Lebanon Through My Eyes 

On my recent mission to Lebanon, I travelled to Saida, a city known for its serene shoreline, where beauty and hardship now live side by side.

There, at the South Lebanon Water Establishment, engineers walked me through the devastation: broken pipes and pumping stations silenced, empty shelves where spare parts should be. Electricity outages cripple the water systems, leaving families with nothing but contaminated supplies. Water is the source of life, and without it, survival falters. As my guides spoke, I could feel their frustration and the weight of responsibility pressing on them, knowing that entire communities depend on the restoration of these systems.

Nearby at a school sheltering displaced families, the reality was stark. Families, only steps away from a destroyed building, received me with “Tafadalee!” (“welcome”), offering me a tiny child’s chair to sit on. Even in anguish and uncertainty, they put others first, inviting me to feel at home in their fragile refuge.

In the next room, 17 people were living in one classroom, divided into sections for privacy. There were several heavily pregnant women and a two-week old baby I cradled in my arms as her exhausted mother looked on. Nearby, a mute, sick man of 85 lay on an old mattress on the floor, his frailty a reminder of how displacement strips away even the most basic comforts.

Some families I met had been displaced twice. Not all can work, but those who could, would leave the shelter and travel under dangerous conditions, risking their safety just to earn a living. Many had left everything behind or lost everything they once had. These families don’t know what their futures hold, yet the needs keep pressing in from every side: diapers for newborns, clean water, hygiene supplies, medicine and shelter. These are not luxuries, they are the basics for living.

And yet, even here, dignity remained. An elderly woman simmering stew on a small, portable stove insisted I take a plate. An old man offered me dates, his pride intact even as everything else was lost. This was not what their life looked like before, but they have held on to what matters most: their humanity and dignity.

I heard stories of their displacement, journeys that would normally take 45 minutes stretching into 31 hours.

In the north of Lebanon, at a camp, I saw education being used as a shield against despair. The youngsters that Anera supports through education stood on stage, performing at a show with conviction, their voices rising to remind us that learning is both protection and possibility.

In Beirut, I helped prepare hot meals at a kitchen serving the displaced. The young volunteers, themselves uprooted from their homes, worked doggedly to serve their communities. Their faces carried both fatigue and determination. They have lost so much, yet still choose to give.

Then I noticed a little 10‑year‑old girl, as confident as can be, sitting on the floor and waving at me from afar. I quickly went up to her, knelt down and spoke with her. Her laughter, her curiosity, her warmth was contagious. Later, her mother told me she was an amputee, something she shyly disguised with remarkable poise.

I carry these moments with me: the baby I held, the generosity extended to me, the engineers working hard to restore water networks, young people standing proudly on stage, volunteers serving hot meals despite their own profound losses, a little girl amputee waving with joy, and the scent of jasmine drifting through Beirut’s tree-lined streets – a reminder of Lebanon’s enduring spirit.

My Anera colleagues, the frontline workers, continue with determination, bringing aid where it is most needed. Lebanon is fragile yet unbroken, but endurance alone cannot meet the urgent needs of families who lack clean water, child and hygiene kits, medicine, and shelter. Your support can make a difference to the wonderful, deserving people of Lebanon. Help provide the essentials.

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