Between bombs and condemnation: Displacement in Lebanon's South
Hadi Fares(*) had barely folded the canvas of his tent when he found himself spreading it out again.
In just a year and a half, the son of Beirut’s southern suburbs has tasted displacement twice. The latest pushed him toward Hadath, on the edge of the southern district of Dahieh. There, beneath a sky that never settles, Hadi pitched the same tent he had used during the 2024 assault, while his family splintered across regions, each searching for a safety that no longer gathers them under one roof.
Israel resumed its offensive in a full-scale war on March 2 this year, striking across sectors and regions throughout Lebanon.
So far, the toll stands at 1,039 killed, an average of three people every hour, and 2,876 wounded, about seven every hour. The Disaster Risk Management Unit reported that by March 13, 822,600 people had registered themselves as displaced.
Displacement under fire
The first time, Israeli strikes on Lebanon intensified in September 2024 after Hezbollah announced it had opened a support front for Gaza.
That escalation forced Hadi, along with thousands of others, to flee the south—until a ceasefire was declared, one that never fully loosened the grip of Israel’s war machine on the region.
From inside his tent, Hadi now works to gather donations, purchase basic aid and distribute it to other displaced families.
“Displacement creates a massive crisis. No matter how much we try to help, we keep feeling the gap—the shortages—because the needs keep growing faster than what individual or collective initiatives can meet,” he told Al Manassa.
History, he says, is circling back on itself—the same ordeal repeating, almost scene for scene, from the last assault.
Safe areas are refusing to receive the displaced, treating them as targets—and holding them responsible for the escalation and the ongoing Israeli bombardment.
For those forced from their homes, the war never stopped—especially in the south and the Bekaa, where Israeli strikes continued almost daily even after the 2024 ceasefire.
The tragedy surged again on the morning of March 10, when the Israeli military issued ethnic cleansing threats for all areas south of the Litani River. Only a short 10 days later, Israeli forces expanded the map to include areas up to the Zahrani River.
Repeated evacuation threats have since blanketed the entire southern suburbs of Beirut, parts of Iqlim Al-Tuffah and the western Bekaa north of the Litani.
By March 12, Israeli strikes had reached displacement tents at Beirut’s Sports City along the sandy waterfront, as well as the densely crowded neighborhoods of Bashoura and Zuqaq Al-Blat in Ras Beirut.
With every strike, the map of what can be called “safe” shrinks further, tightening the pressure on those already displaced.
Yet the warnings—and the attacks that followed—did not drive everyone from their homes.
In neighborhoods like Shiyah, Hayy Al-Sellom and Hayy Barakat in the southern suburbs, many stayed. Others moved within Dahieh itself, joined by more families arriving from the south, Hadi said.
The reasons are as stark as they are bitter.
Many supposedly safe areas refuse to host the displaced because they are seen as targets. “And also because rents have skyrocketed,” Hadi added. “A lot of people blame them for the escalation and the ongoing Israeli bombardment.”
Two-fold displacement
Before the current escalation, 124,000 internally displaced people were still unable to return home, according to the International Organization for Migration’s regular displacement reports.
Their homes had either been destroyed or taken over by Israeli occupation forces.
The state had provided shelter to less than 20% of those displaced during the previous assault—an ominous sign of the burden now falling on those uprooted again.
So far, most state institutions have failed to respond effectively to the emergency, amid shrinking international aid and limited capacity to act.
In the early days of this latest wave, the scene was chaotic and tense, Hadi said.
Lebanese families poured into the streets with nowhere to go. Some were forced to sleep out in the open, along roadsides, as state institutions lagged and rents became impossible to afford.
“Some schools that were supposed to serve as shelters—people had to open them by force,” he said.
Every day, Hadi returns to the southern suburbs to distribute aid.
“It’s almost empty now,” he said, his voice heavy.
But in places like Shiyah, Choueifat and Hayy Al-Sellom, some residents remain.
“They have no choice but to live in unsafe areas. They leave during bombardment, then come back once it stops.”
The danger is compounded by the condition of the buildings themselves.
“One strike can sometimes destroy five buildings—or cause such severe damage that they’re no longer habitable,” Hadi said.
Two-fold coercion
On another front, municipalities in several Lebanese areas—including Bikfaya, Fanar, Zouk Mosbeh, Aaqibeh and Baramiyah—have issued strict warnings restricting the hosting of displaced people.
The measures include banning rentals or sheltering without prior approval and requiring immediate reporting of detailed personal data, including names, phone numbers, addresses, marital status and place of displacement—framed as precautionary steps.
Emergency committees have been formed in coordination with the Lebanese army, with threats of legal penalties for violations.
In Majdal Anjar, these threats have already materialized.
Authorities fined one resident 100 million Lebanese lira (about $1,100) for hosting a displaced person without notifying the municipality.
But the pressure is not only administrative.
Displaced families also face harassment rooted in sectarian identity.
Some shops refuse to sell to them, judging by their clothing, names or accents.
Mohammad Salam(*), displaced from the village of Sohmor in the western Bekaa, was expelled from Tariq Al-Jadideh in central Beirut because residents feared hosting Shiite families.
“I was afraid to reveal who I was,” he told Al Manassa. “I tried to talk to the neighbors, to explain that we’re civilians—but it was no use.”
At the same time, the economic crisis deepens under the weight of war.
Basic costs have surged. Mattress prices have jumped from $5 to $20, while rent for an ordinary home has reached $2,000.
Some landlords demand up to six months’ payment in advance—making renting nearly impossible, Hadi said.
“The Israeli strike on the Comfort Hotel in Hazmieh led to a woman and her children being thrown out, even after she had paid $500 for the room,” he added.
Residents increasingly believe that displaced people themselves are being tracked as targets by Israeli forces.
In that context, Israel’s public broadcaster reported that the military intends to “attack civilian targets in Lebanon to pressure the government to restrain Hezbollah.”
The statement signals a widening scope of targeting—intensifying pressure on society and on the environment that sustains the resistance, while further complicating the lives of the displaced.
Hadi sees this assault as a war on the social base of the resistance itself.
He describes it as part of a broader pattern of ethnic cleansing pursued by the Israeli state—reflected in evacuation maps that span entire provinces, and in statements by Israeli Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich warning that Israel will turn Dahieh into Khan Younis.
“This war isn’t only fought on the ground—it’s psychological too,” Hadi said. “Through threats, through justifying the targeting, through pressure on society, and through a discourse that tries to turn public opinion.”
He adds that this effort is amplified by US-backed media narratives that exploit people’s pain, anger and immediate hardship to direct blame toward the resistance.
Hadi believes the war has never really stopped over the past 17 months.
“We couldn’t go back to our village, and we couldn’t move safely. We just got used to it,” he said.
Like many in the south, he holds on to a single hope—that this time the war will end in a way that guarantees their return home, without the shadow of another Israeli threat.
Hadi says the war has not truly paused for a year and five months.
“We couldn’t return to our village, and we couldn’t move safely—we just adapted,” he said.
Like many in the south, he hopes this round of war will end differently—ending in a victory that allows them to return home in safety, without the threat of another Israeli assault.
(*)All names have been changed at the request of the sources.
(**) A version of this article first appeared in Arabic on April 26, 2025. The death and injury tolls have been updated to reflect the most recent numbers.