In her home in the southern Lebanese city of Tyre, Maya, 38, opens a small cabinet near the front door. Inside is a neatly packed black sports bag.
“It has our identification papers, some cash and jewelry, and clothes for the children,” she says.
She has not told her children the truth. She simply says it is for “sudden travel.” But travel here means escape—if war breaks out.
The bag is light, but many heavy questions remain: How many minutes would the family need to leave the house? Where would they go? Would the departure be temporary, or final, if Lebanon were to slide into a new confrontation—one in which Hezbollah might become involved in support of Tehran?
In Lebanon, air-raid sirens are not needed to sense that something is approaching. A breaking news alert on a phone—about an escalation in rhetoric between Washington and Tehran—is enough to raise anxiety levels. Lebanese are watching closely the ten-day deadline set by U.S. President Donald Trump for negotiations to succeed, with military action looming should they fail.
In this climate, a question has begun to creep into everyday conversations: Will Lebanon once again become a stage for regional messages?
The war has not happened yet. But many are already living it.
On the Threshold of Departure
Maya admits she fears not for herself, but for her family.
“The images from Gaza never leave my mind,” she tells Alhurra. What she watched there has turned into personal nightmares. She imagines her children trapped under rubble, or on a long road of displacement with no clear end.
The economy adds another layer of anxiety. Her husband, Mohammad, cannot afford to rent a home in a safer area.
“We can barely cover school tuition for our three children,” she says.
Local newspapers have reported early signs of displacement from some towns and villages toward areas considered safer, amid a U.S. military buildup in the Middle East in preparation for a possible confrontation with Iran. These precautionary moves come amid fears that Hezbollah could become involved in any regional conflict.
Mohammad sums up the situation with an anger-laden sentence:
“We are exhausted from constant anticipation and daily attrition because of Hezbollah and its adventures.”
He adds to Alhurra: “Who said the war in Lebanon is over? Every day we see Israeli strikes on Hezbollah’s military infrastructure and assassinations of its fighters and operatives.”
Mohammad does not speak of fear as a passing possibility, but as a chronic condition—one he links to the continued presence of what he calls illegal weapons in Hezbollah’s hands. Any entanglement of Lebanon in a regional war, he says, would multiply the cost for a country that has yet to recover.
And yet, life goes on.
“The children go to school, my husband goes to work, and the sea sparkles in front of the balcony as if nothing is happening,” Maya says.
But the black bag remains—a silent witness to another truth: in Lebanon, people always leave the door ajar to the idea of departure.
The Memory Lives On
Today’s fear is not theoretical. The most recent war between Hezbollah and Israel in 2024 remains etched into daily life, despite a ceasefire agreement: near-daily shelling, destroyed homes, compensation that never arrived, southern villages that never recovered, and an exhausted economy crushed by financial collapse.
“We haven’t even emerged from the last war—how can we withstand another full-scale one?” asks Samar.
“The exhaustion isn’t only psychological; it’s financial and existential at the same time. There’s a constant sense that everything is on the brink of a major explosion.”
She adds to Alhurra: “Lebanon is not a party to the U.S.–Iran conflict, but Hezbollah insists on dragging it in. Experience shows that we end up paying the price for other people’s wars.”
Fear goes beyond the possibility of bombardment. It extends to fuel shortages, business shutdowns, a new wave of displacement, and another chapter of death and destruction.
“My phone has become both my enemy and my companion,” Samar says.
“We live on breaking news. I can’t concentrate. And on top of that, we have no savings if my husband stops working.”
The World Bank has estimated Lebanon’s damages and losses from the last Hezbollah–Israel war at around $8.5 billion. Of that, approximately $3.4 billion were direct physical damages, while economic losses reached about $5.1 billion.
The Anxiety Barometer
In a Beirut grocery store, tension is measured by the number of canned goods leaving the shelves.
“There’s an indicator that never fails,” the shop owner says.
