Déjà Vu in Beirut

Déjà Vu in Beirut
By Mariam Labban

In Lebanon, the feeling of déjà vu is not philosophical, it is a lived reality.

It is the haunting sense that history is repeating itself yet again, that the same tragedy is unfolding before our eyes with only the names and dates slightly altered.

Like many Lebanese, I had been looking forward to something simple: traveling during Easter. I had planned a short trip, searched for tourist destinations, and made hotel reservations. I was counting the days to a brief escape from the constant tension that has become part of daily life in our country.

Then, suddenly, everything changed.

The region was thrown once more into turmoil after Benjamin Netanyahu convinced Donald Trump to strike Iran, setting off a chain reaction of escalation across the Middle East. Within days, the familiar language of diplomacy was replaced by the terrifying vocabulary of missiles, retaliation, and war.

For the first time in their modern history, the Gulf’s prosperous cities like Dubai, Riyadh, Doha, Manama, and Kuwait found themselves within range of military attacks. The sight of air defenses activating and explosions echoing across these cities felt surreal to their residents.

For the Lebanese, however, such scenes are painfully familiar.

War in Lebanon is not an interruption of normal life; it is an ever-present possibility, a shadow that never quite disappears. We have learned to live with it, even as we hope each time that the cycle might finally end.

Beirut has experienced this painful déjà vu countless times.

Almost overnight, my neighborhood filled with unfamiliar faces. Families arrived exhausted and frightened after fleeing their homes in the middle of the night. Hizbullah had fired several missiles in retaliation for the death of Iran’s Supreme Leader. Israel responded with overwhelming force, deploying some of the most advanced military technology in the world. Buildings collapsed, villages were reduced to rubble, and thousands of people were suddenly displaced.

The roads leading toward Beirut and other relatively safer areas became completely paralyzed. Endless lines of vehicles stretched for miles as families tried desperately to escape the bombardment. Some spent eleven hours on the road, longer than the flight time between London and New York, simply trying to reach safety within their own country.

Once again, Lebanon finds itself performing a script that has been repeated too many times before.

The government condemns Hizbullah’s missile launches and calls for an immediate ceasefire. The statements are strong but predictable, almost ritualistic. Everyone already knows the lines.

But this time there is an important difference. Lebanon cannot rely on the usual support from Arab states, many of which are now facing threats of their own and must focus on protecting their own security.

Across the country, public schools have been converted into temporary shelters for displaced families. Parking lots and side streets are overflowing with cars, often parked haphazardly as the sudden influx overwhelms entire neighborhoods. Supermarkets have seen waves of anxious shoppers stocking up on basic necessities. Petrol stations and pharmacies are equally crowded as people fear shortages of fuel and medicine.

It feels like a nightmare, one that refuses to end.

Israeli drones once again hover overhead, their constant buzzing a reminder of the fragile calm that can be shattered at any moment. Television stations have suspended regular programming to provide continuous coverage, while political analysts attempt to explain the rapidly unfolding crisis.

But for ordinary people, analysis offers little comfort.

One afternoon I took a walk through my neighborhood and witnessed the quiet unfolding of human misery. Three times I was approached by strangers asking if I knew of a place where they might find shelter, a small apartment, a spare room, anywhere to house their families.

All of this is happening during the holy month of Ramadan, when Muslims fast from dawn until sunset. One cannot help but wonder how these displaced families will find the means to prepare an evening meal, let alone sustain their children in the uncertain days ahead.

Lebanon’s Ministry of Social Affairs has been struggling to respond to the sudden crisis. In a televised address, the minister announced that the government is currently assisting more than 83,000 displaced families. Nearly 100,000 food parcels and over 30,000 mattresses have already been distributed.

Yet the needs far exceed the available resources. Many families remain beyond the reach of aid. The ministry has even launched an online survey in the hope of identifying those who have not yet received assistance.

Local NGOs have mobilized once again, and municipalities are doing what they can. But the scale of the crisis is immense, and Lebanon’s fragile institutions are already stretched beyond their limits.

This is the tragedy of the Middle East: a region where cycles of violence repeatedly overwhelm the hopes of ordinary people.

For Lebanon, the sense of déjà vu is overwhelming. Each generation believes it might finally break free from this pattern of conflict, only to discover that the past has returned once again.

And so the question remains: how many times must this story repeat itself before the region is finally allowed to dream of something different?