Lebanese families grapple with protecting children from repeated trauma amid renewed Israeli violence

In recent days, Lebanese parents have faced a painful question: what can they tell their children now that the Israeli war on their country has resumed, and how can they reassure them?

For many families, there are no easy answers. The war has evolved from an occasional crisis into a recurring pattern, leaving little room for recovery or a return to normal life.

Rewinding to the Israeli assault on Lebanon in 2024, the country had barely begun to recover after the ceasefire and now faces the same precarious situation, with little time to heal and the prospect of recovery ever more uncertain. 

And to make matters worse, children are once again at the forefront, exposed not only to bombardment but also to the upheaval of displacement, with more than 800 people killed and 800,000 displaced, underscoring the urgent need to protect young lives in a country under siege.

For Samar Sarhan, fleeing the southern suburbs of Beirut on a motorcycle with her family was unbearable for her 11-year-old daughter Christine, who was overwhelmed by the sounds of bombing, shouting and car horns.

“She was terrified and screamed and cried the whole way,” Samar said.

Even at the school where Christine now sleeps, the trauma follows her. Every sudden sound drags her back to the war: a door slams and she jumps in fear, a chair scrapes across the floor and she freezes, and, Samar notes, her daughter always tells her, 'Let us go somewhere where there are no sounds'.”

When play mirrors war

Other families have faced similar struggles. Khadija Dib, who fled Nabatieh al-Fawqa to the same school, described her 10-year-old son Ali, whose health and outlook have deteriorated since the 2024 war.

"He grew tired before his time, lost weight, and his outlook changed," she said, "and he began clinging to his toys and teddy bears as if they were his last line of defence," with Ali now sleeping with a teddy bear under his arm and even the sound of a low-flying plane leaving him frozen and staring into the distance before he begins to scream.

“He reached a stage where he no longer asks for emotional closeness, but demands constant physical presence,” Khadija added. “He does not want me to go to work or move away from him, and he tells me, ‘Try to find work near me'.”

Not all children show their anxiety so visibly. Zeinab Karki, who fled Aitaroun with her five-year-old son, also named Ali, watched as her once-playful child now sat on the ground holding a broken piece of plastic.

“He points it into the air and says, ‘Bang, bang, dead,’” she said. “He asks for toy guns or anything resembling a weapon. He imitates gunfire with worrying accuracy, as if his ears have memorised the rhythm. Violence has become his new game.”

Constant fear 

Zeinab Abdul Hussein, who fled Harouf with her three children, described her seven-year-old Hadi, who appears almost unnervingly calm.

"He shows no reaction and sits quietly. He does not cry or complain. When I call him, he answers, and when I ask him to eat, he does so — but his eyes seem absent," she said.

Hadi’s twin brother Ali suffers from involuntary urination, while their sixteen-year-old sister, Zahra, stays awake at night, unable to sleep because of anxiety. “She watches the phone and listens to the news. She does not play much and does not laugh easily,” their mother added.

Some families have no shelter to run to. Hawra Abbas found herself on a Beirut pavement, trying to hold her three children close. Her seven-year-old, Ali, held a plastic toy briefly before dropping it and looking around anxiously, while three-year-old Rua burst into tears and clung tightly to her mother. Even fifteen-day-old Zahra cried as if she had memorised the rhythm of the bombardment.

Child psychotherapist Reham Monzer explains that the problem is not only the intensity of bombardment or displacement but also the repetition of trauma before the first experience has been processed.

“The first trauma in children’s brains has not yet ended; it has not been absorbed or treated,” Reham said. “When displacement occurred in Lebanon for the second time, the brain did not register it as something new. Instead, it experienced it as a repetition of the same catastrophe, as if the neural networks associated with danger had been reactivated.”

Reham emphasised the difference between first-time trauma and repeated trauma. “The brain does not start from zero but from an open wound. Each child’s response differs according to personality, upbringing, and the sense of safety within the family. Yet all live in a constant environment of danger, where fear becomes permanent, and children anticipate the next threat even before it arrives,” she said.

In sharing this, Reham explained that the body communicates what words cannot, through symptoms such as involuntary urination, stomach and head pain, night screaming, clinging to parents, unexplained aggression, repeated war-based play, and feelings of guilt. She added that some children may appear calm but are emotionally dissociated, a protective response to being overwhelmed.

Correct guidance through repeated trauma

Social health specialist Rana Ghanawi weighed in, saying that families are facing repeated trauma without time to recover.

“By the measure of psychological recovery, and with military operations continuing over the past year, we can only expect more severe outcomes than the first time,” she said. “A child who fled a year ago, without having regained balance, now faces the same scene: a hurriedly packed bag, stairs descended in haste, and a classroom turned into a place to sleep. This repetition is not minor — it deepens insecurity, reinforces fear, and creates a sense that the world cannot be trusted.”

Rana stressed that parents’ presence is crucial. “Our duty is to be their safety. Holding them close sends a neurological message that danger is not everywhere. Touch, embrace, and physical proximity help calm the nervous system, but reassurance does not stop at hugging,” she said.

Even amid displacement, she said, families should create simple routines. “Wake up at roughly the same time, let children eat what they like, and avoid forcing them. Routine provides stability when a child loses control over place.”

Parents should also limit children’s exposure to the news and avoid shouting or showing panic in front of them. "Children do not need all the details. Anxiety is transmitted without words," Rana said.

In addition, involving children in protection plans can help reduce fear — for example, by explaining where the family will go if a loud sound is heard or keeping bags ready.

Children also need ways to express themselves, through drawing or play, as suppression only postpones the release of emotions. 

Rana highlighted the importance of preserving elements of childhood, saying that when children are forced into strict systems in shelters, they may feel punished and ask themselves, ‘What did I do to deserve this experience?’ and that comparisons with others only serve to isolate their pain.

As Rana explains, simple explanations can help children understand the conflict. Parents might say, 'There are people who want to impose power by force, and we are trying to protect ourselves', or, 'We are looking for your safety, and we will return to our home when it is safe'. Acknowledging a child’s feelings is equally important. Do not say, 'There is nothing to fear', or 'You are right to be very afraid'. Instead, say, 'I understand that you are afraid, and we are here with you'," Rana advised.

Reassurance can also come from perspective. "Remind children that the family has faced difficult circumstances before and overcome them, and that things will improve," she said.

Article translated from Arabic by Afrah Almatwari. To read the original, click here.