In the heart of southern Lebanon, the historic city of Nabatieh had been buzzing with culture, history and community for centuries.
The iconic Souk Al-Ithnayn, or Monday Market, is believed to date back to the Mamluk era, roughly 500 years ago. It had been a central hub for locals and visitors alike.
Merchants and shoppers converged there weekly, filling the narrow streets with the vibrant hum of commerce.
More than just a trading post, the market was a living archive of collective memory. Generations of families bought, sold, and exchanged goods and stories, creating a deep connection to the land and its people.
It stood as an icon of Lebanese resilience, surviving 400 years of Ottoman rule, 15 years of civil war, 18 years of Israeli occupation, globalisation, and economic challenges.
“The historic buildings that lined the market were now heaps of broken stone, twisted metal, and shattered glass. Where shops once stood — some dating back generations — now lay nothing but debris, a tragic reminder of the war’s toll”
Until October, when Israeli airstrikes silenced the traders’ chatter, replacing the scent of spices with gunpowder.
Cross-border hostilities between Israel and Lebanon’s militant group Hezbollah have been ongoing since October last year when Hezbollah began firing at Israel’s northern towns as a show of solidarity with Gaza — which has been suffering from Israel’s brutal war for over a year.
But by mid-September this year, Israel intensified its attacks, targeting locations far from the border, including Nabatieh and the market was reduced to a graveyard of rubble.
After the US-brokered ceasefire came into effect on 27 November between Hezbollah and Israel, Nizam Amasha was among those who rushed to the market to see the scale of the damage.
His three-storey shop, which had been a trademark in the market for decades, was reduced to a pile of debris, as with much of the market, and the city.
“We inherited this shop from my father,” he said with a voice heavy with emotion. “It was passed down to us, and we continued his work with pride. It’s been bombed before, in 2006, and now, for the second time,” he explained, his fingers holding onto wrecked walls with metal rods sticking out.
“According to World Bank estimates, the cost of physical destruction and economic losses due to the 13-month war is around $8.5 billion”
As residents walked through the streets they once knew so well, they were greeted by a scene of utter devastation.
The historic buildings that lined the market were now heaps of broken stone, twisted metal, and shattered glass. Where shops once stood — some dating back generations — now lay nothing but debris, a tragic reminder of the war’s toll.
Clothing stores, cafes, and homeware shops were all wiped out by the relentless bombardment. The vibrant heart of Nabatieh’s economy had become a barren wasteland.
According to World Bank estimates, the cost of physical destruction and economic losses due to the 13-month war is around $8.5 billion, $3.4 billion of which is the cost of the damages done to physical structures.
‘We’ll rebuild this’
The Lebanese government has not yet calculated the damage caused by the violence to physical structures, since multiple towns near the border remain inaccessible to residents.
Nizam says his losses are insurmountable. They are also emblematic of a Lebanese economy that was on a five-year downward spiral even before the war and is seen to have shrunk by 6.6 percent in 2024.
Yet Nizam is adamant about rebuilding his business.
“This scene breaks our hearts, but we will not give up. Our connection to Nabatieh is stronger than any destruction,” he declared.
“But God willing, we will rebuild it,” Nizam continues with definite determination. “We will not abandon this land, our land. Nabatieh is part of who we are — it’s our pride and our dignity.”
A few days into the fragile ceasefire, a handful of shopowners were already back to business. Across from the market, a small shop selling manakish and local products has reopened its doors.
Despite the bombing that forced the family to flee for 64 days, Abu Ali Karbala, the restaurant owner, was determined to return as soon as the ceasefire was announced.
“We were displaced to Beirut, but as soon as we heard the ceasefire, we came back. This restaurant is our life. It’s our livelihood. We’re not just reopening a business; we’re reopening our home, our connection to this land,” Abu Ali said, his voice filled with conviction.
For the Karbala family, returning to Nabatieh was not just about survival; it was about hope. “The people welcomed us with joy, and that gave us strength. This land is ours, and with God’s will, we will rebuild. We will continue until the next victory,” he added.
Picking up the pieces
Following the ceasefire, and for days, shopowners began salvaging what they could of their demolished stores. Those whose stores were more intact than others mulled the possibility of reopening even before the 60-day ceasefire was up but showed concern over continued Israeli shelling which still targeted Nabatieh despite the agreement.
Those whose stores were mostly demolished — which is the wider majority of shopowners — roamed among the rubble, searching for any goods that might be usable, amid piles of clothes, household appliances, and other goods scattered on the ground.
People’s livelihoods are now among the rubble: goods that used to fill the shops have become a tragic display of the disaster that has befallen the Nabatieh market.
As for the customers who used to come to shop, they visited to see the destruction Israel’s bombing has inflicted on their country.
‘Abu Haidar’, who asked to remain anonymous for fear of retaliation, was a regular customer at the market for his lifetime of more than 50 years. He remembers visiting as a child, and as a senior man, and laments that nothing of the market was left unharmed.
“This market belonged to everyone — people from all over Lebanon came here. It was a place of exchange, a place where we could buy goods at good prices. It was a source of livelihood for many families. Now, it’s just rubble.”
He paused, his frustration palpable. “Why did Israel bomb this market? There were no weapons here, only shops and restaurants. Why target us?”
Bilal Ghazeye is a Lebanese journalist, working as a news editor and reporter at Lebanos News, and a communication officer at LOGI, a non-governmental organisation that promotes transparency and accountability in the Lebanese oil and gas sector
This article is published in collaboration with Egab
