Dahiyeh families displaced by war now trapped by identity

Fatima Kandeel, 43, and her two sons moved into a new rented apartment in the southern Beirut suburbs in March.

They had been staying with her sister Aida nearby for four months after a ceasefire between Israel and Lebanon had stopped the worst, but not all, of Israel’s attacks on Lebanon, and it felt good to have their own place.

With only two armchairs and a shisha pipe in between them, the family stands in their hardly decorated living room in Laylake, Dahiyeh.

A Hezbollah fighter killed in an Israeli airstrike in Jnoub in October hangs next to a martyr’s portrait of Fatima’s 21-year-old nephew.

In the rubble, scraps of home

Hezbollah declared its support for Palestine on October 7, 2023, and the conflict lasted for about a year before Israel invaded and started a full-fledged conflict.

Because it is widely known as a Hezbollah stronghold, the suburbs of Dahiyeh have been repeatedly targeted by Israeli strikes.

The family’s previous home in Dahiyeh’s Hay el-Selom, a 10-minute walk from Laylake, was destroyed by an Israeli air strike in October.

Fatima recounted the suffering of loss, displacement, and hardship while keeping her hazel eyes on her hijab in good health and optimism in early June.

She spoke with her hands as though she were on stage, and she was energetic and confident.

Like many Lebanese hosts, she offered drinks and an invitation for lunch while chatting about what it was like to feel under attack in Dahiyeh and whether that changed her relationship with her neighbourhood.

Her sons, 24-year-old Hassan and 20-year-old Hussein, managed to salvage two wardrobes and a bed from the rubble after their family fled to Aida’s, according to Fatima.

Fatima proudly flung open the bedroom doors, showcasing the two wardrobes that had been completely rebuilt, making it impossible to tell if they had been bombed. The rescued bed is used by one of her sons after getting new slats and a new lease on life.

She gently ran her hand over one of the damaged surfaces, saying, “These are the most important pieces of furniture in the house.”

They are historical because they endured. We got them back, I was so happy.

Hassan and Hussein found more in the rubble of their home: a stuffed toy that Hassan used to play with and a few of the books from their mother’s library.

Fatima smiled and looked at the stuffed toy as she spoke. As his mother shared her thoughts, Hussein was quietly observing his mother.

“He used to sleep with it beside him every night”, Fatima recalled. After my divorce, I was unable to save much from my children’s childhood, but I did, and it has now survived the war.

A collection of books about history, religion, and culture are a few feet away from what she once owned on a small table in her bedroom.

Scars, visible and invisible

The remnants of war can be seen from the living room balcony. A daily reminder of what was lost, with the lower floors of a neighboring building still standing and the top floors destroyed.

Yet Fatima holds Dahiyeh dear and is determined to stay.

She said, “I love the people here.” Everyone behaves kindly. … Dahiyeh is home”.

Hussein agreed that Dahiyeh’s strong sense of community, friends, and neighbors make him feel most at home there.

He had emotional issues throughout the war, battling with stress and verbal abuse. He has seen two therapists but hasn’t felt much improvement.

Hussein is open to leaving Dahiyeh, contrary to his mother, but he acknowledged that practicalities would be greater if they could find a place to rent. For example, rents and the overall cost of living in other countries are much higher.

And he claimed that if they relocate, they might experience sectarian discrimination.

The family had to leave Dahiyeh briefly during Israel’s war on Lebanon and sought shelter in the nearby coastal Beirut suburb of Jnah. A painful memory of that time is still present in Fatima.

As he watched newly arrived families wearing the slippers and pyjamas they fled in, a Jnah grocery store owner snidely observed, “Look at those trashy Shia people.”

The comment left a scar, and she refuses to leave Dahiyeh again.

What do you impart to the next generation if war breaks out? she inquired. “That it’s OK to give up your home? or that you defend your position”?

“I would stay if it were just me.”

Iman, her 55-year-old sister, wants to leave while Fatima chooses to remain in Dahiyeh.

Iman lives with her husband, Ali, a plastering foreman, and their four children: Hassan, 25, a programmer, Fatima, 19, a university student, and 16-year-old twins Mariam and Marwa, both in school.

In their modest but cheerful home, the children still have a single bedroom.

As Mariam and Hassan sat down with Iman, passing chocolate and juice to each other, while cousins chatted in the background, there was a lot of laughter in the living room.

There was teasing as they shared memories of fear, displacement and resilience.

Dahiyeh has never been completely secure. The Lebanese Civil War, which lasted from 1975 to 1990, and Israeli offensives, including the devastation of the 2006 war, have shaped its history.

It’s a cycle, Iman said – another war, another wave of fear and displacement. The family fled several times during Israel’s most recent conflict with Lebanon.

In late September, they first visited Kayfoun village in the Mount Lebanon governorate, but there were high levels of conflict there and a local man allegedly spread rumors of Israeli-imminent strikes in an effort to frighten displaced families.

They left Kayfoun after a week and fled to Tripoli in the north, where life was quieter and the presence of nearby relatives offered some comfort, but mistrust lingered.

Iman’s hijab frequently reflected how well-versed she was in those who attributed Hezbollah’s attacks to Lebanon.

Hassan recalled that “we all developed into introverts.” “We stayed home most of the time, but we had relatives nearby and met some good friends. We would play cards while playing cards together. It was helpful.

In early October, they followed friends to Iraq’s capital, Baghdad, where they were welcomed warmly – more warmly, they said, than in parts of Lebanon.

They came back after the ceasefire. Iman argued that “there is no place better than our country,” but Dahiyeh is still searching for a new home despite her strong ties to the neighborhood.

“If it were just me, I’d stay”, she said. However, I have children. They must be protected by me.

‘ They don’t rent to Shia families ‘

Hassan, Iman’s son, recalls the first Israeli bombing to go near their apartment on April 1 in violation of the November ceasefire.

He responded, “I merely wanted to leave.” “I don’t care where we go. simply somewhere that isn’t a target.

Finding a new place to rent is not always simple, though.

They thought about relocating to Hazmieh. It is close to Dahiyeh but not part of it, making it relatively safer. Additionally, it would be closer to Mariam, Iman’s sister, who resides there.

However, Iman asserted that the majority of Hazmieh don’t rent to Shia families because they would charge double the rent.

Despite the mounting fear, the family does not want to leave Lebanon, and Hassan has turned down a job offer abroad. They claimed they are exhausted but not ready to leave their country.

Hassan claimed that his parents did not want to leave Dahiyeh despite the fact that the conflict was still ongoing. He had to work on convincing them to go first to Kayfoun, then eventually Iraq.

After the ceasefire, there were protracted discussions about whether to leave, and his mother eventually decided to do the same because of her fear for her children.

Source: Aljazeera