“My mom was killed.” I realized that my friend had lost her mother, and I found myself unable to say anything. As confrontations in Lebanon escalated in March 2026, the region entered a prolonged phase of security tension. This escalation led to civilian casualties and the displacement of thousands of families from border villages, while others remained in their homes despite the danger.
Being away does not mean being safe
In moments like these, distance becomes a real burden. Those of us living outside Lebanon, with families in the south and in areas under bombardment, assume we are in a relatively “safe” place-but that safety feels fragile. We are not shielded from the news, nor from the losses that reach us one after another. My friend could not be by her mother’s side in her final moments, nor could she even say goodbye. The idea of a postponed-or impossible-farewell is one of the heaviest aspects of this kind of loss. In exile, we try to compensate for this distance through presence-through phone calls, messages, staying connected for hours. But deep down, we know it is not enough.
One piece of news after another
Days later, another piece of news arrived—a story posted by one of my friend’s relatives, carrying her brother’s name alongside the word “killed.” That’s how I found out. It took me a few moments to connect the name to her, and then I realized. There was no phone call this time, no warning.
Today, this kind of news reaches us differently—through fleeting “stories” between ordinary daily images or unrelated posts. One moment, you are scrolling through normal details, and the next, you come across news that changes everything. What makes this medium especially harsh is its speed and immediacy; news reaches us the moment it happens, without waiting, without barriers. Yet that same speed denies us any time to prepare. We don’t choose how or when we find out, nor do we have the chance to process what happened before we suddenly become part of it.
At the same time, it is the very tool that keeps us close—we know, we follow, and we stay connected with those we love, even from afar. But this closeness does not eliminate the shock; sometimes it intensifies it. Loss becomes part of the daily act of scrolling. A heavy piece of news passes between other updates—but it doesn’t really pass; it stays with you, leaving you with a simple question: how do you begin a conversation with someone who has just lost their brother?
Sometimes, presence is what matters most: to stay on the line, to listen,
to give the person space to express their grief
Alongside grief, there is a constant fear. Not a fleeting fear, but a persistent feeling that follows daily details. The fear that the next call might be different, that the next message might carry the name of someone from your own family, that the anxiety you live with might become reality. This thinking does not easily stop. Even on “quiet” days, it remains in the background, making it difficult to feel stable, to plan with confidence, or even to enjoy simple moments without anxiety creeping in.
In the face of all this, we try to support one another. But comfort in such situations is complicated; there are no words that are enough, no phrases that can ease the loss of a mother or a brother. Still, we try. Sometimes, presence is what matters most: to stay connected, to listen, to allow the person space to express their grief without interruption or attempts to fix things. Simple phrases like “I’m here” or “I’m with you” may seem small, but in moments of collapse, they become essential.
Life goes on… but not as we know it
In exile, I try to live as if things are normal. I go to work, do my household tasks, take care of my children, meet friends, talk about everyday matters. From the outside, everything may seem ordinary.
But inside, something is different. My heart and mind are tied to Lebanon—to the south, to the southern suburbs, to family, to the constant flow of news. I follow every update, every message, wondering: will the next turn be someone I love? We live with a double feeling—we continue our lives abroad, yet a large part of us remains consumed by fear and worry for those we love, as if we never truly left Lebanon.
What is happening in Lebanon does not remain confined within its borders; its impact extends to everyone connected to it, even those living abroad. War is not measured only by what happens on the ground, but also by what it leaves behind in people’s hearts: anxiety, grief, anticipation, and a constant sense of insecurity. Many experience this silently, trying to continue their lives while carrying this weight every day—alongside a persistent feeling of guilt.
War is not measured only by what happens on the ground,
but also by the impact it leaves on people’s inner lives
Sometimes, I try to take a step back—to stop following the news, to put my phone aside, even for a few hours. I convince myself that this is necessary to keep going. But it never lasts long. I return to the news again, searching and following, as if I’m afraid of missing something—as if not knowing is easier than knowing too late.
Despite everything, life goes on. Not because things are okay, but because stopping is not an option. We try to be there for our friends, to ease their burden as much as we can, and to stay connected with those we love. We may not have the power to change what is happening, but we do have the ability to remain present for one another. In a reality like this, that presence—no matter how small—becomes one of the few things we can rely on.
