In Lebanon, a search for safety and sanity as half a million are displaced

SIDON, Lebanon — Ahmad Ghaddar couldn't sleep. He was sitting on a seaside railing, alternating drags of his cigarette and sips of coffee.

It had only been a day since his neighbor in their town of Ghaziah got a phone call from the Israeli army warning residents to evacuate. It seemed like so much longer.

Ghaddar already knew the destructive power of Israeli missiles — he'd seen one hit a building near his home — so he bundled his parents and siblings in the car ("There were eight of us. We could barely breathe," he said) and drove to his aunt's place in nearby Sidon.

"When we were driving, we heard blasts from every direction," he said. "It was like a video game."

They had joined the deluge of what authorities estimate are half a million Lebanese displaced by the conflict between Israel and Hezbollah as well as more than 600 people killed by Israeli strikes this week.

His aunt's place was the best option, since every hotel, mosque, school-turned-shelter in Sidon was already filled with other displaced families. But in his aunt's home, with her brother's family also staying there, 23 people were packed into the same apartment.

"I just couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't even go to the bathroom," Ghaddar said. He also couldn't sleep so he went outside, and spent the night walking back and forth on Sidon's promenade, the sea castle built by crusaders in the 13th century in the background.

That's where 21-year-old Ghaddar remained on a recent morning, and where he had made the decision: He was going back to Ghaziah and staying there, come what may.

"At least I'll sleep in my bed. Go to my own bathroom. Maybe even light up an arghileh (water pipe)," he said, a faint smile crinkling his face.

A friend sitting by him started off discouraging him, telling him he should stay with his family and not put himself in danger. But Ghaddar countered with some gallows humor.

"Man, my roof is made from straw. I'm not a fighter — they can see everything I do anyway," he said, referring to Israeli drones.

His friend Abbas, who gave only his first name over fears of backlash for speaking to Western media, played along.

"Yeah, I guess so. Besides, why would they bother sending a million-dollar missile for your house?"

Both laughed before turning to a man sleeping on the ground nearby, swathed in whatever items of clothing he had salvaged from his home.

"He's been here since the first day of the attacks, just sleeping in the sun," Ghaddar said.

The Lebanese militant group Hezbollah began lobbing rockets into northern Israel last October in what it says is a solidarity campaign with Palestinians in Gaza. By this month, the fighting had already driven 90,000 people from their homes in Lebanon and 60,000 in northern Israel. Israel's escalation has killed hundreds of people, injured thousands and displaced an estimated 500,000, Lebanese authorities say.

Some — more than 30,000 Syrian or Lebanese citizens — have fled into war-torn Syria, authorities say, a stunning turn considering Lebanon is still hosting hundreds of thousands of Syrian refugees who fled that country's ongoing civil war. But most of the displaced in Lebanon are looking for shelter within their country.

Though the government, NGOs, political parties and private volunteer groups have set up hundreds of shelters across Lebanon, the magnitude of the crisis is already proving too much for a country suffering through a multiyear political crisis.

Many of the shelters are plagued by lack of maintenance, ill-equipped to handle large numbers of evacuees. Many don't have enough mattresses, bedding or food.

"Every time they distribute aid, they go up floor by floor and by the time they get to us it's finished," said Reham Fadlallah, a 21-year-old beauty salon stylist from the Dahieh, the Hezbollah-dominated southern suburbs of Beirut. "Then they repeat the same thing, so we get nothing."

She and her aunt came to a hotel management institute turned shelter in the Dekawneh neighborhood of Beirut on Tuesday, after finding it through a combination of word-of-mouth and WhatsApp groups. There were no fans to help with Beirut's still-sweltering weather, and no running water.

"I can't believe it. We've been shouting since yesterday for this," Fadlallah said to a passing volunteer.

"We can't find a plumber — sorry," the volunteer responded, walking briskly past.

Unlike Ghaddar, Fadlallah couldn't go back home. Living in Dahieh, among Hezbollah officials, administrators and possibly even fighters, meant the area was a target. The day before, a neighbor had told her their building was going to be hit — and it was, just as she was leaving with her aunt, Nadia.

Fadlallah couldn't easily find a place to rent. Prices were already skyrocketing, and many Lebanese, fearing Israeli airstrikes targeting Hezbollah officials, were reluctant to rent out apartments to people from those areas.

And other shelters were full so for now she stayed, hoping for rest and some running water.

"I just want to shower," Fadlallah said.

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