Beirut is a city that holds so much of my personal past. I lived and worked many times here between 2019 and 2021, and its streets and people became deeply connected with my memories. Now, in 2024, those memories are clouded by the people’s suffering. The conflict in Lebanon has upended lives, turning schools into temporary shelters for families forced to flee their homes.
Once lively classrooms now hold children and parents struggling against the cold and the weight of uncertainty. These children sleep on school floors, wondering why they can’t return to their homes, while parents fear the next airstrike and its unknown consequences.
Each day, I visit these shelters, offering what help we can. Yet, the people I meet share a common plea—they don’t just want aid; they want to return to a life of peace. They dream of a home where their children can be safe, away from the constant fear that shadows their days. Despite our best efforts, true relief for them is not in temporary support but in the hope of a peaceful tomorrow.].
I became a medical doctor because I believed in treating and saving lives. But after more than 10 years of responding to crises, I have seen lives beyond repair in ways I never imagined.Dr Ali Almohammed, MSF medical coordinator in Lebanon.
On September 28, I met a friend whose life had fallen apart, with his wife and mother now sleeping on the streets with nowhere left to go. It was a painful reminder of my own journey from Syria in 2014, when I crossed into Turkey under the cover of darkness, searching desperately for safety. I spent months moving between different shelters in Turkey and Iraqi Kurdistan, never sure where I would find refuge next.
I became a medical doctor because I believed in treating and saving lives. But after more than 10 years of responding to crises, I have seen lives beyond repair in ways I never imagined. With Doctors Without Borders MSF, I’ve been deployed to many conflicts and emergencies that most people only hear about in the news, including Syria, South Sudan, Ukraine, Iraq, Ethiopia, Sudan, and Lebanon.
Each mission, each new crisis, has become a chapter in a long story of resilience amidst unbearable pain. But that resilience is wearing thin, not just for those I serve but also for me. I am tired—tired of witnessing suffering and tired of the systems that perpetuate it.
Yet, amidst this heartbreak, I find reminders of why I cannot turn away. Even when the path is difficult, and hope feels distant, I know that our humanitarian efforts can make a difference, offering a small light in the darkness.
Displacement: A constant companion
My journey of displacement began in Aleppo in 2012. It was once my home, a place where I studied medicine, loved, built relationships, and made plans for my future. But the war ripped those plans apart, scattering me—and millions of others—and forcing me to cross borders in search of a place of safety illegally. Even now, after all these years, I struggle to put into words what it feels like to be uprooted from everything familiar, everything you’ve ever known.
Leaving Aleppo didn’t just take away my home; it took my life and my sense of peace. The constant displacement and uncertainty about the future chip away slowly at you. It’s not just the physical exhaustion; it’s the mental and emotional toll that settles deep into your bones. Every move is haunted by the question of when the next tragedy will strike.
The exhaustion I carry is also reflected in the faces of the people I meet. In camps in Iraq, temporary shelters in Lebanon, and overcrowded hospitals in South Darfur, I see people who are beyond tired—they are broken. They have survived bombs, violence, outbreaks, natural disasters, and displacement, and the psychological scars have left them shadows of who they once were.
A decade of humanitarian practice
For more than a decade, I have been part of MSF’s team, going where there is the most need. From treating severe malaria in South Sudan, to providing care for survivors of sexual violence in Ethiopia and managing a malnutrition crisis in South Darfur, I’ve poured everything I have into this work. But every mission has reminded me of the fragility of life and the limitations of humanitarian aid.
We heal wounds and provide humanitarian relief, but the root causes of many crises remain unaddressed. I’ve sat at negotiation tables with armed groups many times, trying to secure access to lifesaving aid, only to watch bureaucratic red tape or political agendas stall the help we are desperate to deliver. The constant struggle to provide healthcare in the face of political resistance is a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest can ease.
I am tired of seeing children die from preventable diseases. I am tired of watching families flee their homes, only to find themselves with no safe place to go. I am tired of walking through cities reduced to rubble and wondering how many more generations will grow up in the shadow of destroyed schools instead of classrooms.
Carrying the weight of psychosocial trauma
The psychosocial trauma isn’t just something I witness in others—it’s something I carry within myself. I remember the faces of patients and friends I could not save in Kobani in Syria, all the children whose lives were cut short by conflicts. These memories stay with me, a constant reminder of the limitations of what we can do. No matter how hard we try, we cannot fix the broken systems that allow this suffering to continue.
But in those darkest moments, there are also moments of humanity that keep me going: a mother’s grateful smile after I treated her ill child and an elderly woman who, despite losing everything, thanked me as I handed her diabetes medicine. These small acts of resilience and gratitude are what keep me pushing forward, reminding me that there is still light amidst the darkness.
I am tired, but I am not defeated.
Although I am tired, I am not defeated. Throughout my 10 years with MSF, I’ve witnessed the enduring impact that humanitarian work can have, even when it feels like only a drop in the ocean. I’ve seen people rise, despite overwhelming odds, and I’ve seen how solidarity, even in little doses, can make a difference.
My tiredness isn’t just personal; it’s collective. It’s the exhaustion of every humanitarian worker, nurse, midwife and doctor who has stood on the front lines, doing their best in a world that often feels indifferent. It’s the exhaustion of a world that has watched too much suffering, with too little change.
What I hope for, more than anything, is not just an end to my own fatigue, but an end to the need for humanitarian workers like me to work in war zones. I dream of a world where families, including my family, aren’t torn apart by violence, where children can grow up in peace, and where doctors like me can focus on curing people—not just surviving. I dream of a world where I can finally be with my son, with the love of family and friends, in a place where peace is no longer just a hope.
