Over One Million Displaced in Lebanon as Families Seek Shelter in Qabr Chamoun's School Amid Escalating Violence

Families fleeing Israeli attacks take refuge in Lebanon's mountains as the country grapples with a crisis that has displaced over one million people. The military escalation, marked by air strikes and a ground invasion, has turned once-thriving communities into ghost towns. In Qabr Chamoun, a school now serves as a temporary shelter for those escaping southern Lebanon's violence. Its playground, once filled with laughter, now holds clothes strung between windows, while desks in classrooms have been pushed aside to make space for makeshift beds. The transformation is stark, but for displaced families, it is a lifeline.

Aymane Malli, 49, clutches his five-year-old son Jad's hand as he speaks of survival. "It's very difficult," he admits. But for Malli, the struggle is a necessity. He fled Habbouch with his wife and five children after Israeli bombing began on March 2. The attack followed the U.S.-Israel joint war against Iran and a deadly air strike that killed Iranian Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. "We wait," Malli says, repeating the words like a mantra. "Maybe one day everything will end, and we can return home … if we can return home. We don't have another choice." His words echo the desperation of millions forced to abandon their lives in search of safety.

The violence has shattered a fragile ceasefire that took effect in late November 2024 after over a year of cross-border attacks between Israel and Hezbollah. The U.N. has documented more than 10,000 ceasefire violations, with Israel repeatedly breaking the agreement. Recent weeks have seen a brutal escalation: Israeli air strikes and a ground invasion of southern Lebanon followed Hezbollah's retaliation for Khamenei's killing. Lebanese authorities report over 1,300 deaths, including 120 children, and more than 1.1 million displaced. For Bilal Hussein, a chef who fled Tyre with his family, the journey north was harrowing. "There were strikes around us," he recalls. "We realized we had to go." His two-day trek through traffic-clogged roads, sleeping in his car, became a microcosm of the chaos gripping the region.

Shelters across Lebanon are overflowing, and the reality for displaced families is grim. At Qabr Chamoun, aid groups say over 400 people were turned away due to capacity limits. Action Against Hunger reports supporting 43,000 displaced individuals in 247 shelters, but gaps remain. "Many people are still living in informal shelters or even on the streets," says Suzanne Takkenberg, the organization's regional director. Reduced funding has hampered efforts to meet basic needs, risking lives. In some shelters, water leaks through ceilings and walls, while children suffer from gastrointestinal illnesses and eye infections. Parents struggle to clean bottles, leading to outbreaks of diarrhoea among infants. These are not isolated cases—they reflect a nationwide crisis.

What happens next? Will the international community step up to address the humanitarian fallout, or will the suffering continue? As families like Malli's and Hussein's wait for peace, the question lingers: how long can displaced communities endure without sustainable solutions? The scars of war are deep, but so too is the resilience of those who refuse to give up. For now, survival remains their only goal.

The most vulnerable – children, older people, and people with disabilities – are the hardest hit. One in five displaced people is a child, yet conditions are far from adequate to meet their basic needs or guarantee their safety. Aid workers describe a landscape of unmet promises, where makeshift shelters lack clean water, medical supplies are scarce, and psychological trauma lingers in the air. "We're seeing a generation of children who have never known stability," said a UNICEF representative stationed in Beirut. "They're not just surviving; they're being erased from the fabric of their communities."

The destruction of key infrastructure, particularly bridges and access routes across the Litani River, is contributing to the growing isolation of southern Lebanon, and preventing more families from fleeing. Engineers inspecting the damage report that several bridges have been rendered unusable, cutting off entire villages from emergency supplies and evacuation routes. "This isn't just about roads," explained a local civil engineer. "It's about lifelines. Without access, we're trapped in a humanitarian crisis that could spiral out of control."

Damage to farmland and supply routes is also beginning to affect food production and access, raising concerns about long-term food security. Farmers in the region describe fields turned to rubble, irrigation systems destroyed, and livestock displaced. "We used to feed the entire south," said one farmer from the town of Marjayoun. "Now, we're struggling to grow enough for our own families." The World Food Programme has warned that without immediate intervention, southern Lebanon could face a severe famine by the end of the year.

Recent statements by Israeli officials also indicate intentions to establish a prolonged security presence or full-scale occupation in southern Lebanon, leaving many families wondering if they will ever return home. Military analysts note that the rhetoric has shifted from temporary operations to permanent control, with infrastructure projects and administrative plans being quietly drafted. "This isn't just about ending the fighting," said a Lebanese political analyst. "It's about rewriting the map of the region."

This worries Mohammed al-Mustafa, a sweets seller from Tyre who is also sheltering in Qabr Chamoun. "It's not the material things I worry about leaving behind," he said, his voice shaking. "It's the memories. We lived in that house for 40 years. Old photographs, our lives." "We hope we can go back and find them." His words echo across the camp, where families cling to the hope of return, even as the walls of their homes crumble behind them.