Mina sits in a white tarpaulin tent inside a repurposed school hall on the outskirts of Tyre, a city in southern Lebanon. She’s suddenly overwhelmed with grief as she reflects on the home she was forced to leave behind in the quiet hillside town of Beit Lif on the country’s southern border, which is now under Israeli occupation.
“It was a big and beautiful house,” says Mina, who asked to withhold her real name due to safety concerns. “Everyone loves their home.”
The forty-three-year-old mother of four now shares two tiny makeshift rooms with her children and husband at the former school building in Tyre, where the sounds of other families ring out from the tents surrounding them. There’s little privacy here in Save the Children’s largest community shelter in the area, which now houses 200 families.
Mina has been displaced four times since 2023 due to Israel’s advances in southern Lebanon. She doesn’t know if her family home in Beit Lif is still standing. Satellite imagery suggests the town has endured severe damage, and there’s little indication border region residents from occupied areas will be allowed to return anytime soon. In fact, many displaced people in Tyre fear another wave of displacement may be on the horizon.
War between Israel and Hezbollah broke out in March, in the latest round of hostilities preceded by years of tension, flare-ups of conflict, and deadly exchanges. Not long after, Israel launched a ground incursion, occupying nearly one-fifth of Lebanon at the height of its advances, and killing at least 4,300 Lebanese people so far—efforts considered illegal under international law by human rights groups—while carving out a military buffer zone now known as the “Yellow Line.”
A tentative ceasefire between Israel and Lebanese authorities was announced in April, with further truces in June cementing what appeared to be the promise of peace in the area—though this was rejected by Hezbollah officials. Yet for those living in southern Lebanon, the ceasefire never fully materialized anyway—Israeli strikes and detonations have continued almost daily. Likewise, the agreements failed to provide respite to the thousands of displaced people who can’t return home. Mina says all she wants for her family is “a safe life”, including stability for her children away from the risk of bombs, but Israel continues to fire into areas such as Nabatieh and Mansouri amid signs that further escalation is looming.
Tamara Davison
Roughly 200 families live in makeshift tents set up in this Lebanese school hall, with no indication of if or when they’ll be able to return to their homes in southern Lebanon.
At night at the community shelter in Tyre, the sounds of explosions continue to echo nearby, with Israel now targeting the town of Mansouri just six miles away. Recent reports suggest the strategic strikes targeting roads and buildings could be setting the scene for a military battle in an area covering the entire southernmost part of Lebanon.
Just outside the shelter, sixty-four-year-old Fatimah takes refuge with her grown daughters and their families under a tree. While we talk, her grandchildren enthusiastically play nearby, participating in activities hosted by Save the Children.
Fatimah’s family worked in agriculture before their displacement. She describes the beauty of the landscapes surrounding their home in the town of Mansouri. In early August, Israel issued evacuation orders for the town before launching multiple rounds of strikes. Like other displaced families in Tyre, Fatimah doesn’t know what remains of the life they left behind.
“Daily, daily, continuous bombing of the country,” says Fatimah, who also asked to withhold her real name for safety reasons. “I mean daily, we don’t know what happens next. The drones, they’re non-stop, so we don’t know what the damage is that’s happening there.”
Across Lebanon, temporary shelters have become a precarious substitute for a permanent solution. According to figures released in August by the United Nations, 360,000 people remain displaced within Lebanon, and 22,000 still live in shelters nationwide—though some shelters have since closed as people gradually returned to southern regions.
Back at Mina’s family tent, her teenage son tells me he’s thankful they at least have an electric fan to keep cool during a sweltering summer. But access to food, education, and health care often falls to overstretched NGOs like Save the Children working around the clock to support displaced people.
Tamara Davison
At least 300 schools are still housing displaced families across Lebanon, including this location in Tyre.
A more immediate concern is the beginning of a new school year this month. As a result of the conflict, hundreds of thousands of children in Lebanon have had their education disrupted in the past six months. Many families have held onto hope that the new school year will offer a fresh start. Yet with more than 300 public schools across Lebanon still operating as community shelters, humanitarian staff warn there’s a risk some displaced families may have to relocate once again in the coming weeks to make way for the new school year.
Here in Tyre, families feel caught between such uncertainty, with little idea of where else to go—or how safe it’ll be. Nora Ingal, country director for Save the Children Lebanon, puts it bluntly: “There is no ceasefire on the ground here in Lebanon six months after.” Ingal says she is “hugely concerned” about potential escalation.
“They are bombarding villages every night, every day,” she says. “Every morning I wake up, and I see how many attacks this month. Last night there were twenty-nine airstrikes and shellings . . . . If there’s only one party upholding the ceasefire, how long is it going to be for the second party to also stop respecting the ceasefire?”
International efforts to prevent another major escalation hinge on the outcome of Israel’s upcoming general elections in late October. But for families on the ground in south Lebanon, the primary concern isn’t politics, but rather, a roof over their heads and the guarantee of basic human rights.
Sitting in this limbo, Mina cuddles her youngest son as he idly plays with a toy gun. She says she’s thankful her children have activities and friends here. Yet Mina says her body aches from exhaustion and stress. And she questions whether she has the strength to relocate yet again—and what impact this might have on her children.
“Honestly, I don’t know the situation,” she sighs. “I don’t want to go.”