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I’m a mother to two wonderful sons, Hasan and Hussein. A few weeks ago, our lives changed forever when we were forced to leave our home in Nabatieh, in southern Lebanon.
We had a house, a shop—our little corner of the world. Then came the attacks, and everything changed.
Now, we live in a small house, sharing what little we have with my sister and her family, who are also displaced. It’s tough—really tough. The emotional weight we carry is heavy. My eldest son, Hasan, is only 25, but he’s been through something no one should ever have to endure. He witnessed an explosion right in front of him. Since that day, he’s become a shell of himself; his face is pale, and he barely speaks. We’re trying to find doctors who can help him, but it feels like an uphill battle.
I can still remember the day we had to leave our home. It all happened so quickly. I was on the balcony with Hasan when the first attack hit the house next door. I grabbed him and we ran. My husband was outside, and when we found him, he was bleeding from his head after his shop was destroyed. We jumped into our car, and just as we were escaping, another strike hit right in front of us. The fear was indescribable.
We left with nothing—no money, just the clothes we were wearing. We first found shelter with a relative in Beirut, arriving at 1 a.m. after fleeing Nabatieh. We’d left home at 11 that morning. The journey was terrorizing; cars were on fire, and people were running everywhere in panic. It felt like a horror movie.
I’ve always considered myself strong, maybe because I’ve worked as a midwife, bringing new life into the world. But this experience has pushed me to my limits. It’s hard to find proper food or medicine here, and we have no privacy. I’m dealing with back pain and pelvic issues, while my sister struggles with diabetes and can’t find insulin. It’s incredibly difficult.
I can’t shake the fear that we may never go home again. I often find myself asking, “What’s next? What will happen to us?” Yet, even in this darkness, I try to give thanks for what we have. We’re alive, and we’re together.
We have no income, no jobs—everything we worked for is gone. I’ve even sold my jewellery just to get by. I worry not just for my sons but for my sister and myself; we’re getting older, and it’s hard not to feel helpless.
I ask God to look after us and show us mercy. There are so many like us, suffering even more. All we can do is hope for a better tomorrow, a glimmer of light in this overwhelming darkness.
