“Welcome back to school, we missed you,” reads a poster on the entrance of the Abadiyeh public school, 15 km away from Beirut, where students were scheduled to start their academic year next week.
But instead of the students reading this sign, Lebanon's displaced fleeing relentless Israeli shelling are reading these words as they search for empty classrooms to shelter in for an indefinite period.
Israel launched a wider-scale attack on Lebanon, saying it was targeting Hezbollah, while its indiscriminate attacks have killed more than 600 people, including at least 90 women and 50 children and injured over 1,800 in airstrikes on residential areas in south and eastern Lebanon.
“It was a clear message, leave,” a displaced young man residing in the school tells .
According to the Foreign Ministry, an estimated 500,000 are currently displaced from their homes, with the International Organization of Migration claiming that 40,000 are sheltering in schools.
While southern towns have been facing Israeli threat and fatal destruction for almost a year now, residents have expressed their utter shock at the intensity and expansion of the shelling within the last three days, with a displaced man saying that he counted the smoke of 40 airstrikes in a few hours.
“I spent 10 years working to build my house in the village,” says the young food factory worker from Chehabiyeh.
He actively tries not to think about the possibility of its imminent destruction like that of his neighbour’s house which he saw explode in front of him.
“We were shocked at the savagery and consistency of the strikes,” he continues, comparing today's attacks to the last Israeli attacks in 2006.
“Eighteen years ago, the strikes were around two percent of what we are witnessing today,” he says, adding that the war in 2006 saw 1,100 Lebanese killed over 30 days, whereas today half of that death toll has been achieved in three days.
Arrived by miracle
Mohammad Jaber, from Nabatieh, sits on the school stairs as he tries to stay strong for his ten-year-old daughter Zahra who shakes in his arms from hearing Israeli warplanes above.
Eventually leaving his embrace for her mothers’ who sits outside the school, Mohammad tells of the horrific moment a bomb struck right in front of his house, breaking his windows and leaving him with ears ringing in an opaque cloud of black smoke.
“I remember wiping away the smoke trying to find my daughter,” the 50-year-old father begins, as he fights his tears before wiping away his eyes and continuing.
“It was hard, it was very hard,” his voice cracks remembering how he rushed to find his family and get into the car before finding that his car had been destroyed, leaving him desperate for any way to get them out.
“The road took 300 years off our lives,” a young pregnant nurse describes the backbreaking and heart-clenching 16-hour journey from Nabatieh to her current place of shelter.
Most of those residing in the school had moved from their villages at noon and arrived at 4 am the next day on a road that would typically take one hour and a half.
“Children were screaming at the pounding bombs that were seemingly coming from anywhere and we were stuck," she tells .
"The car couldn’t move one inch,” she adds, describing the terrible block of traffic that built up as frightened locals try to leave. She explains how many then decided to park their cars on the seaside highway as they walked around in search for water.
Drivers were fainting from the thirst and heat, many stopped to throw up, and some first-time mothers were reported to have given birth under the shelling, she tells .
“We really arrived here by miracle,” she adds. Children were separated from their families in cases where cars ran out of gas since many were assisted by those passing with motorcycles to continue the journey.
Solidarity in times of war
Ramziyeh Sabbah, a grandmother who sits with her extended family in front of the school, finds the silver lining in seeing how they were showered with lifted spirits, helping hands, water bottles, and food as soon as they crossed the Ghazieh road into Saida.
She speaks about how her family were immediately taken care of by passersby in the village who brought them to the school in their cars, some offering their homes, and even sheesha.
“They were practically fighting over us!” she says, laughing.
The Mayor of Abadiyeh, Adel Najd, who has been on the ground running operations in the school tells about how the municipality has been working tirelessly to welcome families in need.
This includes raising funds with various political parties, institutions, and social groups in the village who have put the sectarian tensions aside for the triumph of basic humanity in this tough time for all Lebanese.
“Everyone has contributed. And we have been able to provide mattresses, electricity, breakfast, and other necessities,” Adel tells .
Finding a place to wash or freshen up has been difficult for the displaced community as the school facilities do not have showers.
Home is the self
Ten-year-old Eleen from Dahyeh was found writing in her journal about her journey up to the mountains.
In a bright turquoise dress, a neat pink hijab, and a wide resilient smile, the young girl escorts into the classroom where her grandparents and cousins from Tyre lay dispersed on the ground.
Inside her diary entry from the day, her only notes were how happy she was to be reunited with her cousins whom they typically only see on Eid.
Reading her entry aloud in shy confidence, her mother, Salma caresses her shoulder and kisses her forehead.
The smile on her face shows the pride she feels in her daughter's writing, but the crow’s feet around her tired eyes highlight the toil of the ugly situation.
Salma had packed a bag a few days before only with picture albums, “and most importantly, my wedding VHS tape,” she reveals.
Her talent for documenting is passed down to her children as she reveals her own diary which she has vowed to keep forever filled with love letters from her friends.
“The thing I love most in this life is true friendship,” she wrote in 2002, a statement that rings true to her today.
Speaking to her parents, who were eating za'atar man'oushe at a school table, Salma's mother broke down just as soon as she was asked about her garden.
“Ya Mohammad, you tell her,” she leans on her husband, Mohammad Ayoub, to tell the story of their olive and grape trees which they tend to with their souls year round, and their home which has housed generations and holds the memories which Salma preserves in her bag.
“Habibti Stella,” she speaks about their German Shepard dog that they were forced to leave behind, “she would be gone by now,” she says with her eyes growing red with tears.
in the South with tears in her eyes
“The home is the ‘qamees’,” an Arabic word which translates to your shirt, suggesting the self, the identity, Salma's mother says with tender eyes behind her thin glasses and her tight rose-coloured hijab.
As I leave the building, I see a young girl in a dirty sparkly T-shirt and thick glasses, sitting in the corridor, mouth open staring into the abyss, seemingly stuck in silence.
I ask a woman in her thirties, also seeking refuge, about the girl and she replies, “She’s still in shock.”
Yasmina Andary is a Lebanese freelance multimedia journalist based in Beirut