Yes, I am tired. But as long as there is work to be done, as long as there are lives to be saved, I will continue. And I hold onto the hope that one day, the world will no longer be so exhausted.
Testimonies from Saida, Lebanon
“There’s nothing like living in your own home,” reflects Hassan Zeineddine, 67, an internally displaced Lebanese man with hypertension. He and his wife fled Kfar Melki, in the south of Lebanon, after nearby Israeli bombardments, leaving with only the clothes on their backs. “My sons are also displaced, scattered across the country.
That alone is a struggle, but what we are going through is similar to what everyone else is.”
Having been uprooted three times during the recent escalations, Hassan, a retired employee who lost his pension and savings in the 2020 economic crisis, reminisces about the olive harvest and his deep connection to the land he was forced to leave behind. “There is nothing quite like the south. Wherever we go, whatever we lose, and whatever we are offered, we will always come back. I lived through the 1982 Israeli invasion and remember the airstrikes on southern villages then. As we returned to our homes then, we will now.”
Ghazi Abu Zeid, 45, was displaced from Kfar Roumane in the Nabatieh governorate of Beirut. After the area he sought refuge in became threatened, he was compelled to leave again. He previously worked with the Mines Advisory Group, helping remove landmines and cluster bombs left in south Lebanon during the 2006 war, before volunteering with the Lebanese civil defence's search and rescue teams.
Ghazi feels the weight of not being able to support his colleagues while his family relies on him. Speaking to MSF, he reflected on the challenging journey of leaving his hometown, spending 14 hours on the road with his 90-year-old mother in search of safety, on a route that normally takes two hours, and struggling with the uncertainty of whether they will have a home to return to.
Khadija, a Syrian refugee, and mother of five, was displaced from Nabatieh with her family. "She’s fading right before my eyes," says Khadija, pointing to her seven-year-old daughter, who she says suffers from stunted growth. She describes the harsh conditions in the open parking lot by the Saida coastline where they’ve sought refuge. "We never feel clean. People are competing over food here, and we don’t have enough clean water to wash. We go to the sea to relieve ourselves, but there are often men around."
Her children are battling various health issues, and it's breaking her spirit. "Sidra, 13, has asthma, Hiba, 7, weighs barely 10 kilograms, and Malak, my 8-month-old, has a fever and diarrhoea. I breastfeed her whenever I can, but it’s not always enough, and I can’t properly clean her bottles."
In a moment of despair, Khadija admits, "Sometimes I wish we had stayed and died in an airstrike instead of living like this."
Um Mohammad, a 40-year-old Syrian refugee displaced from Qsaibeh, in south Lebanon, has three daughters. She used to maintain her employer's garden, landscaping and building fences around his land. The night she fled Qsaibeh, an airstrike landed dangerously close. She recalls joining the community with buckets of water to put out the fire, and then her employer told her it was time to leave. She packed a change of clothes for each of her daughters, aged 18, 6, and 4, and grabbed only a blanket, leaving behind the groceries she had just bought that day on her kitchen floor.
Hala, 24, is a Syrian refugee and mother of three—Yamen, 2, Rawan, 3, and Razan, 6. She fled from the coastal town of Adloun in south Lebanon amidst airstrikes and the sirens of ambulances. "We left with nothing. We escaped on a motorcycle, but it broke down here in Saida. My husband went back to retrieve our belongings, but everything was stolen."
Now, they rely on aid for food. "All my children are sick with vomiting and diarrhoea. Rawan, who has down syndrome, used to receive physical therapy to walk and move. We had high hopes that she would begin verbal communication through speech therapy soon, and she had made so much progress. But now, all that is gone. She requires lots of medications and is often bullied by other children for not being able to express herself."
Shams Al Mahmoud, whose first name means 'sun' in Arabic and is a Syrian refugee, remains as bright and warm as ever, despite the hardships she and her family have endured. Along with her children—Mimar, 24, Mimas, Kazem, 20, and Marimar,14—Shams was displaced from Kfar Roumane and now lives in a parking lot in Saida, southern Lebanon. With an endearing smile, she recounts the moments her family escaped Israeli airstrikes in the town they had called home for over a decade, fleeing for 12 hours on foot to finally find relative safety in Saida. A few days later, Kazem and one of his sisters made a dangerous trip back to their former home on a borrowed motorcycle to rescue their two kittens, Simba and Mimi. “We thought of them as we were leaving,” says Marimar, as she fondly strokes one of the kittens. “But the airstrikes were too close. I’m so relieved we could go back for them.”
Myassar Obeid, a mother and caregiver from the southern border town of Marwaheen, was injured in airstrikes in Toura, in south Lebanon. This left her with multiple fractures in her face and hand. Our mobile medical team's doctor attended to her by cleaning and changing her bandages and checking her stitches. While Myassar, who lives with hypertension, has received vital chronic medication from MSF's mobile clinic, she is still awaiting the urgent surgery required to address her injuries. With over 11,300 people injured and more than 1.2 million displaced in the ongoing bombardments, the strain on Lebanon's healthcare system is rapidly exceeding its capacity to respond.
Najah Ashour, a Syrian refugee living in south Lebanon, was displaced once again along with her daughters—Maya, 11, Lujain, 6, and Sary, 9 months—after airstrikes struck the southern town of Baisariyeh. She is among the 1.2 million people displaced by the ongoing Israeli bombardments. While the war affects everyone, minority groups like Syrian refugees, migrant workers, the elderly, and people with disabilities face even greater risks of discrimination and exclusion, further limiting their access to healthcare and humanitarian aid.
Conflict and Displacement in Lebanon: An Escalating Humanitarian Crisis
Conflict in Lebanon: “Whatever We Lose, We Will Come Back”
