Ahmad Ghaddar could not sleep. He was sitting on a railing by the sea, alternating puffs on his cigarette and sips of coffee.
Only a day had passed since his neighbor in his town of Ghaziah received a phone call from the Israeli army warning residents to evacuate. It seemed like a lot longer.
Ghaddar already knew the destructive power of Israeli missiles (he had seen one hit a building near his house), so he put his parents and siblings in the car (“There were eight of us. We could barely breathe,” he said) and drove to the his aunt's house in nearby Sidon.
“As we were driving, we heard explosions in all directions,” he said. “It was like a video game.”
They had joined the avalanche of what authorities estimate are half a million Lebanese displaced by the conflict between Israel and Hezbollah, as well as more than 600 people killed by Israeli attacks this week.
His aunt's house was the best option, since all the hotels, mosques and schools converted into shelters in Sidon were already filled with other displaced families. But at his aunt's house, where his brother's family was also staying, 23 people were crammed into the same apartment.
“I just couldn't think, I couldn't move, I couldn't even go to the bathroom,” Ghaddar said. He couldn't sleep either, so he went out and spent the night walking up and down the seafront of Sidon, with the sea castle built by the Crusaders in the 13th century in the background.
That's where Ghaddar, 21, stayed one recent morning, and where he made the decision: He would return to Ghaziah and stay there, no matter what.
“At least I'll sleep in my bed. Go to my own bathroom. Maybe even turn on a argileh [water pipe]” he said, a slight smile creasing his face.
A friend sitting next to him began to discourage him, telling him that he should stay with his family and not put himself in danger. But Ghaddar responded with some dark humor.
“Man, my roof is made of thatch. I am not a fighter; they can see everything I do anyway,” he said, referring to the Israeli drones.
His friend Abbas, who only gave his name for fear of backlash for speaking to Western media, played along.
“Yes, I suppose so. Besides, why would they bother sending a million dollar missile to your house?
They both laughed before turning to a man sleeping on the ground nearby, wrapped in whatever article of clothing he had rescued from his home.
“He's been here since the first day of the attacks, just sleeping in the sun,” Ghaddar said.
The Lebanese militant group Hezbollah began firing rockets into northern Israel last October in what it says is a campaign of solidarity with Palestinians in Gaza. This month, fighting had already driven 90,000 people from their homes in Lebanon and 60,000 in northern Israel. Israel's escalation has killed hundreds of people, injured thousands and displaced some 500,000, Lebanese authorities say.
Some – more than 30,000 Syrian or Lebanese citizens – have fled to war-torn Syria, officials say, a surprising turn considering Lebanon is still hosting hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees who fled that country's ongoing civil war. . But the majority of those displaced in Lebanon seek refuge within their country.
Although the government, NGOs, political parties and private volunteer groups have created hundreds of shelters across Lebanon, the scale of the crisis is already proving too much for a country suffering from a multi-year political crisis.
Many of the shelters suffer from a lack of maintenance and are poorly equipped to accommodate large numbers of evacuees. Many do not have enough mattresses, bedding or food.
“Every time they distribute aid, they go up floor by floor and by the time they reach us, it's done,” said Reham Fadlallah, a 21-year-old beauty salon stylist from Dahieh, the southern suburbs of Beirut dominated by Hezbollah. . “Then they repeat the same thing and we get nothing.”
She and her aunt arrived at a hotel management institute-turned-shelter in Beirut's Dekawneh neighborhood on Tuesday after finding it through a combination of word of mouth and WhatsApp groups. There were no fans to help with Beirut's still sweltering weather, and no running water.
“I can't believe it. We have been shouting about this since yesterday,” Fadlallah told a passing volunteer.
“We can't find a plumber, sorry,” the volunteer responded, passing quickly.
Unlike Ghaddar, Fadlallah was unable to return home. Living in Dahieh, among Hezbollah officials, administrators and possibly even fighters, meant the area was a target. The day before, a neighbor had told her that her building was going to be attacked, and so it was, just as she was leaving with her aunt Nadia.
Fadlallah could not easily find a place to rent. Prices were already skyrocketing and many Lebanese, fearing Israeli airstrikes against Hezbollah officials, were reluctant to rent apartments to people in those areas.
And other shelters were full, so for now he stayed, hoping to rest and have some running water.
“I just want to shower,” Fadlallah said.
