebanon and going back to the comforts of their homes, we did not have that option. We were constantly right in the middle of it. I had to keep my sanity and endurance intact and cover what was happening. We are, after all, storytellers. We tell stories. However, we barely get a ꦬchance to tell our stories, to open up and tell people that we are not okay, that we are suffering emotionally,” he says.
For the past year, he never got an opportunity to switch off. He would come꧑ home after covering something deeply disturbing and the family would receive the news of loss or destruction in the neighbourhood. They would constantly have people, wh🀅o had lost their homes to bombings, coming over and staying with them.
Sometime in September end, when it got too dangerous and draining, Sousa left Beirut and went to Portugal with his wife and daughter. The family intends to retu🥃rn once the sit🌱uation normalises. “At some point in time, you need to take a call—yes, it’s a job, but no job is more important than preserving your life and your sanity. I reached that point,” he says.
Leaving wasn’t ෴easy either. “My wife is from South Lebanon. She really wanted to go there and say goodbye to her relatives. She wanted to meet those who had lost someone so that she could have closure. But we could not travel because of the bombings,” he says.
The ceasefire announced by Israel and Hezbollah in November end is very sketchy and unpredictable as Israeli drones are still flying over the heads of people, informs Sousa. Israel is primarily targeting Hezbollah, but innocents are also getting killed in the process. “We have seen very specific kinds of attacks since October 2023. The main target was the border region, but the country has seen several sporadic aggressions like the September pager attack,” says Sousa.
When covering the war used to get too much for him, he would have conversations with his wife. That helped him sail through. “I would just let my feelings and emotions ouꦕt and she just listened. Sometimes, she would give me advice. Sometimes, we would go to the park with our daughter. Sometimes, I would come back home, hug my wife and daughter, have a meal with them and laugh despite the tragic situation. These were my coping mechanisms. Conversations with my wife, to have an outside perspective, really helped because I was spending a lot of time with journalists and fellow pho😼tojournalists and that wasn’t helping,” he says.
Sousa was just 800 metres away from ground zero on August 4, 2020. A large amount of ammonium nitrate stored at the Port of Beirut exploded, causing at least 218 deaths. “I immediately took out my camera and started clicking, despite knowing that many images would be extremely graphic and disturb𒁃ing. That’s what we are expected to do as journalists. But occasionally, I stopped being a journalist and helped strangers. That is our responsibility as w💛ell,” reminds Sousa.
For journalists, the line between personal and professional is often blurred. Sousa shares an image and tells the story behind the image that forced him to go into isolation💮 and shed a few tears. “I am also a father. Covering the funerals of children or where children mourn the death of their parents disturbs me to another level. In the third week of September, there was a very intense bombing in the south of Beirut targeting Hezbollah officials. Dozens of people got killed. I went to cover a funeral. There was this little girl, around the same age as my daughter. It was her father’s funeral. She kind of understood that he was never coming back, and she was crying, shouting and calling out his name. It broke my heart. This is where your human side supersedes your journalistic side. Beyond ideology, beyond humanity, a daughter losing her father and crying for him i๊s just raw emotions,” says Sousa. At this point, his voice chokes. The voice note ends abruptly.
Story 3: “I never left Lebanon, will never leave”
Raffi Saatdjian, originally Armenian, was born and raised in Beirut, Lebanon. In 1915, his grandfather left Turkey with his parents, escaping the Armenian genocide. Lebanon has been a home for the family for generations. A dentist by profession, Saatdjian’s father and 𒀰grandfather were dentists too.
Lebanon has been a land of conflict since 1975. Staying wasn’t easy, but leaving never crossed his mind. “In all these years, the players involved in the conflict kept on changing but the end result w𓂃as always the same—death, destruction and large-scale migration,” he says.
The present conflict between Israel and Hezbollah started almost a year ago and escalated dramatically in October (2024), informs Saatdjian. “Things were not fine even before the escalations. We are having a governance problem. No president has been elected for the past ▨two years. Our economy is dwindling. People have exhausted all their savings. The political proܫblems between ruling classes have paralysed the country,” he adds.
The current crisis has just worsened the situation. People living in the south of Lebanon o📖r in the southern suburb of Beirut had to run immediately “because the destruction was monstrous, and it was really dangerous to live there as Israel was bombing these areas almost daily.” People were leaving in broad daylight and in the dead o🤡f the night to secure places, leaving everything behind.
Even though Saatdjian and others were not affected by the shelling, the emotional, mental and psychological impact of the war was immense. ꦰ“It was heartbreaking that people who fled, with probably just one suitcase, were living on the streets, in schools and in empty buildings. They had kids with them. These people have no idea when they will be able to go back or if and when they go back, their house will be there or not,” he says.
Lebanon has been facing grave problems for decades and every four-five years, the country deals with a new conflict. But in 2020, a tragedy hit home. “My wife was badly injured in♓ the Beirut port blast. Her shop was completely destroyed. Sh🐠e left the country with my son after the incident,” he says.
But Saatdjian stayed back. He is too attached to his home, his city and the country, to its sky, to the people, to the land that gave them refuge generations back, welcomed them and let them stay. Hope keeps him going—a hope that the present conflict is the last one and that there won’t be any wars after this. “If I didn’t have this hope, I would 🅺have left long back,” he says.
(This appeared in the print as 'The Sum Of All Fears')
