Unlike past Lebanon wars, this time we relived every moment of agony on phone screens

It feels bizarre to “celebrate” Lebanon’s ceasefire with Israel, even though we have been waiting for it for so long. It came after one of the most intense nights of Israeli attacks this war has seen.

I was working late as a journalist at The National in the UAE on Tuesday night, monitoring for updates as the Lebanese and Israeli cabinets debated whether to go ahead with the ceasefire. I admit, I took the late shift selfishly, for my own peace of mind. I wanted to be able to call my family as soon as the news came through and tell them it was over, and that I was coming home to see them.

Instead, news of an Israeli strike on Noueiri, a densely populated neighbourhood in central Beirut, came in. According to Lebanon’s National News Agency, the strike hit a building that housed displaced families. At least seven people were killed.

The air strikes on Beirut suburbs came next: 20 attacks in less than two minutes. I was watching it all unfold on a screen. Images of a fire belt and large plumes of smoke in the Beirut skies – it felt dystopian, just like the past 65 days have.

The Israeli army’s spokesperson for Arab media shared eviction maps on X, marking areas that would be attacked that night, even as the ceasefire discussions continued. Maps like this have become a staple of the psychological warfare that has characterised this conflict. This time, they showed residential areas in central Beirut: Msaitbeh, Ras Beirut, Zqaq El Blat, Mazraa – all neighbourhoods I know by heart. My own neighbourhood, where my family still live, was included in the list.

I frantically called my mother. “Please leave the house now,” I begged her.

“Don’t worry, we’re far,” she responded, in the composed way mothers often do, even though we both knew it wasn’t true.

I spent the next 10 minutes zooming in and out of the maps, calculating the distance between the structures marked in red and my family home. Three minutes by car, six on foot ... Four minutes by car, nine on foot ... All around the targeted buildings were shops and streets I recognised. I know this bakery, this pharmacy, this pastry shop, I know, I know, I know …

Less than an hour after the maps were released, the strikes began, including some that were unannounced. I called my family every five minutes to check they were safe, while scrolling through social media footage of other families fleeing on foot and seeking shelter at hospital entrances and universities.

It felt like I was standing right outside, close enough to watch the deaths and destruction unfold, but not close enough to help.

For the past two months, my phone has served as a peephole into this war. With every refresh, I saw a residential building levelled, a family wiped out or a town destroyed. Another refresh brought a post from a friend pinpointing their home in a razed building, another mourning their family and a third sharing memories from the town where they grew up.

In the blink of an eye in late September, I went from mindlessly scrolling and platform jumping to refreshing my feeds for any news on the safety of my loved ones with bated breath.

My family was one of hundreds forced to leave their home in the south on September 23, when Israel launched raids on dozens of towns and villages. They were stuck in traffic for more than 12 hours as bombs fell around them. I was texting my mother every five minutes on average, asking if they made it to safety and pleading with her to keep me updated.

Every single day since had been a nerve-racking cycle of monitoring the news until I fall asleep for a few hours before I wake up and grab my phone first thing with a pit in my stomach as I check the news again.

My greatest fears now included texting my family on WhatsApp and receiving only one tick, or calling them and not getting an immediate response.

I was a child in Lebanon when the 2006 war erupted, but this war has been different for my generation. This time I don’t hear the bombs, but I’m watching them drop on my country and, somehow, for me, it feels much more terrifying, knowing I’d rather be with my family.

I have watched on X as Israel has dropped dozens of bunker-buster bombs on the Beirut suburbs, rocking the capital and terrorising its residents. I have watched on Instagram as Israeli troops invade Lebanese homes in the south, vandalising properties and mocking their owners. It was on TikTok that I watched a famous Israeli journalist embedded with the army push a button that detonated an entire Lebanese village in the border area.

To say it is a surreal experience is an understatement. Even all of the words I have written here do not describe how it feels to watch the live-streamed destruction of so much of what I’ve known and loved.

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