For returning families in Lebanon, home is closer yet still far away
For returning families in Lebanon, home is closer yet still far away
Fatima fled her home in March and now lives with her family in a school classroom in southern Lebanon.
Hundreds of thousands of displaced people in Lebanon have returned to their areas of origin in recent weeks. But for many, including Fatima and her family, who are living in a collective shelter at a school in southern Lebanon, home itself remains out of reach.
Fatima’s current situation is defined by uncertainty: Is her house still standing? Is it safe to go back? And if not, where does her family go next?
Home for Fatima is Mayfadoun, a village in the far south of Lebanon. "Throughout my whole life, I never left Mayfadoun," she said.
There, she had a two-bedroom house built with money earned from years of cultivating tobacco. Around it, she planted olive trees, carob and sumac.
"All my happy memories are inside my home, and on my land."
The house was far more than a place to live. It represented years of sacrifice and the promise of a secure future for her daughter. Then came displacement. Not once or twice, but three times.
Since March, Fatima, her husband and their 16-year-old daughter have followed a winding path across Lebanon: from Mayfadoun in the south to Charoun and Aley in the mountains overlooking Beirut, then to Saida on the coast. At one point, with nowhere else to go, they slept in their car.
Today, they live in a classroom in a school in Zefta, just a 20-minute drive from their home. Food and personal belongings are arranged on desks and bookshelves. With the new school year fast approaching, they may soon have to vacate, but cannot afford other accommodation and do not know where they will go next.
With the new academic year approaching, Fatima and her family may have to vacate the school.
Fatima has managed only one brief visit back to Mayfadoun since fleeing, and what she found confirmed her worst fears. The house she had spent years building was partially destroyed. Yet before the family could think about making repairs, the bombardments resumed.
Since then, the possibility of going back has felt increasingly distant.
"The Israeli [forces] are positioned in the mountain facing us. We fear that if we head to our homes, they will target us," she said.
Years of repeated displacement, deteriorating health and trauma have taken a heavy toll on her family.
Today, she speaks of wanting to sell the house she spent years building. Not because she loves it any less, but because fear has become inseparable from the idea of going back. Yet even as she contemplates letting go, her thoughts drift constantly to Mayfadoun, to the garden she planted and the life she built there.
"We pray to God for all this to settle down so that people can go back to their homes."
Others across Lebanon find themselves in a similar situation. Some stay with relatives. Others make repeated visits to assess damage before returning to temporary accommodation elsewhere. This is the reality of complex displacement.
Families exhausted by months and, for some, years of displacement are eager to go home. Yet continued insecurity, inaccessible villages, unexploded ordnance, debris-filled neighbourhoods and widespread destruction make returning impossible. Even for those who do manage to return to their communities, damaged infrastructure and disrupted livelihoods make it hard to resume their former lives.
As a result, what may appear on paper as a return is often only another stage in a much longer journey.
Vehicles wait to cross a security checkpoint in southern Lebanon as displaced families return homeward in June 2026.
Fatima's family is not alone. For many, the question is no longer only whether they can go back safely, but whether there will be anything left when they do.
A few classrooms away, two jalapeño plants sit on a windowsill. For Leila, it is a reminder of her village, Taybeh, that she still carries with her.
"This is a jalapeño. We had a few back home in the south," she said with a smile. "It is a land to behold. Even the olive oil of the south tastes different."
For Leila, Taybeh is inseparable from who she is. It is the land her family cultivated, the neighbours who dropped by unannounced, the gatherings that stretched long into the evening and the cemetery where generations of loved ones are buried.
Displacement has meant being cut off from more than just her home, but a part of her identity. "No one knows the feeling except those who have felt the pain."
They first fled three years ago, to Arzoun farther north along the coast, where they spent a year and a half trying to build a temporary life. Eventually, they made their way home, only for conflict to force them to flee once again.
After initially seeking safety in Beirut, they have now found refuge in the school in Zefta, less than an hour from Taybeh.
Leila waters chilli plants ton the windowsill of the school classroom where her family are living.
"We are exhausted, displaced for three years," Leila said. "Fleeing from one place to another. Our home is now inside a backpack. We don't know the feeling of safety and security."
The home they hoped to go back to was first damaged by fire and later completely destroyed.
Today, she worries not only about where they will live, but about whether an entire community can recover. Water systems, clinics, bakeries and infrastructure that sustained daily life have been damaged or destroyed.
In many cases, the loss goes far deeper than homes and infrastructure.
"Many of our family, friends and neighbours are unaccounted for; we don't know anything about them," Leila said.
For years, displacement was bearable because it came with one certainty: that one day it would end.
Today, even that certainty feels fragile.
"In the past, we always had a belief that we would return. Now we are facing a great unknown."
