The sun sets over the Mediterranean, casting a golden hue over the Lebanese coastline: but this idyllic scene belies the turbulent reality unfolding just a few miles away. In the Lebanese capital of Beirut, the air is thick with sea salt and tension, as warplanes reverberate relentlessly over ancient streets.

This is not just another chapter in country’s long history of conflict. It is a harrowing narrative of survival and resilience in the face of a renewed onslaught. It began as a whisper—a distant hum of engines high above. But the stillness of the morning quickly gave way to chaos as the sky darkened with the shadows of Israeli warplanes.

In Saida or Sidon, the third-largest city of Lebanon, 40 km south of Beirut, the familiar buzz was a foreboding signal of what was to come. As the bombs began to fall, the city transformed. Streets, once filled with the morning rush of commuters and students, fell eerily silent, punctuated only by the deadly crack of airstrikes. 

I lay in bed on October 1, listening to the familiar rumble of warplanes overhead. But this time, the noise was louder—too loud. The airstrikes were closer, targeting the Ain el-Hilweh refugee camp. The blasts rattled the windows, and my heart sank.

Within moments, Saida was engulfed in fear. Venturing out later, I witnessed the chaos: homes shattered, dust swirling, people huddling in despair. In the heart of Saida lies Ain el-Hilweh, a densely populated Palestinian refugee camp, which was an epicentre of despair that morning.

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I was there not as a journalist but as a resident, my family’s roots deeply entrenched in the fabric of this community. The first bomb landed close to the marketplace. In the place where laughter and chatter were once the soundtrack, now screams filled the air. Buildings, flimsy against the might of the missiles, crumbled. Dust and smoke rose, shrouding the camp in suffocating debris.

Over 71 people perished in Ain el-Delb on September 29—a massacre that left families devastated and streets empty.

When mountains cried

Away from the immediate border, even mountainous towns such as Arab Salim and Kfarhouna suffered. I travelled there from Saida, following the trail of displacement, as residents fled their sanctuaries. The mountains, resolute in their stoic beauty, echoed with explosions. Homes were scarred by shrapnel. At one crowded makeshift shelter, I met Layla, a little girl who had been looking forward to school and to seeing her friends and teachers after the summer break. Now, her eyes wide in fear, she said softly, “I just want to go back to school.” Her wish was a heartbreaking reflection of the shattered innocence of countless children. They have lost their toys, their sense of safety, and, in many cases, their families. These children are growing up amid the constant boom of bombs and the acrid smell of destruction.

Nearby, an elderly man named Khalil recounted the loss of his home in Ghazieh, his narrative punctuated by pauses heavy with grief. The shelter, a microcosm of the broader crisis, was overflowing with similar stories.

Each person I spoke with, added a thread to the tapestry of this conflict—a strand of loss, hope, and enduring spirit. Organisations such as the Nashit Cultural and Social Association worked tirelessly to restore a semblance of childhood, with their volunteers running activities, games and creative sessions.

In the dusty corner of a makeshift shelter, an elderly man from Nabatieh said he had lost one son in a previous conflict, and now, in this latest round of violence, his second son was gone. Sitting with his wife—whom he tenderly called “the mother of the martyr”—he shared his story. “We fled the bombing, but what we’ve lost cannot be replaced,” he said. They left behind everything they knew—their home, their land, and now lived with the uncertainty of ever returning.

The shelters are packed with people like him: families who lost everything and have nowhere to go. When the bombs fell, they had fled, leaving behind not just homes but their histories and memories. For the elderly, the journey was particularly cruel. They could not move quickly, and the harsh conditions of the shelters took their toll.

Alaa, an accountant from Jbeil, recounted the horror of losing her cousins on the first day of the Israeli bombings. “I will never forget the sound of the explosion,” she said. Her uncle’s wife and daughter, and her cousin’s wife and children, all were gone in a single instant. Their house was flattened to rubble.

“They were shredded so badly that civil defence found only body parts,” she whispered, her voice heavy with anguish. Alaa spoke of the panic as her family fled, the roads choked with cars as the bombs fell all around them. “A shell fell on a car ahead of us,” she recalled. “It was burnt to a crisp. The whole family inside was killed.” They spent hours on the road, choking on the smell of burning flesh, away from their loved ones, fearing the worst.

Elio, a filmmaker from Dahiyeh, spoke of the empty streets and the fear that gripped his neighbourhood. “Most people have left their homes,” he said. “But my mom and dad are sick.” His cousin’s son was killed in a bombing near Baalbek, and the family was too afraid to attend the funeral. “People in Dahiyeh remember the destruction in 2006,” he said. “We know Israel isn’t just hitting Hezbollah; they are hitting everyone.”

