Grief and Resilience: Life Amid Conflict in Southern Lebanon

Morning after an Israeli attack in Tyre, Lebanon.

“Special, targeted operations in southern Lebanon”—a phrase that has echoed repeatedly over the past two years in Israeli Defence Force (IDF) statements. But behind these clinical military terms lies a human cost that statistics cannot capture.

The residents of southern Lebanon—mothers, fathers, children, and elders—face the daily reality of displacement, loss, and uncertainty. Their homes become coordinates on military maps; their neighborhoods, theaters of “operations.” Yet their stories of endurance, grief, and quiet acts of resilience rarely reach beyond the headlines.

Through interviews with residents of “Jnoub,” we examine how communities are navigating displacement, processing communal loss, and finding ways to grieve while continuing to live. These are voices from a region too often reduced to geopolitical analysis—voices that reveal the profound human dimension of conflict.

“Ironically, my workplace is close to the rubble of my old house. I see it, as well as the spot where my pet died, every day. I haven’t grieved as I should… haven’t cried as much as I should have.

“I hate the sound of phone calls, especially the landlines and my father’s good old Blackberry phone, as they remind me of the time we received the threat and people were calling to warn us,” said Sarah Soueidan when asked about her daily routine after her home was destroyed.

Having both her residence and her family’s home bombed by the Israeli Defence Forces, she and her family have had to move repeatedly over the past two years. Her hometown, Yater, in South Lebanon, was directly affected by the war, leaving nothing but memories and rubble.

The night they had to flee their house in southern Beirut, Sarah and her family woke up to a series of calls and the sounds of “warning shots” on the streets. These were fired to alert residents who had not yet received the warning to evacuate before the attack.

It was only 10 a.m., and they had to act fast. Sarah and her mother left first to see what was happening and realized their building would be hit. Sarah rushed back to warn her father and siblings. With little time and her father needing help to move, they carried him out, taking as few belongings as possible.

They made sure to put Halloum, Sarah’s cat, in his cage. But in the rush, and with many people in the house trying to help, Halloum got scared and escaped. Sarah and her siblings searched for him but were dragged out of the house before they could find him. She carried his toys and food, hoping to see him again—but never did. The Israeli attack reduced her home in southern Beirut to rubble.

Her family had nowhere to go, as their house in Yater had also been bombed. They left the area, hoping to return when it was safe.

The interview took place long after the attack, as Sarah had only recently felt ready to speak. She said, “While I am not politically affiliated with anyone, nor would I discuss the reasons for escalation, as it is debatable, aggression and terrorism are always wrong, without any reason. I was born and raised in these areas and streets. None of the allegations regarding ‘weapons, machinery, or drones under a three-story building’ are true. We need answers or proof.”

Many neighborhoods, streets, and buildings were targeted; no one knew how or why. Residents only received images of their building along with a warning to evacuate.

“The bomb was so close I heard the sound of the missiles just before they hit. You didn’t know if the missile would fall on you or not. When I heard that, I ran toward my son and hugged him—then the missile exploded. This happened three or four times,” said Zaynab Yaghi, a resident of Ansar village in South Lebanon. She and her family fled in fear, trying to shield her son from further trauma.

Even after the ceasefire, many residents could not return home or resume normal life.

“Nearby buildings were struck after the ceasefire—one as close as 100 meters from our home. The first time it happened, we scrambled to leave. It was terrifying,” said Mohammad Wehbe, who lost his home in Ainata and his apartment in Beirut’s suburbs due to nearby bombings.

For many, hope comes from community, tradition, and resistance—choosing to return, to have a future, and to grieve by holding on to what remains.

Nour described her village as a step back in time—a place of serenity, nature, and warm people who welcome strangers. Located in the Tyre district, her neighborhood was completely destroyed by Israeli attacks. She tries to visit often, to remember and tell the story of those forgotten.

“The first time I went in winter, it felt strange—silence and destruction. But over time, nature and the people try to live again. That gives me hope. We’ll be fixing our home. What matters is that we acknowledge this land is ours. On our land, I can sense existence.”

While Nour draws strength from her community, others cope differently. “What beliefs I had before the war are long gone. I haven’t processed what happened. I cope by ignoring everything and focusing on survival. Hope feels like a big word these days,” said Mohammad Wehbe.

Compounding the hardships is the absence of government support. None of the interviewees have received official assistance, relying instead on personal savings and family help.

These stories from southern Lebanon show the complexity of resilience amid displacement and loss. While some find strength in community and ancestral ties, others focus solely on survival. What is constant is the need to bear witness—to remember that behind every military briefing is a human cost that cannot be reduced to numbers.

The residents of Jnoub continue to face an uncertain future, carrying the memories of what was lost and the fragile hope of rebuilding—not just their homes, but their lives.