“I’m not afraid, even if a rocket falls here,” says Hadi, lying on his side with an air of defiance. He and his family sit on the grass, shaded by a tree, to protect themselves from the September sun and heat. Hadi, 10, clearly the joker of the family, lightens the heavy atmosphere with cynical humor. He interjects jokes into the grim tales of his mother, Nour, and sister, each quip accompanied by a mischievous grin.
Nour smiles at Hadi’s comments. She can’t find the words to begin. “I want to talk!” exclaims Hadi, eager to share his perspective. The children want to talk. “They’re used to it now. Him and his cousins, they’re used to it,” Nour says, referring to the bombardment they have endured.
The family arrived at the Quality Inn, an abandoned hotel in Tripoli in northeastern Lebanon, just a few days earlier on Sept. 24, having fled the bombardments near their home in Nabatieh, located about 43 miles southeast of Beirut. The hotel’s garden is alive with the sounds of the wind rustling through orange trees and birds singing, juxtaposed with the cries of children. In the distance, the hustle and bustle of vehicles delivering goods and people underscores the chaos, as volunteers organize efforts to assist the 750 to 1,000 displaced individuals seeking refuge there.
“Today is the third day we’re here,” Nour said, her voice tinged with fatigue. Nabatieh, close to the southern border, has been accustomed to attacks since Oct. 8 last year, when hostilities reignited between Israel and Hezbollah. For nearly a year, the armed group and the Israeli military have exchanged fire along the border. Though some strikes targeted Hezbollah positions near their home, Nour had previously felt secure. They managed to live amid the sounds of planes breaking the sound barrier, explosions and gunfire that lit up the night sky.
However, everything changed after Sept. 17, when the conflict escalated dramatically. Since then, Israel has intensified its attacks on the border and throughout southern Lebanon. The following Sunday and Monday turned into bloody days, with strikes hitting previously untouched villages, primarily affecting civilians. To date, not counting the attacks over Beirut, more than 700 lives have been lost, including 35 children and 58 women, with over 1,800 injured. Sept. 24 marked the deadliest day in years. In total, over 1,600 people have been killed in Lebanon and more than 8,000 wounded.
In Nabatieh, at Nour’s home, at least 80 strikes have been reported, igniting fires, destroying homes and causing numerous casualties. “They claimed they were only bombing specific targets. Suddenly, they started striking everywhere. It was very difficult,” Nour recalled painfully. While their house remains standing, everything around it has been reduced to rubble.
“Once we heard the sound of warplanes, we started packing. We left in slippers. People were crying and shouting. My mom fell to the ground, wailing. There was broken glass everywhere,” Nour’s daughter Mira added, who is just 13 but speaks about bombs and sonic booms with the weight of someone much older. She shares the horror they have endured day and night since the escalation began. “Since then, every day has been continuous attacks. We barely slept because of the noise of Israeli jets breaking the sound barrier,” she explained.
Mira denounces the misleading narratives from Israel, claiming they are targeting military locations while civilians are also caught in the crossfire. “They’re striking left and right, even innocent people,” she asserted.
For the mother of three, leaving was an obvious choice to protect her children and preserve their sanity amid chaos. They have joined the ranks of a million others — Lebanese, Palestinians and Syrians — who have fled southern Lebanon and the southern suburbs of Beirut. Among them, approximately 110,000 had already sought refuge previously in Tyre or in Beirut, for example, occupying apartments, schools or abandoned hotels since the start of the war in Gaza last October.
Farah and her family, who were forced to flee their home near the border several months ago, were among them. They rented an apartment in Tyre but had to escape again after the attacks on Sept. 16. “Some landlords were already charging exorbitant rents then, up to $1,000 per week in Beirut, but it will get higher. All prices are set to rise. Others are afraid to help and welcome refugees, fearing they might stay longer than just a few days,” Farah explained. Fortunately, she and her extended family managed to find an affordable place in the south for several months, financed by Hezbollah.
Like in so many other shelters, it took just a day for the Quality Inn to fill up, along with over 50 other shelters scattered in and around Tripoli alone. The hotel had been abandoned for several years, but as panic swept through Lebanon on Sept. 23, it quickly became a refuge for those fleeing the escalating violence.
On that day, the sense of dread was palpable. Mira has a single word to describe it: horror. What should have been a one-hour drive turned into a grueling ordeal. “It took us 10 hours. It was horrific, with rockets, warplanes and smoke everywhere,” Nour recounted. People had to sleep in their car or outside, there were no bathrooms, families had to take care of the children getting tired, and restaurants were being bombed.
A few miles away from the hotel, in downtown Tripoli, near the historic Al-Tell Square and its Ottoman clock, a school was requisitioned to accommodate more people. Here, more than 450 people sought refuge, sleeping on the floor of the classrooms and the courtyard, taking turns cleaning the few toilets in the building.
For Mohamad and his family, the journey was also harrowing. “The trip from Kfar Rumman to here took between 20 to 25 hours,” he explained after a sip of tea. Normally, that route takes just three hours by car. “We walked from Nabatieh to Sidon, then from Sidon to Tripoli, mixing bus and car rides,” his brother added. “We faced countless hardships along the way. Some women even gave birth. Due to the traffic, many injured people died on their way to the hospital in ambulances,” Mohamad continued, his voice heavy with the weight of their experience.
Sitting on a colorful, thick blanket used during Lebanon’s harsh winters, the family is waiting in the school courtyard, where their children play with others and volunteers from a local charity. They are surrounded by bags of Lebanese bread and boxes of food. “On the road here, some people lost their lives. We barely made it out alive,” Mohamad shared, finishing his tea. Their faces tell a story of exhaustion, as they speak slowly, drained of energy. One can read the desolation in their wrinkles.