For Elias, a winemaker in the Beqaa Valley, the war struck close to home, literally. “A missile struck next to my winery,” he told me. “The day of the bombing, I got a message saying anyone near Hezbollah sites should leave immediately. Thirty minutes later, a missile hit.” He moved his family to Byblos but returned to the Beqaa to protect his livelihood. “I want to work,” he said. “This is part of creating peace—refusing to surrender to war.”

The death of olive orchards

The economic consequences of this conflict are as devastating as the human toll. The southern villages of Lebanon, reliant on agriculture, are in ruins. Bombs have obliterated fields and olive orchards, carefully tended over decades, are reduced to ash.

One farmer from Yarin spoke of his heartbreak: “I waited all season to harvest my olives. Now everything is gone. I don’t know how we’ll survive the winter.” Farmers, labourers, and shop owners all face the same grim reality. Even if the fighting stops today, the economic damage will linger for years.

Lebanon’s political paralysis has only deepened the humanitarian crisis. The country has not had an effective government since 2009, with political infighting preventing any meaningful progress. The caretaker government lacks the power to address the economic collapse or the military escalation. Lebanese citizens live in uncertainty, abandoned by their leaders in their hour of greatest need. For those in the south, the situation is worse, caught as they are, between political dysfunction and relentless bombardment.

The three largest religious sects in Lebanon are awarded the highest government posts under a sectarian system that governs the country’s power structure. The Prime Minister must be a Sunni Muslim, the Speaker of Parliament must be a Shia Muslim, and the President must be a Maronite Christian. The powers of the President include approving legislation, choosing the Prime Minister with assistance from Parliament, and managing the military forces.

The Speaker of the Parliament oversees the sessions and organises the operations of the legislative body, while the Prime Minister leads the government and oversees the execution of policies. The lack of consensus among political groupings on a nominee is the cause of the current impasse in the Presidential selection process, which has brought Parliament to a standstill.

‘We rely on our neighbours’

And yet, there is a glimmer of hope. Amid the rubble and despair, I saw people helping each other, sharing what little they had. In one shelters Mohammad Issa, a young man from Ghazieh—took it upon himself to provide free haircuts to displaced people. “They need someone to help ease their burden,” he told me. It was a small act, but it made a difference. It was a reminder that even in the darkest times, there are some who refuse to give up on their humanity.

Lara, an editor in Beirut, spoke of the mutual aid initiatives that had sprung up across the country. “Soup kitchens are popping up,” she said. “People are distributing mattresses, food, and water. They are collecting money for diapers and milk.”

In a country where the state has often failed its people, the community has stepped in. “There’s a viral video of a Christian man with a big cross on his shirt offering free labour and parts to people whose cars broke down,” she said. “People in Lebanon are accustomed to doing this kind of work because we have never really had a strong state. We rely on our neighbours.”

This spirit of solidarity is what keeps Lebanon going. It is what allows people like Mohammad Issa to offer free haircuts and farmers like Elias to continue working their fields. It is what allows children like Layla to still dream of returning to school, even as the world around them crumbles. Despite everything—the destruction, the fear, the loss—the people of southern Lebanon have shown incredible resilience.

They have lived through wars before, and they know what it means to rebuild. “We’ve rebuilt our homes before, and we will do it again,” said Fatima, a young photographer from Houmine al Fauqa. “Our blood has become one with the soil of the south. We stand together, no matter what.”

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As I left Saida that day, the city was eerily quiet. Streets that once bustled with life were empty, shops closed, and the air heavy with tension. Every face I saw was etched with fear of what had happened and of what was still to come. And yet, in the shelters, I also saw determination. Families who had lost everything still held on to the hope that they would one day return home.

Lebanon finds itself caught in a cycle of conflict and instability. Each attack exacerbates the suffering of its people and adds another layer to the political and economic crises.

The international community sends aid, but it is never enough. What Lebanon needs is a real commitment to peace: a chance for its people to live without the constant fear of war. As the bombs fall and the world watches, the question remains: when will the violence end? When will the people of the south finally have the chance to live in peace?

The international community needs to work towards a lasting solution, one that addresses the root causes of the conflict and provides the people of Lebanon with stability. They wait for peace because they deserve nothing less.

Rawan Sayyed is a journalist who works as a content creator and news writer. She has also completed several documentary filmmaking projects.