Anger, grief in south Lebanon city, almost deserted after Israeli strikes

Anger, grief in south Lebanon city, almost deserted after Israeli strikes

Conversations in Tyre in southern Lebanon happen in a hurry now. It’s not wise to linger on the streets, and there are fewer and fewer people to talk to.

Chats can be cut short by the rumble of Israeli bombing, or the sound of outgoing rocket fire by Hezbollah – which can attract incoming fire.

Israeli drones buzz overhead.

You drive fast, but don’t speed, knowing there are eyes in the sky. Mostly you are the only car on an empty road – which can make you a target.

That knowledge is always with us, like the body armour we now wear.

But civilians here have no armour plating to shield them, and many Lebanese no longer have a roof over their heads. More than one million have been forced to flee, according to the Prime Minister, Najib Mikati.

War has created a vacuum here – sucking the life out of this ancient city proud of its Roman ruins, and golden sandy beach.

Streets are empty, and shops shuttered. The seashore is deserted. Windows rattle with Israeli air strikes.

The local civil defence headquarters lies abandoned – rescue teams were forced to evacuate – to save themselves after they got a telephone warning from Israel.

Israeli strikes are getting louder and closer to our hotel – in recent days several strikes on the hills opposite us appear to involve some of Israel’s most destructive bombs, weighing in at 1000lb.

And then there is the Hezbollah factor. Even as the armed group is trying to hold off invading Israeli troops on Lebanese soil, it is controlling the international media in the city of Tyre. It limits our movements, though it has no control over what we write or broadcast.

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In hospitals, doctors look weary and overwhelmed. Many no longer go home because it is too dangerous to travel.

Instead, they tend to patients like nine-year-old Mariam, whose left leg is in a cast, and whose arm is heavily bandaged. She lies sleeping in a bed in Hiram Hospital, dark hair framing her face.

“She came in as part of a family of nine,” said Dr Salman Aidibi, the hospital CEO.

“Five of them were also treated. We operated on Mariam, and she is doing much better. We hope to send her home today. Most casualties are given first aid here and stabilised before being sent to other centres, because this hospital is on the front line.”

He says the hospital receives about 30-35 injured women and children a day, and it is taking its toll on staff.

“We need to be positive while we’re working,” he said. “It’s when we stop and contemplate, remember, that’s when we get emotional.”

Asked about what may lie ahead his response comes with a sigh. “We are in a war,” he says. “A destructive war on Lebanon. We hope for peace, but we are prepared for all eventualities.”

Also prepared for the worst is Hassan Manna. He’s staying put in Tyre as war tightens its grip. And he is staying open for business at the small coffee shop he has run for the past 14 years. Locals still pass by for a chat and some reassurance in the form of small plastic cups of sweet coffee.

“I’m not leaving my country,” Hassan told me. “I’m not leaving my house. I’m staying in my place, with my children. I’m not afraid of them (the Israelis).

“The whole world is out on the streets. We don’t want to be humiliated like that.

“Let me die in my house.”

Five of his neighbours were killed in their home by an Israeli air strike last weekend. Hassan saw it happen and was thrown in the air by two incoming Israeli missiles.

He managed to walk away with just an injured arm.

Was there a Hezbollah target there? We don’t know. Hassan says the dead were all civilians and members of one family, including two women and a baby.

Israel says its targets are Hezbollah fighters and their facilities, and not the people of Lebanon. Many here say otherwise – including doctors, and witnesses like Hassan.

Israel says it is taking steps to minimise the risk of harming civilians – accusing Hezbollah of hiding its infrastructure among civilian populations.

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“There was nothing (no weapons) there,” Hassan insisted. “If there was, we would have left the area. There was nothing to be bombed. The woman was 75.”

After the strike he dug in the rubble for survivors until he collapsed and was taken to hospital himself.

When he speaks of his neighbours his voice breaks with anger and grief – and his eyes fill with tears.

“It’s unjust,” he said, “totally unjust. We know the people. They were born here. I swear I wish I had died with them.”

Ten days ago, we got the view in a Christian area, close to the border.

One local woman – who asked not to be named – told me everyone was living on their nerves.

“The phone is constantly beeping,” she said. “We can never know when (Israeli) attacks are coming. It’s always tense. Many nights we can’t sleep.”

We were interrupted by the sound of an Israeli air strike, which sent smoke rising from distant hills.

She reeled off a list of villages nearer the border – now deserted and destroyed after the past year of tit for tat exchanges between Hezbollah and Israel.

She said the damage in these areas was already far greater than in the five-week war of 2006. “If people want to come back later”, she said, “there are no houses left to come back to.

“And there is no house that did not lose relatives,” she said, “either close or distant. All the men are Hezbollah.”

Before the war the armed group was always “bragging about its weapons, and saying it would fight Israel forever,” she told me. “Privately, even their followers are now shocked at the quality and quantity of attacks by Israel.”

Few here would dare to guess at the future. “We have entered a tunnel,” she said, “and until now we cannot see the light.”

From Tel Aviv, to Tehran, to Washington no one can be sure what is coming next, and what the Middle East will look like the day after.

 

Anger, grief in south Lebanon city, almost deserted after Israeli strikes

BBC