“Whenever political and security tensions rise, sales of canned food, rice, sugar, and flour go up. No one says they’re preparing for war, but the full bags say it all.”
People do not talk openly about fear. They translate it into increased buying. Behind this lie unspoken calculations: What if roads are closed? What if imports stop?
Saeed, 29, loads more into his cart than he needs.
“Given regional developments, I’ve started stocking up, even a little,” he tells Alhurra.
He does not want to appear panicked—but he does not want to be caught off guard either. In a country that has seen lines for fuel, bread, and medicine, stockpiling becomes a small attempt to regain a sense of control.
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Living Oppressed by Fear
Lana Qassqas, director of the “Key to Life” association and a psychological and social specialist, warns of the deep impact of living under the constant possibility of war.
“It keeps the brain in a continuous threat-response mode,” she explains, “leading to hypervigilance, sleep disorders and nightmares, chronic tension and anxiety, physical symptoms, and a loss of safety.”
She notes that prolonged waiting under conditions of uncertainty exhausts the brain and deepens psychological fatigue.
Lebanese society, Qassqas tells Alhurra, is caught in a dual state of adaptation and exhaustion, shaped by accumulated trauma—from the civil war to successive security crises and recent events.
“This makes any new threat a trigger for old traumatic memory.”
She adds that the most affected groups include children and adolescents, anxious parents, young people unable to plan their futures, and frontline workers such as doctors, therapists, and humanitarian and social workers.
Torn Between Staying and Leaving
Samer, 33, does not keep an emergency bag by the door—but he keeps the idea of leaving in his mind. He has booked an appointment to renew his passport, treating it as a lifeline should things spiral out of control. He has no visa and no job offer—only what he calls “an open option.”
“It’s psychological safety,” he says. “I don’t want to leave now, but I want to be able to if I have to.”
On the other side stands his sister Huda, 45, in firm opposition. “We grew up here under shelling. I won’t start a new life at this age,” she says calmly.
For her, leaving is not just a geographic move—it is the uprooting of memory, relationships, and identity. She sighs before adding,
“But honestly, we no longer have the capacity to endure another war.”
Between Samer, searching for an open window, and Huda, clinging to staying, lies the dilemma of two generations living under the same looming possibility:
Is leaving a form of survival? Or does staying become a quiet act of resistance in the face of fear?
Qassqas identifies three main anxiety responses: postponing decisions, migration as a safety plan, or rushing into life-altering choices—such as marriage or launching new projects—as a way of clinging to life.
Life Between Two Shadows
Despite political fog and security tension, cafés in Lebanon remain crowded, parties continue, and tourism campaigns press on. On the surface, life moves at its usual pace, a collective defiance of collapse. Yet behind the laughter, says Hana, 48, run “silent calculations: How much money do we have if work stops? How long can we endure financially and psychologically? And which areas might be bombed?”
In this country, people have grown used to living between two parallel scenes: joy as a daily act, and anxiety as a constant shadow. They dance, but they know where to hide. They laugh, while their eyes track news alerts on their phones—like a small alarm bell reminding them that stability is temporary.
Qassqas notes that Lebanese society has developed remarkable coping mechanisms—humor, crisis management, and social resilience. But she warns that this adaptation does not erase accumulated exhaustion, nor the danger of “normalizing risk and emotional numbness.”
“Living between joy and anxiety is a survival strategy,” she says, “but without awareness and supportive practices, it can turn into long-term strain on the nervous system.”
To protect mental health amid this anticipation and fear, she advises limiting news consumption, maintaining daily routines, setting small achievable goals to restore a sense of control, and seeking support when needed.
Hana concludes with realism tempered by hope:
“Negotiations between the U.S. and Iran may succeed. The ten-day deadline may pass without confrontation. Lebanon may remain outside the fire this time. But the psychological impact has already arrived—before the missiles and the military statements.”
The article is a translation of the original Arabic.
