We fled Lebanon after the 2006 bombings—history is repeating itself

There was little warning of what was to come when we woke up on the morning of July 13, 2006, to find out that the Rafic Hariri Airport in Beirut had been bombed. Residing near Hezbollah’s stronghold, we witnessed firsthand the attacks from our windows, unsure of what was happening and what to make from it.

But, as hellfire rained all around us, the only way to make it out of this war alive was to abandon the city.

To bide our time until the shelling died down, I was carried down to the fifth floor on account of a broken leg so that we could hide out in my cousin’s apartment. Panic overcame us in their living room as we struggled to understand how this could have happened after more than a decade of relative calm.

Following the conclusion of the Lebanese Civil War from 1975 to 1990, Beirut experienced a period of renewed prosperity. Of course, life in Lebanon had its fair share of disturbances, but these disturbances were nothing compared to the carnage right outside our doors.

Having lived through the Lebanese Civil War when Israel’s airstrikes incurred extreme casualties, my mother was fully aware that civilians would be attacked and that there was a real threat to our lives even as others tried to calm her down by reassuring her that Israel only targeted Hezbollah.

Leaving Beirut for Jbeil, we returned to the chalet we had rented for the summer in the Halet Sur Mer, and arrived Thursday morning amid the bombardment of the southern regions. To take our mind off the situation, we passed the time swimming, believing that tensions would eventually die down as they always had before.

Only two days later, the lifeguards evacuated everyone from the beach when Israel hit a lighthouse nearby in Amchit. Now, it was clear to all of us that it wasn’t just Hezbollah and its allies being targeted by Israel but that the entire nation was caught up in the conflict.

Seeing no other option, my mother resolved to leave Lebanon by driving us around 750 kilometres, cross-country, to Amman in Jordan, where my father worked abroad as an HR Manager.

Reaching the northern border the following day, we arrived right after Israel had targeted the area, driving past salvagers toward Homs then Damascus. Worried anything might happen if we rested somewhere along the road.

It wasn’t until we reached Wadi Houran that we finally stopped for food, where celebrations were being held after Hezbollah had successfully hit an Israeli battleship. It was a relief to be out of Lebanon and far away from the violence, but it’s not as if we could finally rest easy. After all, our problems were just getting started.

Members of our extended family were still stuck in Jdeidet, Marj Ayoun in Southern Lebanon.

Initially, we had been told that residents of Jdeidet were evacuating South Lebanon through a coordinated convoy, only for news reports on the radio to inform us that it was hit by Israel as it reached the Bekaa.

Unable to reach our relatives by phone, we feared the worst, but had more pressing matters on our hands. Since we could only refill in Tripoli, our SUV was running out of gas with nowhere to refill, because those that evacuated Lebanon before us had exhausted the reserves in each station we came across.

Fuel and morale running low, we pressed on, praying that we had enough left in us and the tank to not end up stranded in the middle of nowhere. Tensions only eased when we reached the Jordanian border, where my father had sent someone from customs who directed us to a nearby station and instructed us on preparing our travel documents.

In Jordan, my father met us in Zarqa and led us to his apartment in Amman where we could finally feel safe. Arriving at around 6:00 p.m., we spent the rest of the day nerve-wracked, following the news and trying to get in touch with anyone who could answer their phones, worried that our relatives could have been seriously harmed or worse.

It was not until my aunt called early in the morning the next day that we found out that both she and my grandfather had survived because of a delay that prompted them to return home an hour before all the drivers in their vicinity had been killed.

Remaining in Amman until the ceasefire of August 18, we returned to Lebanon to resume our affairs after spending a month trying to forget about Lebanon and all of its problems. Needless to say, Beirut was in ruins, but we all knew we would rebuild as we had numerous times before. And yet, from then on, Lebanon was never the same.

Never again could we carry on with our lives without the fear that at any moment another war could take everything from us again, and, alas, in the coming years, those fears would unfortunately prove to be founded.

J. D. Harlock is an Eisner-nominated American academic pursuing a doctoral degree at the University of St. Andrews, whose writing has been featured in The Cincinnati Review, Strange Horizons, Nightmare Magazine, The Griffith Review, Queen’s Quarterly, and New York University’s Library of Arabic Literature.

All views expressed are the author’s own.

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