On Monday night, the serenity of 74-year-old Fouad Hassan’s evening was shattered when an airstrike hit near his family home in Jnah, a neighborhood in south Beirut. Fouad was sitting on his balcony, engrossed in his phone when the attack occurred. “When the bombing happened, I fainted,” he recalls. “The smoke from the strike was overwhelming, and I needed oxygen. When I came to, I realized our entire neighborhood had been devastated.”
He gestures toward a chaotic scene, where heaps of twisted metal and concrete now replace what were once tightly clustered residential buildings. In structures that remain standing, personal belongings peek through gaping holes, revealing lives shattered by the violence.
Joining us at the site, Fouad surveys the destruction. A digger and about 40 local men are meticulously working to sift through the rubble, searching for survivors or remains. “Look at the destruction—a whole neighborhood wiped out, with many dead,” he laments. “My granddaughter died here, and my grandson is still in a coma. They were both just 23 years old.”
Fouad is a recognized figure in the community, known by his stage name, Zaghloul, as an actor and comedian. As we navigate the wreckage, fellow locals approach him, offering condolences and sharing in his grief.
Pulling out his phone, Fouad shows us a picture of his granddaughter, Alaa, radiant in a smart gold dress. “She was happily engaged and looked forward to getting married in three months,” he says, a mix of pride and sorrow in his voice. “She even applied to be Miss Lebanon and was cruelly taken from us. Why? Why does the world allow this to happen?”
Since the escalation of airstrikes in September, rockets have rained down across Lebanon, targeting Hezbollah but also taking a staggering toll on civilians. Over 1,900 Lebanese have been reported killed, according to government figures, which do not distinguish between militants and innocent lives lost.
Despite this grim reality, the Israeli army claimed their latest strike was targeting a “Hezbollah terrorist target” without issuing an evacuation order beforehand. Initial reports suggested the Rafik Hariri hospital compound, the largest public hospital in Beirut, had been struck; however, this was denied by the Israeli forces. While damage to the hospital was minimal, nearby neighborhoods bore the brunt of devastation.
Fouad’s son, Ahmed, arrives, visibly shaken as he presents a photo of his son who lies in intensive care, bandaged and bloodied. “This was my house; it’s gone, just like everything else. We have nowhere to go and no clothing,” Ahmed expresses, anger and despair heavy in his voice. “This is a massacre. There’s no Hezbollah here, just innocent people.”
Fouad reminisces about playing with the young children who lived in the area, their joyful shouts of “Grandpa, Grandpa! What did you bring us?” still echoing in his mind. “Their loss fills me with sorrow; they all died. Their mother is still trapped under the rubble with one of her children.”
As we prepare to leave, a subdued silence envelops the gathered crowd as a stretcher bearing a wrapped body is lifted away by the digger. Eyewitnesses quietly confirm that a mother was found alongside her child. The weight of the day’s events lingers heavily in the air, a poignant reminder of the crisis that continues to unfold.
