For many families in southern Lebanon, displacement is no longer a one-time tragedy—it has become a recurring cycle. Some families sheltering at Nazih Al-Bizri Official Intermediate School have been forced to flee their homes three times. The ceasefire of November 2024 was repeatedly violated—the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) has recorded more than 10,000 Israeli breaches since the truce took effect—and near-daily Israeli attacks on southern Lebanon have driven these families into corridors that now serve as temporary homes. Their displacement is not an isolated misfortune; it is part of a larger, painful pattern of instability that has made the concept of home almost impossible for many.

In the early morning along the coast of Saida (Sidon), the hallways of Nazih Al-Bizri echo with sounds far removed from lessons or exercises in mathematics. The morning routine is reduced to collecting water, washing dishes, helping younger siblings dress on thin mats and worn bedding, and trying to shield children from the constant fear carried in news bulletins from the villages they fled.

Many of these families were first displaced during the Israeli military escalation in Lebanon in 2023, and repeated attacks have only added to the trauma. Returning home appears a distant dream—and in some cases, homes may no longer exist, or they may fall inside areas that Israel continues to occupy south of the Litani River. According to Lebanese authorities, Israeli forces retain five military outposts on highlands in southern Lebanon and have demolished hundreds of homes in border villages since the ceasefire.

The crisis has only deepened in the recent days. This March, Israel’s attacks on Lebanon escalated sharply during the Iran war, and the conflict resumed at full intensity. According to The UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA), more than 8,22,000 people—including nearly 3,00,000 children—have been registered as displaced, with about 1,28,000 sheltering in nearly 600 collective sites across the country. The Lebanese health ministry reported that more than 1,500 people had been killed and over a million displaced since early March alone.

On April 8, hours after Pakistan brokered a two-week ceasefire between the US and Iran, Israel launched what it called “Operation Eternal Darkness”—its largest wave of air strikes on Lebanon since the war began, hitting hundreds of targets in 10 minutes across Beirut, Saida, Tyre, and the Beqaa valley, killing at least 254 people. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu declared that the ceasefire with Iran did not extend to Lebanon, contradicting Pakistan’s mediation terms.

For families huddled in school corridors in Saida, the message was unmistakable: no truce applied to them.

Morning at the school

In the school’s main corridor, hallways have turned into crowded spaces filled with displaced families. Women, couples, and elderly individuals share the same open areas, while bathrooms sit directly beside the corridors, compounding discomfort and making daily routines harder.

Alia, a mother of four and caregiver for her elderly parents, said: “Since we arrived, everything has been exposed. There is no privacy for women, couples, or elderly people. Even the bathrooms are next to the corridors, and we cannot prepare ourselves away from everyone’s eyes. Recently, another section of the school was opened and we moved there, but it is still crowded. We try to prepare food daily depending on what is provided to us, and if we want to buy anything extra, there is no money.”

Also Read | How Hassan Nasrallah nurtured Hezbollah from an anti-Israel militia to a formidable political force and beyond

Whether families will return home—or whether their homes are still standing—remains unknown. What was meant to be a temporary shelter has now stretched into months, and daily life in the corridors is filled with psychological and practical hardships, from preparing meals to depending almost entirely on assistance from charities and humanitarian organisations.

As the number of displaced families grew and official institutions showed limited capacity to manage the crisis, the Muslim Scouts Association emerged as a principal actor in organising the affairs of families inside Nazih Al-Bazri Official Intermediate School. The school is one node in a national shelter system buckling under pressure, and the Muslim Scouts are performing a role the state struggles to fulfil—coordinating aid and maintaining some semblance of order.

On the ground, Anas Hammoud, one of dozens of volunteers in the Muslim Scouts, supervises the distribution of aid and daily services for families. Wearing the distinctive scout scarf, he moves between groups, recording notes in a small notebook to ensure operations run smoothly.

Hammoud said the work went beyond distributing food. “We aim to provide sustained support through coordination with external actors—Lebanese organisations, local municipalities, and international humanitarian partners—in order to meet families’ long-term needs,” he said.

Volunteers organise water distribution, maintain sanitation facilities, and manage a children’s corner where children can read, draw, sing, and dance under supervision. They also arrange recreational activities during holidays, including distributing toys and organising programmes aimed at improving children’s psychological well-being and easing the effects of trauma.

The association also coordinates with external partners to provide food baskets, mobile toilets, medical supplies, educational materials, and psychological support teams. “We quickly realised that relying solely on government support would not be enough,” Hammoud added. “So we built a network of partnerships with organisations we had worked with before, aiming to provide sustained support rather than temporary relief.”

Challenges remain considerable. Resources are not always available, and the psychological pressures faced by displaced people continue to mount.

