Lebanon: Dancing with the Coffins

Yesterday morning, I looked at my son and realized that at his age, I was already living through war in Lebanon. Nearly 37 years later, we are still facing the same reality.

Back then, we believed that what we were enduring was a sacrifice for a better future for our children - that the violence, the fear, and the uncertainty would one day end so that the next generation could live in peace. Sadly, that hope has not yet become reality.

Today, it is my son who is frightened by the sound of fighter jets, by the echoes of explosions, and by the uncertainty surrounding his mother’s village; the place he eagerly waits to visit every summer, a place where he can enjoy its beauty, its welcoming people and the traditions that make it feel like home.

For almost three years now, conflict has risen again in southern Lebanon. Every year he asks me, “When can we go to Ain Ebel?” And every year I answer, “Not yet.” This year, we truly hoped things would be different. We planned to go during the Easter break. I allowed myself to give him that hope, believing that perhaps peace might finally return and that the state would become present in a region that has been neglected for far too long - especially during times of war, when people are most vulnerable and in need of protection and support. This hope stopped when war restarted. To be honest, we can’t say that it had fully stopped for the last few years.

Last night we received devastating news. Three brave men from Ain Ebel were killed by an Israeli drone strike. They were not fighters. They were not carrying weapons. They were simply repairing the village’s internet connection so that residents could remain informed and connected with the outside world. Their goal was to ensure that people could communicate, receive updates about what was happening around them and make informed decisions about whether it was safer to stay or to leave.

Instead of returning home to their families, they were killed.

Elie, Chady and George had chosen to remain in their village and resist in the quietest and most courageous way possible - by staying. By refusing to abandon their homes and their community. By helping their neighbours and ensuring that life, even under fear and uncertainty, could continue in some way.

All they had done was serve their village, together with others who decided to stay.

Many people believed the village was safe. Messages had circulated saying that it would not be targeted because it was a Christian village. People felt reassured and believed they could remain in their homes. But that sense of safety proved tragically false. Misinformation, uncertainty and the chaos of war once again cost innocent lives.

Today, their bodies were carried in coffins. Their friends and loved ones walked beside them in grief, and some danced with the coffins as part of the farewell - a powerful and heartbreaking tradition of honouring those who have passed.

But these men should have been dancing in life, not in death. They should have been celebrating with their families, watching their children grow, sharing meals with their friends and building the future they deserved.

Instead, their lives were cut short while performing a simple act of service to their community.

So we ask: how long must this continue? Why must families constantly lose their loved ones? Why must children grow up without parents?

Why must young people die before they have had the chance to discover the life ahead of them?

Southern Lebanon has long been neglected - during occupation, after occupation and throughout every war that has scarred this land. Its villages have repeatedly been caught in the middle of conflicts that many of their people did not choose. Yet the people remain deeply attached to their land, their homes and their heritage.

The vulnerable people of the south deserve protection, dignity and attention from their government. They deserve security, stability and the chance to live normal lives without the constant shadow of violence hanging over them.

Too often, our land becomes a battlefield for others. Anyone can come to fight here. Anyone can cross through. Anyone can turn our villages into targets.

We Lebanese are often praised for our resilience. We are known for enduring everything, for adapting to every crisis and for telling the world that we are okay. But the truth is that we are not okay anymore. Decades of conflict, uncertainty, and loss have taken their toll on our people. Resilience should not mean accepting endless suffering.

Our children deserve more than resilience. They deserve peace, safety, and the simple freedom to grow up without fear.

Locations Lebanon

Topics Conflict, Crisis, Life