“Halloooooo, hallo?”
Sometimes, overwhelmed by the isolation, Fadi stepped out onto his balcony, which overlooked neighboring residential buildings in Hadath, a district in Beirut’s southern suburbs, better known locally as Dahiyeh. He shouted into the stillness, his voice echoing in the empty streets.
“Hallooo, is anyone out there???”
He tried to whistle as loudly as possible, hoping for some sign of life. But every time, all he received in return was silence.
“I was scared,” he admits. “Not of dying. God decides when it’s my turn.”
What terrified Fadi most was the thought of being alone in pain. He pictured himself rushing down the stairs during an evacuation, slipping, falling, and lying there helpless, with no one around to help.
Fadi recalls being one of the last people to remain in his part of Hadath, aside from an elderly man. The streets were eerily empty. Only the distant hum of a motorcycle broke the silence every 30 to 60 minutes before fading away again.
“It was extremely hard in every way. Emotionally, physically, and mentally,” Fadi says.
Fadi in his apartment in Hadath, where he spent every day of the two months of constant Israeli shelling. November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
Each day felt like preparation for the end. Under the constant shelling, Fadi felt as if he were writing his will.
“Will I live today? Will I die? Will I see my loved ones, my siblings, my family again, or will I not?”
Despite the danger, Fadi refused to leave, insisting that his home was the only place he could truly rest.
“As they say, luck plays its role in survival. No one knew their fate,” Fadi reflects on his decision to stay.
When the ceasefire agreement ending 13 months of war between Israel and Hezbollah took effect on November 27, life gradually returned to the streets of Hadath. The heavy silence broke as neighbors called out, families reunited, and doors creaked open after weeks of solitude. Fadi was no longer alone.
Yet, even as the world around him begins to heal, the memories of two months in war-ravaged Dahiyeh remain etched in his mind.
Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
The Dahiyeh Doctrine
During the civil war in Lebanon, two waves of displacement brought around one million people to what would later become known as “Dahiyeh.” International media often labels Dahiyeh as a “Hezbollah stronghold.”
In truth, what is often misconstrued as “a Hezbollah stronghold,” is home to hundreds of thousands of people with diverse backgrounds and identities.
In 2006, war once again ravaged the area. Hezbollah and Israel fought a 34-day conflict that resulted in over 1,200 deaths of Lebanese civilians. Israel destroyed around 245 buildings and employed a strategy of disproportionate destruction, later known as the “Dahiyeh Doctrine.”
Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
Israel’s war on Gaza began on October 8, 2023, prompting Hezbollah to join the conflict. On September 27 this year, an Israeli attack leveled six buildings in Haret Hreik in Dahiyeh and resulted in the assassination of Hezbollah’s Secretary-General, Hassan Nasrallah.
A few hours later, the Israeli military’s Arabic-language spokesman issued expulsion orders for people across swaths of Dahiyeh. Over the next two months, Israeli forces unleashed an overwhelming assault on the area.
In its pursuit of Hezbollah’s weapons caches, Israel displaced hundreds of thousands in Dahiyeh, destroying homes, businesses, and memories. However, the Dahiyeh Doctrine has been condemned by multiple experts as a war crime and a violation of international law.
Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
Walking the route of death
Every night during the war, Fadi settled into his chair in the living room of his apartment in Hadath. His routine was familiar: a cup of coffee on the side, a cigarette in one hand, and his phone in the other, checking the latest Israeli evacuation orders for Dahiyeh.
Fadi spent each night in his home in Hadath, anxiously waiting for evacuation orders to be issued for the area. November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
His eyes would scan for any signs of danger, waiting to see if the warnings were close to his home. If they were, he would need to act quickly.
First, he stepped out onto his balcony on the western side of the building, overlooking Burj Al-Barajneh. He gazed into the distance, listening for any sounds of destruction.
If the blasts seemed distant, he moved to his eastern balcony, overlooking the Laylaki and Hadath areas. There, he sipped his coffee and watched the explosions unfold. What else could he do?
Fadi gazes from his balcony, overlooking Burj Al-Barajneh in Dahiyeh. November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
If the evacuation orders hit too close to his home, he left before things escalated further. Some nights, Fadi would walk to the small park just around the corner from his building. There, he sat alone in the dark on one of the two plastic chairs, with only the sound of distant bombings in the background and the lightning over Dahiyeh.
“It was like a horror movie,” Fadi recalls.
On other nights, he rushed down to “van 4,” the bus he rented for his job as a driver during the last month of the war. He drove it to a friend’s house in a safer part of Hadath, staying there until the violence eased.
Before Fadi had the van, he had no choice but to walk if he received a warning. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he embarked on a grueling 5-kilometer journey to Horch Beirut, trekking through the desolate wreckage of the city in complete darkness, alone in a surreal and dangerous landscape.
“This is war. It comes with a toll that must be paid. The destruction of homes and entire areas is part of that price,” Fadi says.
Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
At the Horch park, he sat quietly among other evacuees who had fled Dahiyeh. Many sought permanent refuge there.
“When you see people, women, children, elderly, and sick, displaced in random and chaotic ways, forced to leave, heartbroken, and powerless, it deeply affects you,” Fadi says.
He sat on a bench, munching on chips and sipping Arabic coffee, patiently waiting for the destruction in Dahiyeh to subside. When the chaos finally eased, he retraced his steps, making the long walk back home.