Inside the school, classrooms are no longer spaces for learning. They have been converted into temporary sleeping areas and storage spaces for heavy mats and distributed aid. Months of lost education weigh heavily on both parents and children.

Inside one classroom now sheltering the family of 10-year-old Amir Saad, the boy plays football near the mats, trying to find space for moments of joy amid chaos. Occasionally, he smiles, recalling how they celebrated a relative’s birthday in the classroom a few days earlier, while the room was covered with blankets and bags.

“I miss my teachers and my books,” Amir said quietly. “It is noisy here, I cannot hear well, and sometimes I am scared of loud sounds.” His experience reflects a broader population-level crisis. Before this escalation, three in five people in Lebanon already screened positive for depression, anxiety, or PTSD (Lebanon’s National Mental Health Programme, 2025). A nationally representative study published in Frontiers in Psychiatry in 2024, surveying 1,000 Lebanese adults, found that roughly half the population screened positive for probable depression (47.8 per cent), anxiety (45.3 per cent), or post-traumatic stress disorder (43.5 per cent)—a consequence of compounding crises including the economic collapse, the Beirut port explosion, and successive wars. A separate 2024 study of 400 internally displaced Lebanese found an even higher PTSD prevalence of 64.8 per cent. Amir flinching at loud sounds is not an isolated case; it shows widespread psychological trauma among displaced children.

Hidden wounds

Living conditions inside the school are extremely difficult. Bathrooms are overcrowded during peak hours, clean water is limited, and the lack of privacy increases psychological pressure on both adults and children.

The Islamic Medical Association provides daily medical examinations for displaced families and distributes essential medication. Limited resources, however, prevent the organisation from supplying all necessary treatments, particularly for elderly individuals suffering from chronic illnesses who require continuous medication.

The most serious impact remains the ongoing psychological effects of displacement and fear. Anxiety, nightmares, regression in children’s skills, and loss of appetite represent hidden wounds that surface daily in an environment not designed for long-term habitation.

Elderly individuals experience additional psychological pressure as memories of shelling, explosions, shattered glass, and sudden evacuation orders resurface, leaving them in a constant state of anticipation at any sound passing near the school.

Most families arrived with limited belongings, making loss of income one of the greatest challenges facing displaced people. Small businesses, agriculture, and trade that once sustained livelihoods have ground to a halt, leaving families almost entirely dependent on food assistance and basic supplies provided by the Muslim Scouts and other humanitarian organisations.

High unemployment among displaced populations compounds pressure on households, forcing some adults to reduce their own food consumption to feed children, or to borrow money from relatives. Economic hardship creates a persistent sense of uncertainty about the future, making daily life inside the shelter even harder.

Giving despite hardship

Near Nazih Al-Bazri School, Al-Kuwaitiya School has also received displaced families. Among them is Mohammad Tarhini, a displaced man from one of the southern villages, who launched a modest initiative. Before displacement, Tarhini worked as a barber in his village. Current conditions pushed him to find a way to support his family while also helping others.

He began offering haircuts for displaced individuals and residents of Saida for a symbolic fee of 1,00,000 Lebanese pounds—roughly one dollar—aiming to ease the financial burden on families who have lost their income. The initiative was not merely commercial; it created a space for social connection, small moments of relief, and a sense of stability amid chaos.

Also Read | Deadly cyber attack in Lebanon reveals the new face of warfare

Because of the close proximity between the two schools, some displaced people from Nazih Al-Bazri began visiting Tarhini for haircuts, creating a bridge of interaction between the two shelters and helping reduce feelings of isolation. The initiative provided Tarhini with income to support his own family while offering a small humanitarian service to others in the same predicament.

Such initiatives demonstrate that displaced individuals are not merely recipients of aid but active contributors capable of creating small opportunities that alleviate daily hardship and foster mutual support, even under the most difficult circumstances.

As the sun sets over Saida, the hallways of Nazih Al-Bazri School, now an overcrowded shelter, grow quieter. Dinner preparations, whispers, and nightly routines reflect families’ desire to return to normal life.

Despite overcrowding, psychological pressure, interrupted education, and economic losses, a quiet resilience persists. Volunteers and humanitarian organisations provide a sense of order amid disorder, while children find moments of play through drawing and colours—brief escapes offering small comfort.

Yet the hope of return carries a harder edge: many homes in southern Lebanon may no longer exist, or may lie within areas Israel continues to occupy. The April 8 air strikes on Saida and across the country—launched even as a regional ceasefire was being announced—have only deepened the uncertainty. For displaced families, home is not merely a place but a symbol of peace and stability they have pursued for years. The path toward return remains unclear, but a fragile hope allows them to persevere, maintaining routines within the shelter despite circumstances unlike any they have experienced before.

Rawan Sayyed is a Palestinian journalist who works as a content creator and news writer. She has also completed several documentary filmmaking projects.