This is not their first forced displacement. Twelve years ago, they fled the war in Syria. “We are from Idlib. We left everything behind and came to Nabatieh in southern Lebanon,” Mohamad explained. Like a lot of Syrians before the war, they used to come and go to Lebanon for work, but the war forced them to settle in Lebanon. “Now, with war erupting in Lebanon, we’ve been displaced again. We left our homes with only the clothes on our backs and rockets over our heads. The life we built over the last 12 years was gone in hours,” he lamented.
For Mohamad and his family, Lebanon was home. Then, in an instant, three rockets destroyed their house. “It was very demoralizing, as if all hope was lost. Our morale collapsed. Our kids lost hope too. Eventually, we stopped showing them videos of what happened because it was just too much,” he added.
Choosing Tripoli felt like the natural choice for many fleeing the south. Few shelters across Lebanon accept Syrians, with government facilities reserved for Lebanese nationals, including the Quality Inn. “At the end of the day, we are Syrians, and Tripoli is close to Syria. If the situation worsens, we might have to return to Syria,” Mohamad said. His brother chimed in: “But Syria is more dangerous than here. We don’t have basic human needs over there. It’s also difficult for young men, who would be drafted into the army. Furthermore, during the 2006 war, Tripoli wasn’t bombed as heavily. Therefore, we chose it as the safest option.”
For Syrians fleeing the war, returning to their homeland is fraught with danger from Bashar al-Assad’s regime. They risk arrest, torture, conscription or even death — unlike Lebanese, for example. According to the United Nations refugee agency, over 30,000 people crossed the border from Lebanon into Syria within three days following the escalation of attacks by Israel on Sept. 24.
In this school, Mohamad and his family have been fortunate to receive a warm welcome, unlike many others. Volunteers and displaced people alike express a sense of unity that prevails in Lebanon amid the Israeli bombardments. “The media exaggerates the sectarian divisions, but that’s not the reality on the ground. We’re not like that; we don’t focus on religion. I grew up in Tripoli, a city with dozens of churches, and I have Christian and Muslim friends,” asserted a man in charge at the Quality Inn. Lebanon’s Caretaker Prime Minister Najib Mikati declared after Hassan Nasrallah’s death that “solidarity … is the strongest response to the Israeli aggression,” imploring citizens to set political differences aside.
However, the arrival of individuals from the south, including those affiliated with Hezbollah, has generated some mistrust among residents of the north, a region that has been spared from conflict.
At Al-Tell Square that week, displaced individuals arrived in vehicles displaying Hezbollah flags. Volunteers and organizations on-site urged them, “We welcome you with open arms, but please take that down!” Word spread that Hezbollah was managing the Quality Inn, where photography and political discussion are now prohibited. Now, some Tripolitans choose to stay away from the hotel. Yet, displaced families reported feeling welcomed, including Nour and her family, as well as Bassem, a retiree who came with his wife and daughter and stressed he was “not with the Shiite party.”
“We came here, and we have nowhere to go except schools. Here we are, sleeping on the floor. I’ve worn the same clothes for two weeks. Everyone you see here has had a similar experience,” Mohamad said, referring to the conditions at the school where he settled with his family.
A few miles away, in the Quality Inn, Nour and her children share a single bed. “There’s a lack of water and basic necessities,” Mira lamented. The next day, after four days in the hotel, Nour looked exhausted. “It’s very difficult to have to go down the stairs every time we want water and then climb back up,” she said. Hadi, her son, looked weary. When asked if he had slept well, he tilted his head in fatigue — a response that spoke volumes.
Yet, the mother tries to put their situation in perspective compared to others. “It’s still better than Beirut. We have friends over there sleeping in their cars, some without shelter. Here it’s somehow better. There’s food, breakfast, lunch and cleaning supplies,” she noted. Since the deadly strikes over Beirut on the night of Sept. 27, thousands of Lebanese, Palestinians and Syrians have been forced to flee their homes in the southern suburbs, seeking refuge in the streets, along the waterfront or in Martyrs’ Square downtown.
Sarah Al Charif, founding director of the nonprofit Ruwwad, the largest organization in charge at the hotel, is aware of the living conditions. “The problem is that the infrastructure is lacking. So hygiene has become an issue. There’s no water and no infrastructure to provide it to the rooms. I’ve requested that it be addressed, whatever the financial cost,” she explained between phone calls.
As essential needs soar, prices for some products are rising as well. “We have a mattress scarcity and a monopoly issue. A mattress that used to cost $9 now costs $25,” Al Charif reported. Together with hundreds of volunteers, she has been organizing shelters across Lebanon since Sept. 23. The ongoing humanitarian crisis in Lebanon is just one of the many challenges confronting the nation. In addition to more than two years without a government, the population is grappling with a 98% devaluation of the currency, hyperinflation and the bankruptcy of the banking sector. Hospitals struggle to provide adequate health care services, while the state cannot provide electricity for more than a few hours a day.
While no one knows how long this emergency assistance will be necessary, civil society is mobilizing. Meanwhile, those who have lost everything — like Mohamad’s and Nour’s families — have no choice but to wait. They wait to return to school, to work again, to rebuild their lives and their communities.
“If I have a chance to go back, I will,” Hadi said. Even with a smile and a hint of provocation in his tone, his words reveal a deeper truth: He longs to return to his life, his region and his home, to go back to school and enjoy the life a 10-year-old boy should have — the life he knew before Oct. 8, 2023.
All names have been changed to ensure personal safety.
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