Hassan

Twenty-seven-year old media analyst and football fan from Beirut’s southern suburbs.

“Nobody escaped the war unchanged. War leaves something in everyone. Nobody feels safe. There is a ceasefire, but the war isn’t really over.”

Life before the war was normal and humble. One of the things that makes our house special is the location in Dahieh, Beirut’s southern suburbs. It’s close to everything. You could always hear the power generator, the truck selling water, the voices of the neighbours.

My mom was always working on the house: furnishing, decorating, painting, or renovating something. She always sprayed a perfume after cleaning or just walking around. She has lots of different scents.

I was raised in the house, and when my sisters and I get together, we always end up talking about something that happened there. Any memory, whether it’s a flavour, a sweet moment, a tough one… my third sister died of cancer in 2022... it is always tied to the house. Some of my favourite memories are of the pranks I used to pull with my sisters and parents, or the ones I used to play on my parents. I really miss the days before my sisters got married and my sister passed away, when there were so many of us at home.

Since the war in Gaza began, we said, if the worst were to happen – if the war expanded and we had to leave – we would go to Chbanieh, a village in Mount Lebanon where my mom’s aunt owns a house. That was our Plan B. My mom always kept a suitcase packed, just in case. Every once in a while, we’d take things out of the suitcase and replace it with other things.

On a Friday in late September 2024, Israel heavily hit al-Qaim, in Dahieh. We went to Chbanieh for a few days, but nothing really happened and we thought it was a targeted strike, so we came back on Sunday. We thought that was it, and that on Monday we would be back to work and normal life.

But things got really tense later that week, after an airstrike in Bir al-Abd, in Dahieh. After that strike, it felt like we had no choice but to leave for a second time.

I went to see my fiancée before we both left. It was a heartbreaking day. I wasn’t just worried about myself, but about our family and friends in the south because it was escalating there too. The road was packed. It wasn’t regular traffic, it was displacement traffic: people running away. There were cars with mattresses tied on the top, horns honking. I was scared for my loved-ones and people I hadn’t been able to check on. I was in one place, my fiancée was elsewhere, my friends were scattered, and some of my relatives too.

Everyone from my extended family arrived at the house throughout that day and night. We started dividing ourselves into rooms; each family took one. Thank God it’s a big house, we were so much better off than so many others.

I was displaced during the 2006 war and I still remember it. We didn’t go far, just to another neighbourhood in Beirut. The main difference was that this time I was older, and so I felt a sense of responsibility to support my parents, help make decisions.

At first, I only took the essentials: important documents, money, some clothes, and a few sentimental things. I took some things that belonged to my late sister, photos, and a framed signed jersey of Lionel Messi. Football is my passion, it means a lot to me. The jersey is tied to the game, the sport, and the whole world of it that I love. I also think of it as an investment. When I tell people how much I paid for it they can’t believe it, but if you’re a football fan you understand how much it’s worth.

There were things I regretted not taking, especially as I realised the war was dragging on and the strikes on Dahieh were more frequent and intense. I really knew we weren’t going back anytime soon when Hezbollah secretary-general Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah was assassinated, on 27 September. That was one of the hardest nights. I don’t think I slept at all. You could see the lights and hear the sounds of the bombing in Dahieh even from where I was.

So, I started collecting cardboard boxes. I bought tape and scissors, and good-quality garbage bags. I was mostly working remotely, but whenever I had to go to Beirut for work, I would go to our house to pack our things. At first, I would wear work clothes, but then I started bringing shorts and a t-shirt to change into while I was carrying things.

Israel would post maps showing the targeted areas. I knew part of this was misleading, to paint themselves as innocent, showing they only struck “terrorist sites”, as they describe Hezbollah. But despite knowing that, the idea of the maps made it easier, psychologically, to go home. I would check my phone to see if there were any warnings. Plus, in Dahieh, whenever there was a warning that a specific building would be targeted, people would start shooting in the air to alert the residents.

Every time I went to Beirut, I would fill up the car with our belongings. At first, my family members gave me lists of things they wanted, but later my parents got worried. So I would come back with a full car, and sneak in at night to unload things so they wouldn’t worry.

We used to really enjoy the house in Chbanieh, because it was a place for getaways with beautiful weather. But while we were displaced, it lost its charm. Even if you are in the most beautiful palace in the world, there’s a certain hardship in being displaced. Because in the end, it’s a war for everyone.

There were 25 of us in the house, and other people who came and went. At first, it was fine, but family ties started to feel strain over time. I don’t think any displaced families made it through without any disagreements or tensions. But, in some ways, our bond grew stronger and more affectionate. There were moments of tension, but also moments of closeness and intimacy.

Sometimes, my grandmother would just lose it… every time she had an argument with someone or they said something she didn’t like, she would pack her things and make her way to our family’s village, Kfar Beit, in south Lebanon, even though it was being heavily bombarded. We would wake up in Chbanieh and find she had gone! She would get to our house in the village somehow – I still don’t know how – and unplug the phone. We found out she was there from a neighbour. She went a few times to pick olives and press them for oil; other times, because she just wanted to be there. My uncle had to go get her lots of times.

I was going back and forth to Dahieh, and in Chbanieh I went out for walks and runs. We played backgammon, watched the news. One of the positive things about all of this is that I got pretty good at backgammon! I could never have beaten my grandfather before the war. He would always crush me.

Some nights a deep quiet would settle in the house. There was a sadness, especially when there was a bombing, or when we heard that someone’s house had been destroyed.

Other nights we would play cards, smoke nargileh. But even when we were spending time together, our thoughts were with the people on the front lines, or people in worse situations: people who didn’t have anywhere to stay, or enough to eat or drink.

One of the positive things about all of this is that I got pretty good at backgammon! I could never have beaten my grandfather before the war. He would always crush me.

We went back to Dahieh on the first day after the ceasefire. Since I had been visiting our house, I knew that there was damage, but nothing major.

I knew we couldn’t stay there right away because there was work to do, but just opening the door was enough for me. I was so relieved. I didn’t have to worry anymore about if the house would still be standing or if we would lose it. I didn’t have to pack things or calculate the damages or make up things in my head.

It took a few days before we could get electricity on, get water, and start cleaning. There were bombings in the area and there was this thick, stale air inside. It was an awful smell. There was dust everywhere. The smell of gunpowder.

We are back home, but I feel like there’s a pessimism, or a disappointment, in everyone. People are exhausted. People are sad. They are glad to be back to their homes, their land, their work… but they are asking what all of this was for, especially since Nasrallah was martyred. Some people lost their homes, lifetimes of work, and they are wondering what’s next. Those who returned are asking the same question: What now?

Nobody escaped the war unchanged. War leaves something in everyone. Nobody feels safe. There is a ceasefire, but the war isn’t really over. With the ongoing violations of the ceasefire, the constant stream of news, nobody really feels it has ended. Even if you are not watching the news, you can still hear the drones buzzing overhead.

The situation is still unstable, there is a tense atmosphere. But I try to accept this reality. The war made me want to stay in Lebanon. I want to improve my work, and build a business in Lebanon. I would love to live and thrive surrounded by my family and friends. My fiancée and I, God willing, want to get married soon. Our plan is to stay here. This is where we want our future to be.

Nobody escaped the war unchanged. War leaves something in everyone.