Nour

After the wedding, we didn’t know if we should go on our honeymoon or not. We had already paid, and the situation was so uncertain. We ended up going, and we got back on 21 October. That was our first day in our new house, in al-Bazourieh, a suburb of Tyre. 

But soon after that, Israel carried out some assassinations in al-Bazourieh. I didn’t want to sleep in our house. I was constantly afraid that the situation would escalate and we would be forced to leave. So we went to stay with my in-law’s, in Tyre. I went back to our house on weekends to get work clothes for the following week.

After about two months, my husband and I decided to move back to our house and stay there for good. Then, in late September 2024, the pager operation began. I was at work when I started to see the scenes of what was happening. I was afraid to drive home alone, and my in-law’s house was closer. From that day on, we stayed at my in-law’s house and I didn’t go back home.

On 23 September, when Israel began intense bombing, people began to pack their things and flee right away. All I had with me were four days’ worth of work clothes. I also had money and my gold jewelry. The jewelry is not worth much, but they were gifts and they mean a lot to me.

We decided to flee that afternoon. First, we went to my husband’s uncle’s house in Beirut. It was a difficult day. There was a lot of traffic because everyone was fleeing, and our family was split between two cars. The hardest part was that when we were on the highway there was no phone service, and we couldn’t communicate with each other.

The traffic was so dense, and I was scared that they would target the bridges, like they did in 2006. We got to Beirut at 9:30pm, and that was the first time I could check on my mom and some other relatives. They left before us and had gone somewhere else. My dad and brother didn’t leave right away. They wanted to help. Both of them work for the Civil Defense, and my dad is the kind of person who does a lot of humanitarian work. He would always say: “How can I leave people in such a critical moment and run away?” 

After a few weeks, they decided to leave, because nobody was safe from the bombing. They were even targeting people who stayed to provide humanitarian assistance. My brother was really close to a bombing, and he was injured.

My husband’s relatives were super kind to us in Beirut, but we only stayed there for one night. The next day we drove to a suburb called Dik al-Mehde, in Mount Lebanon province. For two months, up to 11 of my family members stayed there, at an apartment owned by my sister-in-law’s colleague. The owner was so kind. We didn’t pay rent during the whole war.

I work in human resources at an aid organisation. You can’t sit and do nothing in that kind of job during war. There was a lot to do.

The area where we were staying was really nice. My husband and I used to say to each other that there were a lot of things we could do, restaurants we would like to try. But we weren’t in the mood. Frankly, we didn’t have the energy.

The hardest part was being so far from everyone. I couldn’t see my close friends. At least my parents were only 30 minutes away. We were staying in a part of the country where most people weren’t going through the same things we were. People were getting ready for Christmas and celebrating, and I was in a totally different world. I was in a world where I was afraid of tomorrow, not knowing what was waiting for me. I was afraid for my home and my family.

People there were really kind. There are religious and cultural differences, but there’s also solidarity when it’s needed. When the weather started to get cold, we all only had summer clothes, so the municipality called us because people were donating scarves, jackets, and blankets.

There were constant bombings in and around al-Bazourieh, but I didn’t expect to lose my house. On 10 October 2024, the day they bombed my house, I was working. My husband told me they bombed there, but he didn’t know where. 

I’m a member of a WhatsApp group from my neighbourhood. It was mostly updates from Civil Defense members who were still in al-Bazourieh. I kept checking the group for more information, and then my husband’s niece started shouting, “My house, my house!” We lived in the same building. I took the phone from her to see what she was looking at. I saw a photo, but I said to myself, “this isn’t our building.” I just couldn’t accept it. I didn’t believe it until someone sent a video to the group. A two-tower building with 12 apartments was flattened. It was a shock. Everyone was calling me, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I cried so much.

We left for the south the day after the ceasefire began. The first thing we did was go to the city of Tyre. I wish we hadn’t done that, because on that first day it looked like a city of phantoms. There was nobody in the streets, it was all destruction. 

In the minutes before we got to our house in al-Bazourieh, I closed my eyes. I closed my eyes and started to cry. I stayed in the car at first. There was nothing left; nothing at all. I couldn’t tell where my apartment or my things were. My husband started to cry too.

Just a few days ago, I passed by the house, and I burst into tears again. I have gone back a few times to see if I could save anything from the rubble. I found some of my clothes still packed, but torn and worn from rain and sun. 

When we were first displaced, I took money and jewelry from the house. But there were other things we left in the house. Our marriage papers. Gifts that mean a lot to me. Every corner of the house reminds me of someone. Ever since the day I got engaged, I had been furnishing the house; every birthday I asked for things for the house. 

I get attached to little details. I have a lot of things that mean a lot to me: I kept a check from a restaurant where we had our first date; souvenirs from our honeymoon. Everything in there means so much to me – every nook and cranny – especially since I never had the chance to truly enjoy it. We had to leave so many times I don’t know how long I stayed there for, maybe two months in total.

We are staying with my in-laws in Tyre for now. It has been hard to adapt to the idea that I lost my home. Sometimes I feel bad when I cry about losing a house, because there are souls who were lost during the war: People lost parents, children, homes, and families. There are entire families that were exterminated, and don’t exist anymore. I try to be strong and show that I’m fine… but I’m suffering and I’ve lost a lot.

During the war, I got pregnant and miscarried. When I found out I was pregnant, I wanted to cry and I was happy at the same time. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to handle the responsibility because of the war. 

My husband has changed. Things he loved to do, like going out, he doesn’t want to do anymore. I’m the same. We both feel that being with family is more important now. We are all trying to support each other and ease the pain, because we know that we are not safe or stable yet. We don't know what tomorrow will bring. 

We both think now that if we ever rebuild, it will be different. I’m scared to rebuild in a way that I love and get attached to, and then lose it again. There isn’t much talk about reconstruction… and even after the ceasefire fear is everywhere. The other day, the sound of a drone distracted me at work. Right after that, we heard there was a bombing.

My family lost their home in the 2006 war. Until 2013, when our new house was built, we were displaced and lived in an unfinished house. Our clothes were in boxes, and we slept on the floor. I’m afraid to go through that again. 

The feeling of leaving is like tearing your soul from your body. You have to leave everything behind, but you want to take everything with you. You have to get to safety, but for you the safe place is the one you left behind.