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

Conversations in Tyre, a city in southern Lebanon, carry an urgent tone these days. With the looming threat of Israeli bombardment, simply lingering on the streets has turned into a perilous endeavor, transforming this once-vibrant community into a starkly quiet landscape. The sound of Israeli airstrikes and the crack of rockets being fired from Hezbollah frequently interrupt discussions, embedding a constant sense of danger into daily life.

Overhead, Israeli drones hover ominously, prompting drivers to navigate the deserted roads with caution. They recognize that being the sole vehicle in the area could turn them into targets. This pervasive awareness of danger is mirrored by the body armor many are now compelled to wear for protection. Meanwhile, civilians lack such defenses, and Prime Minister Najib Mikati reports that over a million Lebanese have been displaced, many without homes.

The war has stripped Tyre of its previously celebrated vibrancy, known for its Roman ruins and beautiful beaches. Streets are desolate, storefronts are shuttered, and the once-bustling coastline is hauntingly quiet. The local civil defense headquarters stands abandoned as rescue teams evacuate in response to escalating attacks.

Recently, the intensity of strikes has surged, with some of the heaviest munitions shaking the ground outside my hotel. Hezbollah, while defending against Israeli advances, is also exerting control over local media narratives, restricting the movement of journalists like myself.

Inside the hospitals, conditions appear grim. Doctors are visibly exhausted as they cope with a continuous influx of casualties. Many can’t return home due to the perilous situation outside. Dr. Salman Aidibi, CEO of Hiram Hospital, shared the story of nine-year-old Mariam, who arrived with severe injuries. “She came from a family of nine,” he recounted. “Five of them received treatment here. We operated on Mariam, and she is improving. We hope to send her home today.” The hospital sees an average of 30 to 35 injured women and children daily, taking a significant emotional toll on the medical staff.

Reflecting on their dire circumstances, Dr. Aidibi sighed, “We are in a war—a destructive war on Lebanon. We hope for peace, but we are prepared for all eventualities.”

Amidst this chaos, Hassan Manna has chosen to remain at his coffee shop in Tyre, which he has run for 14 years. “I’m not leaving my country,” he asserted. “I’m staying here with my children. I’m not afraid of them (the Israelis).”

Despite the horrors around him—witnessing the deaths of five neighbors during an airstrike—Hassan remains devoted to his home and community. “Let me die in my house,” he expressed, highlighting his deep connection to his roots.

In an emotional moment, he recounted the devastation he faced last weekend when missiles struck his neighborhood. “There was nothing there,” he insisted, mourning the loss of innocent lives, including elderly neighbors and a baby. “It’s unjust—totally unjust. We know these people; they were born here. I swear, I wish I had died with them.”

As the situation escalates, residents are gripped by a pervasive anxiety. One local woman, who requested anonymity, described her community’s tension. “The phone is always beeping,” she said. “We can never know when the Israeli attacks will come. It’s always tense.”

Her pessimism hung in the air as another unmistakable airstrike echoed nearby, sending a plume of smoke spiraling into the distance. Villages close to the border lie abandoned and devastated, ravaged by the ongoing conflict between Hezbollah and Israel. “If people want to come back later, there won’t be any houses left for them,” she noted. “And there isn’t a house without loss; all the men are Hezbollah.”

Reflecting on the current turmoil, she spoke of the dramatic change from previous years. “Even their supporters are now shocked by the scale and intensity of Israel’s attacks,” she shared. As our conversation concluded, she left me with a haunting sentiment: “We’ve entered a tunnel, and as of now, we cannot see the light.”

In the midst of this conflict, no one—from Tel Aviv to Tehran to Washington—can foresee what comes next for the region or how the Middle East will transform in its aftermath.