"No matter where I go, I will always be a daughter of the South!"

Khadija, 56, from Odaisseh (a border village in the Marjeyoun District, Nabatieh Governorate), Displaced to Marwaniyeh (Saida District)

When the war began on October 8, 2023, we headed to Beirut and stayed there for a year, until my mother passed away in February 2024. I remained in Beirut, while my sister and her children moved to Marwaniyeh.

Following the ceasefire in November 2024, I decided to return to Odaisseh, to my family's home, seeking the safety I had lost.

I went to the village and tried to repair the house as much as possible. I was overjoyed at first; after all, this house is my refuge, my safety and my stability. Unfortunately, after spending four months there, I no longer felt safe. It was constant anxiety, fear, tension and explosions.

There was no life, no people. The village was devastated. I tried to stay, but I just couldn't. Life in the village is about more than just having food, water, or a roof over your head. Despite the destruction, I tried to hold on, but I needed to feel safe. And there was no safety.

No safety at all.

Once my nerves were completely shattered, I had to come to Marwaniyeh to stay with my sister. I ended up in the emergency room because I had a nervous breakdown. I am now living with my sister and her three children. However, because I am unmarried and have no children of my own, I am not officially considered a "family" unit, so I was simply registered under my sister.

I just want to know: if I'm not a "family," how am I supposed to manage? How do I get by? The burden is already so heavy on my sister, a widow with three kids. So how do I fend for myself? How do I survive? Does this mean my fate is to just keep moving from one place to another forever?

No matter where I go, I will always be a daughter of the South, from the land of the South.

My father worked abroad for 35 long years to build our home, our kingdom. Even if it was just one room, it was ours. Every stone, every corner holds a story and a memory in my heart. No matter where I stay, I am not home. There is no stability. I am here today, but an hour from now, I don't know where I'll be. I don't know when I'll be asked to leave. Everything my eyes see doesn't belong to me. It means nothing to me.

I just want my home. I want to return to my family's house where I grew up, where my mother, father, siblings, and I lived in every corner.

I weep over the very stones. People say, "Stones can be replaced." Maybe. But what is gone never returns exactly the way it was. I carried those stones with my own hands and laid them down. I planted those plants myself and waited for them to sprout before my eyes. Imagine the heartbreak of someone who worked for 35 years to build a house, only to have it destroyed in the end?

I wouldn't mind living in a tent, as long as it is on my land, in my village, and I am safe. I am not to blame for what is happening. The children are not to blame. The elderly are not to blame. The sick are not to blame. What did any of them do to deserve this?

My sister is a widow, and neither of us has a job. How are we supposed to afford food, gas, and daily expenses? We live day by day, hour by hour. Sometimes we only eat one or two meals, and we might skip meals altogether just to feed the kids. My nephew has asthma, and my sister has diabetes. As for me, I don't even know. I'm too terrified to go to the doctor in case I discover something is wrong. I'm just constantly anxious and scared. I've become afraid of everything. If a doctor were to ask me, "Where does it hurt?" I would say that everything hurts. Everything. I'm afraid of everything now.

Screaming has become my only outlet. I feel this immense pressure inside me – fear and anger – like a hand choking me. I am so angry! I am so sad. I try to hold myself together. During those four months in Odaisseh, I tried so hard to stay strong, to the point where people would tell me, "You are so strong; no one has done what you've done. You gave people life. You brought back our strength. You brought us back to life. You lift our spirits."

But in the end, when night falls, I am alone, like a child looking for her mother.

I am a 56-year-old little girl. I want my mom!

I lost my mother to the war. She wasn't sick, but because she had to leave her home after decades of hard work, and she knew she would never return, she died of a broken heart. When you lose your family, you lose your sense of safety. So imagine what it's like to lose your homeland, your village, and your land?

Wherever I go, people ask, "Where are you from?"

I say, "From the South..."

"Are you displaced?"

No! I am Lebanese. Why do you call me 'displaced' when I am in my own country?