At a shelter in Baalbek, the children wait for a day when the Israeli drone is not in the sky. On these rare occasions, they ask for permission to play outside.
The city of Baalbek, tucked in Lebanon’s eastern Bekaa Valley, is home to some of the best-preserved Roman temples still in existence and is one of the oldest continuously inhabited places on earth. It was called the “City of the Sun” in ancient times. Today it is a city of ghosts.
Its residents have felt the wrath of Israel’s war against Hezbollah. Most have left, but a few are staying put – not because they are not scared, but because they are too poor to afford to flee.
The shelter, one of the few within the city’s limits, is at the convent of St Joseph. Two nuns are in charge here, Melanie Tannoury and her sister Hoda. Silhouetted in her impeccably black habit, Melanie tinkers with a silver cross as she tells of her newly acquired responsibilities.
At one point, up to 200 people were sheltering here from the war. They came from nearby villages, like Boudai, which have been under some of the heaviest bombardments.
Now, Melanie and her sister feed and take care of 51 people. After a nearby airstrike shattered some of the convent’s windows, some of those sheltering there felt like their own homes might be safer. “We never thought we were going to get hit here,” Melanie said.
The sisters worry that the convent itself could become an Israeli target if someone affiliated to Hezbollah were to go there. So, they take precautions, and an army patrol passes by every so often to check they are alright.
Similar concerns have been expressed wherever the Shia community has sought shelter, at times putting Lebanon’s fragile sectarian divisions to the test.
But there is solidarity in Baalbek, as there is almost everywhere else. And despite the nearby airstrike, Melanie and Hoda remain steadfast. “There are families here. We can't leave them. If we leave, they won’t receive anything, neither food, nor blankets, nor anything else. We can't abandon them like that.”
Outside in a tidy courtyard, Zeina Assaf, 31, watches a group of children play. She has four of her own, who have been sheltering with her at the convent since leaving their home in the suburbs of Baalbek over a month ago.
“Adults can deal with it [the war], but how can the kids and elderly support this? … There are people that have died in this war not from an airstrike but from the effects of war, from fear, and others have developed psychological conditions,” Zeina said.
Zeina’s mother was killed recently, not by an airstrike, but by the effects of war as she calls them.
The war caused her mother’s heart condition to deteriorate, making her dependent on an oxygen machine. The war created an energy shortage in Baalbek, and a power cut shut the oxygen machine off. And the war crippled the healthcare system, so the ambulance meant to save Zeina’s mother took too long to arrive.
A small girl, wide eyed and never saying a word, shuffles up next to her mother. Zahra is seven years old. Zeina says she’s old enough to understand what the explosions mean, but she’s too young to bear it.
On 30 October, a forced displacement order was issued to the entire metropolitan area by the Israeli army Arabic-language spokesperson, Avichay Adraee. Chaotic and panicked attempts to flee soon followed, emptying the city of about 70% of its population of some 100,000 people.
Since then, the city and its governorate, Baalbek-Hermel, have witnessed some of the heaviest bombing in Lebanon, killing over 400 people in the past two months, according to the health ministry. Around every corner of the city stands a heap of rubble that used to be someone’s home.
The Israeli military says it is targeting Hezbollah commanders and military installations in Baalbek, which has been considered as part of the militant group’s heartland since its inception in the 1980s.
But °®Âţµş visited five strike sites in Baalbek and spoke to several residents whose houses were damaged or destroyed by Israeli airstrikes. While locals suspect that some of the targets were linked to Hezbollah, many of those affected are civilians.
Nabih Faraa, 59, received no warning. His home of 22 years was half flattened by an Israeli airstrike with his family still inside. His wife and son were injured but all survived, somehow.
Nabih is a farmer, but also drove the school bus before the war. After five years of economic crisis, the war has only exacerbated living conditions. Like most of his neighbours, Nabih lives in relative poverty, but now he has no running water or electricity either.
A few hundred metres away, Nidal Talib is adding the finishing touches to a new breeze-block wall. One side of his house was demolished in a nearby airstrike that killed six people. There was no warning.
After the explosion he says the first thing his family did was call each other’s names. “Anyone who saw the aftermath would think no one came out alive,” Nidal said, surveying his handiwork – he happens to be a builder.
The governor of Baalbek-Hermel, Bachir Khodr, confirmed the situation described by Nidal, Nabih and their neighbours.
“There are many people who are unlucky, who have nothing to do with Hezbollah, who have died, who have been hit in their homes. We have seen children, women, old people who have nothing to do with it, nor any of their family members, who have no connection with Hezbollah,” Bachir told °®Âţµş.
On Friday, the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs the “alarming escalation in the human toll of Israeli airstrikes in densely populated areas across Lebanon.
“The protection of civilians is not optional - it is a moral and legal obligation binding on all parties to armed conflict. Under International Humanitarian Law (IHL), directing attacks against civilians and civilian objects is prohibited … Even when attacks are directed against a military objective, they must not cause disproportionate civilian harm,” the statement added.
The worst of winter is fast approaching in Baalbek. Towards evening there is a nasty chill in the air. But still residents will not leave: they cannot afford to do so. Instead, they board up broken windows and rebuild what they can.
Staying is hard, they say, but leaving is harder.