Beirut becomes a giant refugee camp: "We are people who want to live"

BeirutEarly in the morning, Beirut's waterfront begins to stir. Among the cars parked along the sea, some families wake up after spending the night in their vehicles. Others emerge from small, makeshift tents in the Corniche parking lots. Sleepy children wash their faces with water bottles while their parents gather blankets and plastic bags. Along the Lebanese capital's waterfront, hundreds of displaced people try to start their day after a night in the open. Many have arrived in recent days from southern Lebanon or from the southern suburbs of Beirut following of the Israeli bombingsSome drove for hours to reach the capital; others escaped in the dead of night with only the clothes on their backs. In just a few days, the escalating attacks have left more than 600 dead and hundreds wounded in the country, and more than 750,000 people have been forced to flee their homes. On Tuesday, the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) reported that some 100,000 people had been forced to flee their homes in just 24 hours.

"We are people who want to live, who love life," says a man who arrived five days ago from southern Lebanon with his wife and children. He points to the car where they have been sleeping since arriving in Beirut: "But here we are, on the street."

Along the waterfront, dozens of families have turned parking lots into makeshift shelters. Some sleep inside their cars; Others have set up small tents or shelters with blankets attached to car doors. During the day, many are there while they try to find accommodation or a place in the shelters opened by the authorities.

The scene is repeated in different parts of the city. In central squares, parking lots near Hamra, or under some highway bridges, displaced families wait for news from friends or relatives who can take them in. Others queue outside schools that have been converted into reception centers. But capacity is limited, and many shelters are already full.

"Schools aren't for us," explains Mohamed, a displaced person of Syrian origin who lived in the southern suburbs of Beirut before the bombings. "We're not Lebanese, and they won't take us in. It already happened in the last war." That's why he has decided to stay on the streets with other refugees and migrant workers. "We have no other choice," he says.

Faced with the constant increase in displaced people, the Lebanese government has begun to open larger spaces to house them. One is the Camille Chamoun Stadium in western Beirut, where dozens of families now sleep on mattresses placed directly on the stadium floor. Fatima arrived there with her children after fleeing the southern suburbs of the capital. "We ran when the bombings started," she recalls. "It was night, and we were very scared. We've been here for two days, and we don't know when we'll be able to go home," she laments.

For some displaced people, the road to finding shelter has been long. Hassan Hussein explains that his neighborhood was one of the first to be attacked. "We spent three days sleeping in the car," he says. "I have back problems and I had a really hard time. Now at least we have a mattress and some help," he says, finding some solace.

Sleeping under a bridge

Others spent entire days outdoors before new spaces became available. A man now sheltering in the stadium explains that he slept two nights under a bridge before the venue opened. "At least here we have a place to sleep," he says. "But we don't know what will happen next."

The steady influx of displaced people is testing the capacity of a city already grappling with years of economic crisis. Beirut is trying to absorb the emergency while local aid networks mobilize to distribute food, water, and blankets. Among the most vulnerable are refugees and migrant workers living in Lebanon. Many say they lack access to state-run shelters.

When the bombing began in the southern suburbs of Beirut, Ridina Muhammad, a 32-year-old Sudanese refugee, fled her home with her husband and three children. Eight months pregnant, she walked for hours through dark streets until she found a car that took them to a church that had opened its doors to migrants and refugees. Now she is sheltering at St. Joseph Tabaris Parish, one of the few places in the city that welcomes foreigners displaced by the attacks. “I don’t know if there’s a doctor here,” she says, sitting with her children while her youngest daughter rests her head on her stomach. “I’m very scared. I haven’t packed clothes for the baby, and I don’t have a hospital. I don’t know where to go.”

Worse than the 2024 war

"There are many more people arriving than in 2024," explains Michael Petro, head of emergency shelters for the Jesuit Refugee Service. "And we have fewer and fewer places to house them," he says.

In downtown Beirut, Martyrs' Square has also become a transit point for many displaced families. Some arrive with suitcases and plastic bags after several hours of travel from the south of the country. Others wait, seated on the edges of the square, trying to contact relatives or find transportation to other areas.

The scene also reflects the limitations of a state weakened by years of political and economic crisis, unable to respond on its own to an emergency of this magnitude. As attacks continue and thousands more people flee their homes, Beirut is forced to improvise new shelters and rapidly expand assistance to cope with a growing humanitarian crisis.