Life in displacement remains a struggle as Lebanon ceasefire brings little respite

A line of laundry, swaying gently in the heat of early spring, hangs where a classroom whiteboard once stood. Instead of desks, there are rows of mattresses. Through thin partitions, voices carry from one family’s space to another – multiple lives have been compressed into this one room in Raml El Zarif Public School in Hamra, Beirut.

Nearly a month after a fragile ceasefire was announced, this is still what displacement looks like in Lebanon: not an emergency that has passed, but one that continues, quietly, unevenly, and without resolution. Around 130,000 of the more than 1 million people who have been forced to flee their homes are staying in collective shelters, the majority of which are schools.

“We fled Dahieh and were displaced here,” says Qassem Reda, recalling how his family escaped heavy airstrikes in Beirut’s southern suburbs. Like many others, their journey to safety was rushed and uncertain. Some families spent days on the road; others arrived with nothing but the winter clothes they were wearing.

When the ceasefire was announced, there was a surge of hope. Many families attempted to return, or at least tried to check on their homes. But those efforts were often short-lived. “We went back for one day,” says Ghadir Houjaj, who fled from the south. “But we didn’t feel the situation was stable enough to stay. 

There is so much destruction, and the sound of airstrikes and drones overhead was too much… so we came back here.”

It is a pattern that repeats itself across Lebanon: cautious returns followed by renewed displacement. Even after the ceasefire, insecurity, unexploded ordnance and widespread destruction have prevented people from going home. Tens of thousands of houses have been damaged or destroyed, while access to water, electricity, health care and schools remains limited or disrupted.

While Beirut has been quieter in recent days, areas in southern Lebanon and West Bekaa continue to endure near-daily Israeli airstrikes, demolitions and destruction, affecting homes and civilian infrastructure and making return difficult, dangerous or impossible.

For people like Yusuf Qbeissi from Nabatieh, going home in the near future is not an option. A retired army serviceman who spent years building his house, he returned to find it severely damaged. “I put my life’s savings into it less than five years ago,” he says. “Now all the walls are cracked. I can’t risk my family’s lives by moving back. And repairing the house will cost money I do not have.”

He is now staying at a school in the north, spending his days tending small patches of land in the schoolyard, growing thyme and rosemary, in an effort to reclaim a sense of purpose amid the uncertainty.

It has been almost 2.5 months since the latest military escalation began. Life inside collective shelters, like the converted classroom in Raml El Zarif school, is characterized by overcrowding and a lack of privacy, with schools never built to host hundreds of families. Life here is a world of contrasts: babies are born next to people who are mourning loved ones killed in the conflict.

Many have had to move repeatedly in recent weeks. Some, including Syrian refugees who first fled their home country 14 years ago to seek safety in Lebanon, say they have lost count entirely. “Not enough fingers,” says a woman trying to recall how often she has been displaced.

Support from UNHCR and partners, including the installation of partitions and repairs in hundreds of shelters, has helped restore some dignity. “There is a huge difference now,” says Ghadir. “Less noise, more privacy. We can even host relatives who are also displaced.” But these improvements do not change the reality that people are unable to return to the privacy of their own homes. As temperatures rise, heat and poor ventilation are also becoming urgent concerns.

Many families are also without a source of income. Maha, 48, from Srifa in the south, lost both her home and her husband’s welding workshop in airstrikes. “We have nothing left,” she says. “There are many sick people [here], many needs. Life is very hard and there is no work.” Her daughter now works in the shelter’s kitchen to help the family survive.

The psychological toll is especially visible among children. “When I enter my classroom in my school [at home], I go to study,” says Zahraa, 12. “Here, I enter the classroom to sleep and live away from home because it is not safe to go back.” She is sheltering in another classroom, in Al Basta Public School, which is just a 15-minute drive from her home. But their neighbourhood in Beirut has taken a pounding, too. 

“There is no electricity, no water, no internet for her online schooling,” says her mother, Fatima. “I feel like I can’t breathe. I miss our home.”

In another classroom, a group of women sit in a circle during a support session, sharing fears and practising breathing exercises to cope with stress and trauma. For many, these sessions are the only place where they can speak openly. Sitting nearby, Nawal chooses not to join. “I prefer to keep my stories in my heart,” she says quietly, holding her phone.

This story was written by Ms. Dalal Harb, Communications Officer & Spokesperon at UNHCR Office in Lebanon.