With Hospitals Full in Lebanon, Family Flees to Give Birth in Iraq

Lubana Ismail, a displaced Lebanese woman who fled from her home in Tyre due to Israeli bombardments in Southern Lebanon, holds her newborn baby girl, Zahraa, to whom she gave birth in Iraq, as she sits with her family at a hotel in Najaf, Iraq, October 7, 2024. (Reuters)
Lubana Ismail, a displaced Lebanese woman who fled from her home in Tyre due to Israeli bombardments in Southern Lebanon, holds her newborn baby girl, Zahraa, to whom she gave birth in Iraq, as she sits with her family at a hotel in Najaf, Iraq, October 7, 2024. (Reuters)
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With Hospitals Full in Lebanon, Family Flees to Give Birth in Iraq

Lubana Ismail, a displaced Lebanese woman who fled from her home in Tyre due to Israeli bombardments in Southern Lebanon, holds her newborn baby girl, Zahraa, to whom she gave birth in Iraq, as she sits with her family at a hotel in Najaf, Iraq, October 7, 2024. (Reuters)
Lubana Ismail, a displaced Lebanese woman who fled from her home in Tyre due to Israeli bombardments in Southern Lebanon, holds her newborn baby girl, Zahraa, to whom she gave birth in Iraq, as she sits with her family at a hotel in Najaf, Iraq, October 7, 2024. (Reuters)

Lubana Ismail had just fled her village in southern Lebanon with her husband and two children when she went into labor. She had swollen veins in her uterus and needed immediate medical supervision to give birth safely.

They searched for a hospital in Beirut or Sidon that would admit her, but all were full of the dead and wounded.

"No hospital accepted me. We were turned away everywhere until my father suggested we go to Iraq," she recounted.

So they boarded a flight and flew to Najaf. It was there, in a former war zone 1,000 km (600 miles) from home, that Lubana finally gave birth to baby Zahraa, healthy and safe.

The proud father, Fouad Youssef, recounted the perils of their evacuation.

"At first, we went to Tyre, but a strike hit directly next to us. We decided to go to Beirut, thinking it would be safer, but even on the way, a strike hit near us,” he said.

"During our two days of displacement, I tried to get my wife into a hospital because her labor was difficult. But due to the high number of injuries and martyrs, there were no vacancies."

More than a million Lebanese have fled their homes since Israel intensified its airstrikes and launched a ground campaign in southern Lebanon against the Hezbollah movement which has been striking Israel in solidarity with the Palestinians.

Imran Riza, UN humanitarian coordinator, said the pace of displacement since Sept. 23 had exceeded worst case scenarios, and too much damage was being done to civilian infrastructure.

Najaf is accustomed to handling the emergency medical needs of foreigners, and Iraqis have endured almost two decades of war at home. But receiving refugees from Lebanon is unexpected. Iraq's interior ministry says around 5,700 Lebanese have arrived so far.

Lubana and Fouad are grateful to have found a safe place to bring their family and give birth to their daughter. But they have no idea what will come next.

"We are afraid the war will go on for a long time. What will happen to our children? We were preparing them for school, but now there is no education. Are we going to stay here? Are we leaving? Are we going back to our country?" pondered Youssef, watching news of the destruction in Lebanon on his mobile screen.



War Piles Yet More Trauma on Lebanon's Exhausted People

'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
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War Piles Yet More Trauma on Lebanon's Exhausted People

'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP

Ask a Lebanese person how they are, and you're likely to be met with a heavy pause or a pained smile. Years of crisis have drained them, and now Israeli air strikes are pushing many to breaking point.

Cartoonist Bernard Hage, who draws under the name Art of Boo, summed it up a few weeks ago with a layer cake.

These layers are "Financial Collapse", "Pandemic", the 2020 "Beirut Port Explosion", "Political Deadlock" and "Mass Depression".

"War" is now the cherry on top.

Carine Nakhle, a supervisor at suicide helpline Embrace, says the trauma is never-ending.

"The Lebanese population is not OK," she said, AFP reported.

The hotline's some 120 operators take shifts around the clock all week to field calls from people in distress.

Calls have increased to some 50 a day since Israel increased its airstrikes against Lebanon on September 23.

The callers are "people who are in shock, people who are panicking", Nakhle said.

"Many of them have been calling us from areas where they are being bombed or from shelters."

Israel's bombardment of Lebanon, mostly in the south and in Beirut's southern suburbs, has killed more than 1,100 people and displaced upwards of a million in less than two weeks.

Tens of thousands have found refuge in central Beirut, whose streets now throng with homeless people and where the traffic is even more swollen than usual.

- 'Huge injustice' -

Every night, airstrikes on the southern suburbs force people to flee their homes, as huge blasts rattle windows and spew clouds of debris skywards.

Ringing out across Beirut, the explosions awaken terrible memories: of the massive 2020 Beirut port blast that decimated large parts of the city; of the last war between Israel and Hezbollah in 2006; and of the 1975-1990 civil war.

This latest affliction comes on the back of years of the worst financial crisis in Lebanon's history that has plunged much of its middle class into poverty.

Rita Barotta, 45, lives near the relatively quiet Christian-majority town of Jounieh north of Beirut.

She says she cannot hear the airstrikes, but also that she no longer has the words "to describe what is happening" to Lebanon.

"I no longer know what being me 15 days ago looked like," said the university lecturer in communications, who has thrown herself into helping the displaced.

"Eating, sleeping, looking after my plants -- none of that's left. I'm another me. The only thing that exists now for me is how I can help."

Networking on her phone, Barotta spends her days trying to find shelter or medicine for those in need.

"If I stop for even five minutes, I feel totally empty," she said.

Barotta almost lost her mother in the Beirut port explosion, and says that keeping busy is the only way for her not to feel "overwhelmed and petrified".

"What is happening today is not just a new trauma, it's a sense of huge injustice. Why are we being put through all this?"

- 'Just can't anymore' -

A 2022 study before the war by Lebanese non-governmental organization IDRAAC found that at least a third of Lebanese battled with mental health problems.

Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital, said all Lebanese were struggling in one way or another.

"Lebanese have a great capacity for resilience," he said, citing support from family, community and religion.

"But there is this accumulation of stress that is making the glass overflow."

"For years, we have been drawing on our physical, psychological and financial resources. People just can't anymore," he said.

He said he worries because some people who should be hospitalized cannot afford it, and others are relapsing "because they can no longer take a hit".

Many more people were relying on sleeping pills.

"People want to sleep," he said, and swallowing pills is easier when you have neither the time nor the money to be treated.

Nakhle, from Embrace, said many people sought help from non-governmental organizations as they could not afford the $100 consultation fee for a therapist at a private clinic.

At the charity's health centre, the waiting list for an appointment is four to five months long.