We fled Lebanon because the future was too uncertain

Fleeing war means setting out on a journey which could lead either to life, or death. It means making a decision in a split second, that then sets into motion a series of others.

It is a journey whose destination is unknown. Either you plunge into it, drawn on by the desperate hope of a better life, or you shrink from such a step – and the departure from the homeland remains only within the realms of imagined aspiration.

Whilst ultimately it boils down to an individual choice, conditions are imposed on people who have had to flee with no time to prepare.  And it is never easy.

Fleeing war means leaving the home you grew up in and where you made both beautiful and painful memories with each stage of your life…a place where you laughed and cried…perhaps even a home you built brick by brick.

Your home, your possessions, all stand before you as you say goodbye – not knowing how long you will be away from them, or even whether they will survive the coming destruction at all.

The farewell will hurt and bring you to tears – because these aren’t just stones. The loss encompasses everything once familiar – family, neighbours, places you’ve known your whole life. These are the emotions I have sensed in all those I’ve met who have been displaced or fled from Lebanon after Israel’s violence and war flared.

Beginning the journey

11-year old Sally sat on a bus heading from Lebanon to a neighbouring country, she aarranged her belongings around her. For all she knew she was on a school trip, unaware of what is going on around her. She didn’t choose to leave, and she doesn’t have the capacity to fully absorb the concept of war, to assess the degree of danger, nor to comprehend that her family was being torn apart.

That’s what her father convinced himself was the right thing to do as he sent her, her mother, sister and grandmother away, not knowing if he will ever see them again.

He hugged her tightly before the bus set off, holding back his tears to make sure she wouldn’t realise what was happening.

In reality, Sally is more mature than he thinks. She was fully aware she was fleeing a war which had destroyed her home and her beautiful room, and that the bombs had been close even after they’d fled to the mountains.

The fear was clear to see in her glance, despite her mother’s constant reassurances that it was just a trip, and that it would be fun. But even she couldn’t hide the enormity of their reality.

For some, the decision to leave was voluntary: they packed their suitcases, chose what to bring, what to leave and what to sell – not everyone has enough money to just move to another country.

For many others, they didn’t even have a chance to change their clothes – the ferocious bombing threw them into sheer panic and they had no time to consider what they might need later on. They fled death and destruction in a moment of terror, and they knew they wouldn’t be able to go back for anything.

Sally, her family and over 1.3 million others fled from the regions in Lebanon that came under bombardment as the war escalated in September. Many whose areas hadn’t been targeted also chose to leave due to the indiscriminate nature of Israel’s aggression which left them feeling that eventually, they would be next.

They left the country, via air, land and sea…

For those who flew out of Beirut–Rafic Hariri International Airport (this was only with local airlines as all international airlines have cancelled their flights to and from Lebanon), faced endless waiting lists and crazy ticket prices that were not even an option for many. Not just that, the risk they took going to the airport was considerable given it was located close to areas under bombardment.

Those who opted for the cheaper sea route from northern Lebanon to Turkey and Cyprus, well – horror stories about drownings and the brutal coast guards who would chase down unlawful migrants were abound. Those who travelled this way have no doubt been plagued by anxieties from the terrifying route.

Some even made the journey out of the country by bus or car – travelling overland to Syria, Iraq, Turkey and Jordan. This too required taking risks given the potential bombing of crossings on the Lebanese border, not to mention the internal conflict raging in some parts of Syria which those who fled would have had to cross to reach their destination.

On the journey

Walid, a young father, was forced to leave his son in Lebanon with his wife as he fled with his 10-month old baby girl because he had lost their passports in the panicked rush to leave their home. Walid took his wife and son to an area he believed was safer and left the country ahead of them to try to find a house and arrange all the essentials for his family to follow him.

“I couldn’t leave both our two children with my wife on her own, so I took my daughter with me as she has a passport. I don’t know how I’ll look after her on this trip as I try to find somewhere we can settle in a country I don’t know, and I don’t know when my wife and son will be able to join me. I can’t tell if I made the right decision – or if I should have waited for all the passports to be issued so we could all travel together…? I can’t bear to imagine anything bad happening to them while I left them there alone,” he explained.

In truth, the misgivings multiply the further away you get from Lebanon, and the closer you are to your destination. Maybe this is a common experience for all travellers as they approach a new chapter in their lives, the shape and details of which they don’t yet know.

On the borders

Sara stood on the Jordanian border after waiting for three hours to enter Jordan’s public security directorate. She then waited another five hours for her passport to be stamped, only to then be barred from entering the country.

She was told that permission to enter is only granted to those with a plane ticket proving they are heading to Jordan in order to go to the airport. The decision wasn’t issued by Jordan’s Interior Ministry, but is seemingly a measure applied to all Lebanese people at the border. In order to stay in Jordan, people must provide evidence for where they’ll stay, and who will be responsible for them.

Sara went back and forth between the public security offices for six hours until she got through to relatives who said they’d look after her and confirmed she would be staying with them.

“Hours felt like an eternity. I wasn’t able to go to the bathroom, and I’m diabetic. I was looking at the children and how they were coping with the endless waiting.

“I felt let down; we’ve never hesitated to receive those fleeing war into our country – why was all this happening to us? Why did we wait on the border and at embassy doors only for barriers to be thrown in front of us? Can Lebanese people bear all this? Are all the crises we have been through not enough?”

Sara explained that she’d chosen to travel because she suffers from health issues, and doesn’t think she’d have coped with the deteriorating situation in Lebanon, especially after finding out her medication had become unavailable in pharmacies.

“Maybe it was down to my persistence and God’s will that they let me into Jordan, but what about those people returned to Lebanon? And what about all the hours they dealt with us unjustly? Do we Lebanese really deserve all that?”

Seeking stability

Jamil left the country with every war. He recounted: ” in 2006, that was the first time, I packed my bags and left. I returned ten years later – I missed my country. I struggled to stay put then, in the face of all the crises”.

Each time, something forced him to leave. “The economic situation, the currency collapse, the money in my bank account which was stolen, the Beirut Port explosion and the coronavirus lockdown… I stumbled but strived to stay resilient in my country. But today here I am – once again leaving as the war escalates, as the bombs are now hitting every part of Lebanon” he explained.

But the journey isn’t easy, no matter how many times you make it. Jamil was clearly traumatised by the uncertain financial situation he had once again put himself in. “I’m not sure how much my monthly expenses will be, so I looked into prices online, but are they correct? I don’t know how long it will take me to find somewhere and settle, and I have not found an answer to the question: how many times will we Lebanese have to start from scratch?” he asked me desperately.

He seemed defeated, like so many others who also left everything behind. But, even as he recounts the relentless hardships, he embarked on a new life once again: he didn’t surrender.

Now, as Lebanese civilians start to return to homes (for some this will be a pile of rubble) following the ceasefire, these stories and traumas, the pain and even for some the sense of betrayal, will be carried for a very long time. We cannot and won’t forget this chapter, especially as Israel’s genocide continues in Gaza. 

Rawan AlAmeen is a writer who focuses on human rights and environmental issues, highlighting abuses against marginalised groups and exposing governmental corruption. She has investigated the misuse of development funds, illegal transactions, and environmental crimes such as waste mismanagement and the destruction of natural reserves. Her work includes impactful journalism and radio programs aimed at promoting transparency and accountability.

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Opinions expressed in this article remain those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The New Arab, its editorial board or staff, or the author’s employer.

Translated by Rose Chacko