War and Eid.. Al Jazeera Net with the displaced in Lebanon | policy

Beirut- In Lebanon, Eid al-Fitr did not come this year as people were accustomed to it. It arrived burdened with voices that had not yet subsided, with displacement bags that had not been emptied, and with homes that were hastily closed and it was not known when their doors would be opened again.

Between a war that infiltrates the details of daily life and a displacement that redraws the country’s human geography, thousands find themselves facing a different Eid in which joy is reduced to timid attempts to survive with meaning.

In shelters, on sidewalks, and in temporary homes, waiting intersects with nostalgia, children watching the Eid from afar without new clothes, mothers hiding their anxiety behind reassuring words, while parents try to restore broken diaries that used to be stable.

Here, not only are the rituals of this happy occasion absent, but its meaning changes to become linked to one idea: return.

Eid is absent

Amidst this scene, circumstances vary from one region to another, but the story is the same: a holiday without homes, postponed joy, and a memory that resists forgetting.

Thus, Eid in times of war turns into a sharp mirror that reveals the weight of displacement, and raises one question that is repeated everywhere: How can joy find its way, when the homeland itself is in a state of waiting?

Inside one of the shelter centers in the city of Sidon, south of Lebanon, the picture starts from the points closest to the displacement line. There, Al Jazeera Net toured among the displaced families, monitoring the details of a holiday that passes without features, and listening to mothers whose words sum up the weight of days of displacement.

The children are running and playing, but their laughter is faint and their smiles are faint, as if the joy has become very far away. Hana Noman embraces her son and daughter, touching their little faces in an attempt to bring back the smile they lost. She said in a voice mixed with sadness and hope, “For them, Eid is just a word on an empty wall. All they want is to return to their home, where Eid is real.”

For her part, Umm Hassan watched her children with tired eyes, and said, “They used to rejoice in their Eid clothes and toys. But today, the laughter stops at the door. Sometimes I find them hiding in the corners, trying to pretend to play. Eid has become a postponed dream.”

Umm Sami added with a trembling voice, “My children do not know the meaning of Eid anymore. There is no moment of joy without fear, nor safety. Everything has changed, even their smiles have become fragile. I only dream of returning, not to home, but to the life that was taken from us.”

There are no decorations on the walls, no colors filling the place, not even Eid sweets. The cold wind carries with it the smell of rain and wet earth, and the children are trying to find a moment of respite from the days of displacement that made them older than their years.

Incomplete joy

In another corner, quiet Eid songs are playing. The children are trying to interact with the games and activities, but the joy seems like a shadow that touches them without reaching their hearts. Umm Sami explained as she watched her children with eyes full of sadness, “Eid is the gathering of the family, the visit of relatives, and the laughter that mixes with the sounds of conversations… We did not feel the month of Ramadan this year, so how can we feel the Eid?”

Between faint laughter and suppressed tears, everyone realizes that the absent Eid is no longer just a day on the calendar, but rather a life that has disappeared, waiting to return to homes and to the life before displacement, where laughter and safety were part of every moment.

To Hasbaya

From Sidon, the picture extends towards Hasbaya, where Al Jazeera Net monitored the conditions of the displaced people distributed in the schools of the region. There live about a thousand displaced people who were forced to leave their villages under the weight of bombing.

In one of the classrooms that was turned into a shelter, Zaina Rashid, a displaced person from the town of Khiam, said that Eid this year was “tasteless” after she lost stability again. She recalled a brief moment of returning to her home months ago, before she returned and left under the pressure of escalation, and added, “The home gives a person his soul back, but we lost it again.”

Along with her, Hassan Haidar described the reality of the Eid, and stressed that it came “burdened with sadness” in light of the continued bombing and the absence of any atmosphere of joy. However, he pointed out that the ordeal imposed another form of cohesion, as it brought together displaced families in a common space in which they shared the details of daily life.

Beirut completes the scene

Between southern Lebanon being emptied of its people and families searching for shelter, the picture turns north towards the capital, Beirut, where Al Jazeera Net toured the streets and public squares, where scenes of displacement intensify and blend with the city’s crowding.

In Martyrs’ Square, some families are sleeping on the sidewalks, while others have taken refuge in their cars or overcrowded shelter centers. Abbas Ali Hamiya, a father of five children, said that Eid is absent this year and that children ask questions to which he has no answers.

Hard exodus

On the waterfront, tents rise up housing dozens of families who arrived weeks ago, to spend the Eid in the same place where they took refuge to escape the bombing. There, Fatima Barq stated that she could not even exchange congratulations, because this occasion “does not take place outside the home.”

Despite this, Eid is trying to find a timid foothold in the capital through individual initiatives and associations that roam the shelter centers, distributing sweets and toys to children, in an attempt to capture fleeting moments of joy.

From Beirut, the picture continues east towards the Bekaa. In the city of Zahle, inside a high school that was turned into a shelter center, Al Jazeera Net monitored the reality of displaced families facing a different Eid with all its details.

Raja Abdel Dirani recounted her arduous displacement journey, before summarizing her anxiety by focusing on her children and grandchildren, trying to ease the burden of the circumstances on them with reassuring words. As for Muhammad Oqodi, he recalled past holidays that were bustling with activity and markets, before concluding bitterly, “Today we live in a reality without holidays.”

Thus, across the Lebanese map from the south to the capital and then to the Bekaa, places change and stories are renewed. Eid arrived for the displaced people laden with absence, with a burdened memory of what was left behind, and with timid attempts to preserve what remained of the rituals of joy.

Despite the difference in circumstances from one region to another, the common denominator remains the same: the expectation of return, that dream that alone is capable of returning the Eid to its true meaning.

In the heart of this harsh reality, the displaced cling to a thin thread of hope, through which they try to save what remains of the joy of Eid, with a kind word or a fleeting smile. Here, this occasion is not measured by what is worn or bought, but rather by people’s ability to persevere and by their belief that the day they return to their towns, the holiday will regain its full features.