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Yesterday, the US and Iran announced a two-week ceasefire. For us in Lebanon, I’m not optimistic this will change anything. While world leaders are discussing a pause, Israel and the US have explicitly stated that Lebanon is not included in the agreement. So far, Israel is still attacking – if anything, more intensely than before.
In the past two years, I have been forced to flee my home twice because of war. Both times, I told myself that I would adjust, and that things would stabilise. Both times, I continued my job at an aid organisation, helping people who were also impacted by the war.
In late 2024, while Israel’s attacks continued, I adapted to the noises and news updates. On some days I felt anxious, but on others it just felt like this was normal life.
This time, as one of the more than one million people who have been internally displaced over the past five weeks in Lebanon by Israel’s bombing and ground invasion, it feels different. Because Israel has struck so many different parts of the country, including residential homes, nowhere feels truly safe. Yesterday alone, Israel killed at least 254 people in bombings across Lebanon.
In so many ways, my life has been turned upside down. Sometimes, working to make sure others safely get their basic necessities – like food, water, and shelter – feels like the only structure I have left. It creates a sense of purpose in a situation that is utterly unstable.
But it also requires an emotional and mental capacity that is not always available. The same work that keeps me – and other aid workers who are doing their best while also suffering through the war – going can become an added layer of pressure.
The first displacement
When the violence began ramping up in 2024, I waited until the last minute to leave my family’s apartment near the southern suburbs of Beirut. My parents sensed the danger and left earlier, but I was in denial. I didn’t think it would get that bad.
I also didn’t want to leave my job, which I thought would be harder to do from my family’s village in north Lebanon, where most of them fled to.
It was difficult, but I managed to keep working remotely in my job at Basmeh & Zeitooneh, a refugee-led NGO that works directly on the ground with Syrian and Palestinian refugees, as well as vulnerable Lebanese host communities.
I got used to the months of bombing, but it wasn’t really normal. I will never forget the first time I went back to our Beirut apartment after the late November 2024 ceasefire between Israel and Hezbollah. It wasn’t destroyed, but it didn’t feel like home anymore.
There was a heavy, unfamiliar silence, the kind that made me feel like something could happen at any moment. There was dust everywhere, and the windows and doors had been forced open by a nearby airstrike. A bomb had completely wiped out the road I used to drive on to work everyday.
That moment has stayed with me more than anything else that happened. Not because of the scale of destruction, which was vast, but because something so familiar could disappear in an instant.
This time around
Maybe that’s why when the talk of escalation, threats, and tension in the region started again this time, I didn’t react. I couldn’t. I scrolled through social media without really reading, and forced myself to go to sleep early. I held on to routine and told myself nothing would happen.
It’s not that I didn’t understand what was going on, but I couldn’t comprehend leaving home again. I didn’t prepare an emergency bag. The bag was there, but I left it empty.
On 2 March, during Ramadan, I went to sleep after breaking my fast and woke up to the sounds of bombing. For a few seconds, I was shocked and disoriented. My heart pounded as I called out for my parents and siblings, trying to find them in the house.
Where do we go? Would we fit in one car? I packed quickly: important documents, some clothes, water. We were fasting, and no one was thinking clearly. We were just trying to get out.
People were shooting in the air to warn neighbours that Israel had begun bombing or issued a mass evacuation order. People were shouting. There was movement everywhere. All of these were signals that we needed to go.
This time I wasn’t alone. My parents were with me, as were my siblings, including my brother who has both cognitive and visual disabilities and needs constant support.
Suddenly, it wasn’t just about leaving. It was about how to move all eight of us. Where do we go? Would we fit in one car? I packed quickly: important documents, some clothes, water. We were fasting, and no one was thinking clearly. We were just trying to get out.
The streets were blocked. Traffic everywhere, with people panicking and everyone trying to leave at the same time. We ended up driving to an area that seemed less likely to be targeted and pulled over by the side of the road in the middle of the night. From 2am to 9am, we sat in the overcrowded car. I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep.
At some point, everything quieted down. It wasn’t safer, but quieter. We headed north, but I was still in denial, telling myself that by tomorrow we would be back and that this would all pass in a few hours. At the same time, another thought kept coming up: What if where we were going isn’t safe either? What if they strike there too?
Work does not stop
Over the past five weeks, my family has had to split up because we couldn’t afford to rent a place big enough for all of us. I’m staying with my fiancé and his family. In total we are 15 displaced people in one house. There is no privacy.
I’ve lost my daily routine and my own space. I used to run or go to the gym to manage stress, but now it feels like I can barely move. It feels strange to be a professional whose job is to keep others safe while I’m far away from my family, worrying about them and struggling to do the things I know I need to feel okay.
At the same time, the work does not stop. As a safeguarding officer at Basmeh & Zeitooneh, my role is to make sure that, even in emergency response, people are not exposed to harm – that aid distributions are safe, that no one is exploited or pressured, and that concerns can still be reported confidentially.
In situations like this, the risks increase. We are delivering aid to displaced people both in formal shelters and elsewhere. With so many people displaced, overcrowding, tension, and urgency create conditions where safeguarding can easily be compromised. Maintaining high standards requires focus and clarity – things that are difficult when you are personally affected.
Across the humanitarian sector, local responders are expected to carry the response forward while living through the same crisis. The system depends on us but does not fully resource the duty of care funders should be responsible for.
It took me time to regain that focus. I am mostly working remotely once again, and tasks that would normally take one hour took me days. Simple decisions felt overwhelming. My thoughts were scattered, constantly interrupted by noise, by updates, by the environment around me. I didn’t feel like this in 2024. This time around feels more tense, less predictable.
Yesterday, Israel hit more than 100 times in 10 minutes. I tried to focus on who I needed to check on and who might be in danger, but it was so overwhelming, not knowing what was happening or where the hits were landing.
My job gives me a sense of stability. But it is stressful too. In my organisation, there is understanding. Many people are in similar situations to mine. My managers are flexible, and there is a genuine effort to support staff. But I think the challenge facing all aid organisations is not a lack of willingness – it’s a lack of structure to support aid workers who are living through a crisis.
There is support at the colleague to colleague, human to human level, but it is not backed by dedicated resources or sustainable funding. There is no built-in space to pause, recover, or process while continuing to respond. Across the humanitarian sector, local responders are expected to carry the response forward while living through the same crisis. The system depends on us but does not fully resource the duty of care funders should be responsible for.
Local staff are not only implementing programmes. We are navigating displacement, instability, and personal risk while ensuring assistance is delivered safely and with accountability.
Without structural investment in staff care and sustainability, this model is not viable. Safeguarding – and all quality aid programmes – depend on people who are able to function, think clearly, and make sound decisions.
If we want principled and safe humanitarian responses, then we need to resource the people delivering them – not only operationally, but in their capacity to continue. Otherwise, we are placing increasing expectations on systems that are already stretched beyond their limits.
Because behind every response, there is someone trying to hold it all together, even when they are barely holding on.
Edited by Annie Slemrod.
