When war broke out in the Middle East, Sana Basim, Head of Programmes for Islamic Relief Lebanon, found herself temporarily stranded in Pakistan. Here, she reflects on returning to Lebanon to find a country changed and the resilience of the Lebanese people tested once again.

After several my flight tickets were finally confirmed and I sat with a heavy mix of fear, compassion, and worry as I prepared to make my journey. Beneath all those mixed emotions, one truth felt immovable: I needed to return to Beirut. I couldn’t imagine being away from the people I’ve been serving and the colleagues I’ve been serving with for nearly 3 years, not at a moment like this.

I had left Beirut for Islamabad only briefly to attend to a family matter. But then, suddenly, the war broke out. Dubai’s airspace closed, flights were suspended, and I found myself stuck — unable to return but unable to sit still. I immediately shifted into emergency mode; drafting proposals, preparing budgets, coordinating response efforts online, arranging distributions, supporting my team from afar. Despite the 3‑hour time difference and the long days of Ramadan, we stayed connected. I was constantly checking on my colleagues’ wellbeing, their families, where they were sleeping, and whether they were hosting relatives forced to flee.

When I finally secured a flight back, the difference was palpable from the moment I boarded. Lebanese people are known for turning even the hardest moments into reasons to sing or simply come together. But this time, the plane was quiet, the atmosphere heavier. Even Beirut’s night view — normally vibrant and glittering — felt dimmer as we approached. A few passengers clapped upon landing, but the silence that followed carried more weight than that muted celebration.

Driving from the airport to my home, the change struck me again. Beirut, the city that never sleeps, was sombre. Many shops were shuttered, streetlights were off, and the usually lively roads were nearly deserted.

Enduring crisis, serving others

The next morning, I travelled to the coastal city of Saida to visit a public school that was now hosting around 300 displaced people. The classrooms (all 25 of them) had been turned into living spaces. Children played in the corridors while families tried to create order out of chaos.

Amid the movement, one woman sat alone on the stairs, speaking softly to herself. Volunteers told me her story: she had lost her mother and sister in an airstrike last year and another sister later died by suicide after the family lost their livelihood. Now she is displaced again, alone, grieving, and overwhelmed. The team planned to refer her to specialised mental health support.

I also met a young man in his early twenties, full of energy despite everything. He approached me proudly, explaining that he wasn’t ‘just a displaced person’; he was also helping manage the shelter as a volunteer. “I don’t want to be a burden,” he said. “I want to contribute.” In the middle of his own crisis, he was choosing to serve others.

On the drive back from Saida to Beirut, I saw more families housed in makeshift tents along the coastline. People with nowhere else to go. Since my return, it has rained for 3 consecutive days. I can’t stop thinking about those people sleeping on beaches, in cars, in parking lots, or under tarps soaked through by the weather.

According to the Ministry of Social Affairs, around 1 million people are now displaced in Lebanon, but only about 12% have been accommodated in collective shelters. The rest are left to rent rooms at double or triple the usual cost, to depend on host families, to just survive wherever and however they can.

Resilience has its limits

Every face I meet, every story I hear reinforces the scale of what Lebanon is enduring — and the profound resilience of its people. For me, coming back was never just a choice to make. It was a responsibility, a calling, and a return to the place where my heart has been throughout this unfolding crisis.

I often say that we have underestimated the resilience of the Lebanese people for far too long. Yes, they are strong, resourceful, and unwavering in the face of crisis after crisis — but even their resilience has its limits. No community should be pushed to repeatedly test the boundaries of its endurance.

Islamic Relief Lebanon continues to respond to the urgent needs of affected families, but the scale of this crisis is unlike anything we have seen in recent years. Currently, we are providing ready-to-eat food parcels, bottled water, hygiene kits (with menstrual hygiene items) and blankets. But the need is high with such large numbers displaced, and humanitarian needs rising sharply.

The resources available to organisations on the ground, including ours, are stretched thinner than ever. Still, our teams are working around the clock to provide assistance, comfort, and dignity in these darkest moments.

But Lebanon cannot carry this burden alone. Its people need international solidarity and support now more than ever.

Please donate to Islamic Relief’s Lebanon Emergency Appeal today to help us ease the suffering of displaced people in Lebanon.