The next evening, the cycle would start again. The same routine. The same uncertainty.
Israel’s “city killing”
The extensive destruction wrought by Israel in Dahiyeh has led some experts to label Israel’s actions as urbicide, the destruction of a city, or “city killing.”
Mona Harb, professor of urban studies and politics at the American University of Beirut, told Al Jazeera on October 26:
“It’s this massive obliteration of the place, the people, and their memories.”
Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
A researcher with Public Works Studio explained to Al Jazeera on the same day:
“The attacks are severing the connection between people and their neighborhoods, dismantling the social bonds that define the community.”
“As a result, these areas are facing not only physical destruction but also profound social disintegration, as people are forced to abandon the places that anchor their lives, memories, and identities.”
Fadi reflects on the two months of relentless bombardment on Dahiyeh:
“Watching your relatives, friends, and loved ones – innocent civilians with no connection to the war – die because of the shelling leaves you deeply affected. No words can describe it.”
A large crater marks the spot where one of Israel’s shells struck a building in Dahiyeh. November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
Living through a day in war-torn Dahiyeh
With nothing to occupy him, Fadi spent his days observing the airstrikes.
He knew his apartment needed cleaning, and the walls cried out for a fresh coat of paint. But every time he thought about starting, another thought stopped him: Why bother? Why clean if the house might be destroyed tomorrow? Why paint walls that might not even stand the next day?
During the war, all stores in Dahiyeh were closed, leaving no place to buy food. One day, Fadi passed a local supermarket with shattered windows and doors from a nearby explosion. Knowing the owner, Fadi and another man went inside, took some beans, bread, and other essentials, and brought them home.
When Fadi called to explain and offered to pay, the owner told him to take whatever he needed from the store. This was a time of crisis.
Fadi drives van 4 along the route that stretches from Hamra in the north to Dahiyeh in the south. Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
All work in Dahiyeh also halted, and Fadi’s main job was disrupted. He took whatever work he could find to earn enough for basic needs. About a month into the war, he started working as a bus driver. But even that was unreliable.
Van 4 ran a route between Hamra in northern Beirut and the southern suburbs, passing through Dahiyeh, the stretch under constant Israeli shelling. Fadi calls driving that route “a real gamble.” Shelling could erupt at any time – morning, noon, and night.
Locals are clearing the rubble from the path that van 4 drives every day, working together to restore the route that once connected their community. Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
“All this stress had a negative effect on my physical well-being,” Fadi says.
Some days, he managed to complete his route to Dahiyeh. Other days, he had to turn back. When Israeli warnings were issued for the area, Fadi avoided the suburbs altogether. Roads would be blocked, the risk too great to pick up passengers heading that way.
But even when Fadi could drive, there were few people in the area. Most had either fled to the mountains, sought refuge in Beirut, or remained cautiously hidden in their homes. With so few passengers, he barely earned enough to cover his expenses.
From war to “peace”
The ceasefire agreement, ending a year of conflict between Israel and Hezbollah, including two months of intense bombardment on Dahiyeh, took effect on Wednesday, November 27.
The United States and France announced that the deal aimed to “cease the fighting in Lebanon and secure Israel from the threat of Hezbollah and other terrorist organizations operating from Lebanon.”
Under the agreement, Hezbollah has 60 days to dismantle its armed presence in southern Lebanon. Israeli forces are required to withdraw from the region within the same timeframe. The Lebanese army has been tasked with taking control of the areas south of the Litani River.
However, both Hezbollah and Israel have violated the ceasefire. Hezbollah fired two rockets into the Lebanese Shebaa Farms, near Israeli military bases, as a “defensive warning” after Israel breached the ceasefire 129 times since it took effect, according to Megaphone News.
The beginning of a new chapter in Dahiyeh
The ceasefire breathed life back into Dahiyeh. Once a ghost town, devoid of light, people, and stability, it began to stir with activity again. Residents returned, work resumed, and slowly, life started to feel normal once more.
After two months of heavy bombing, life begins to return to Dahiyeh. November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
“When it was over, I felt relieved. We could finally breathe, feel safe again, and people could return to their homes,” Fadi says.
The focus for many in Dahiyeh is still on reuniting with family, repairing homes, and cleaning up the aftermath. Countless houses have suffered extensive damage. Walls need repairing, fresh coats of paint, and shattered glass replaced.
Fadi now dares to hope – for peace, for prosperity, and for Lebanon to find its way back to stability. He dreams of a country that can heal, rebuild, and rise above the shadows of its struggles.
“Before, we were living in a failing state, almost as if it wasn’t a state at all. Now, I hope this marks the beginning of a new chapter, where Lebanon returns to its former glory.”
“The days are moving so quickly now, especially after all that’s happened. It feels like time is slipping by faster than usual,” Fadi says. Dahiyeh, November 29. Photo by Katrine Dige Houmøller.
Fadi exchanges a few friendly words with the cleaning lady as he descends the stairwell of his building. He greets the car mechanic around the corner and pauses at a small coffee stand, where the vendor hands him a steaming cup of Arabic coffee.
The streets around him buzz with life. People chatting, cars honking, and the energy of Dahiyeh finding its rhythm once again.
“In the end, the ones who bear the brunt of these wars are civilians. God willing, this peace will last forever,” Fadi says.