Christelle, a Lebanese woman living in Zouk Mosbeh, faces daily challenges shaped by her disability and the ongoing war. While she has not been displaced, the war has deeply affected her ability to secure essential medicines and maintain her livelihood. "There’s a crucial medicine I need, but I can’t find it," she explains. "My income used to come from photography, but with work stopping, I now have no income." 

Rayan, a 25-year-old Palestinian Lebanese artist known for her dance, photography, modeling, and acting work, has faced new challenges as the ongoing conflict disrupts her life. Originally from Dahieh, she and her family were forced to relocate to Bshamoun amidst escalating violence. "The idea of reallocation itself is exhausting," she shares. "We couldn’t take anything with us." 

Ghada had just begun a journey toward reclaiming her own life, an independence hard-earned after years of sacrifice and single-handedly raising her children. But today, Lebanon is a war zone once more, and Ghada finds herself in an unyielding battle, not only for her children’s safety but for the pieces of a life she worked tirelessly to build. 

Jack, an Iraqi trans man navigating life in Lebanon, has spent years enduring the hardships of marginalization and systemic barriers. Despite not being displaced, Jack’s life is far from stable.

Displaced to Saadnayel amidst Lebanon’s ongoing war, Fatima faces daily battles far beyond her control. “We were shuffled from place to place, yet everywhere we went was struck,” she recounts, reflecting on the unrelenting housing crisis that now compounds her challenges. For a person with a disability, options are especially limited; shelters lack accessibility, and even basic amenities are scarce. 

In the heart of Lebanon, amidst a war-torn country, Flavia’s life has become a constant negotiation between hope and hardship. Flavia is a single mother, a survivor of countless conflicts since the 90s, and the founder of HUNNA, a space initially envisioned as a cultural and artistic center for women, with a focus on mother artists.  

Hiba’s life, like so many others, is caught in the crosswinds of war and systemic exclusion. A Palestinian with a Syrian husband, Hiba’s daily reality is shaped by marginalization, uncertainty, and the weight of statelessness.

She describes the moment of realization “it felt as if someone slapped me on the face when I realized that there is something wrong with my leg. I do not walk like everyone”

In Lebanon, being xxxxr, set against the backdrop of Arab culture, isn't just challenging; it is deemed forbidden.

In the Lebanese Penal Code, we see article 534, criminalizing “unnatural” intercourse, which some judges take advantage off to criminalize xxxxxxxxx relationships.

When we discuss the nursery founded by Tema, we cannot but associate it with her child, Karim, and her motherhood.

This place offered her comfort during hard times when she was deprived of her child for two years. Whenever Tema missed her son, she hugged a child there, with heavy pain in her heart.

It is 2014. A bus clandestinely carrying young men and women across the Syrian-Lebanese border stops in the Marj area.

Sousou, 20 years of age, stepped off the bus, then waited for her uncle to pick her up and drive her home to one of her brothers who had preceded her to Lebanon.

She looked at my mobile phone and asked, “Will you not record my words? I want to share my story with others. Yes, life is hard, but I will tell you about the difficulties and how to overcome them.”

Who is Tala?
Tala is the daughter of Roumouz.
And who is Roumouz?

Roumouz graciously welcomed me, inviting me to sit beside her on the floor, close to the bed where Tala, the four-year-old girl, lays.

It’s an unsafe world for us all.

We cannot exist if not to pander to men and their muses, to be made to look even when we don’t want to.
Cling. Cling. Cling. Cling.
The metallic sound of his belt loops rang feverously.

What if we could embrace our childhood? Would we alleviate the injustice and loneliness? This cold house requires warmth, while we did not have the supplies to provide that warmth.

The alley, where we grew up, was fraught with difficulties, and we named it “hope” versus our fear, as if we we’re saying “we are here.”

Nada says: “I never felt that my disability, or specifically these three centimeters, prevented me from doing anything in my life, except wearing high heels. This misfortune stopped me from marrying a man I loved”

“I did everything in my power not to get in that car. I knew for a fact that if I went in, everything would be over. And if he doesn’t kill me, I thought, then for sure he will forbid me from going out my entire life”, she says.

“If you ask me about the light, I tell you it's inside me and greater than the darkness outside. I was born without the ability to see light, but I planted the light inside of me”

During her childhood, Joy was convinced that she, just like all her friends, had the Lebanese nationality, but she soon understood that things were not that simple, and that her belonging to this country was nothing but an illusion that had no tangible, administrative or practical meaning.
She is a foreigner living here with a residency permit that allows her to live and work within harsh limits.

To be loved, supported, and understood in your frexxxm —a space where you can simply be yourself, a place that allows you to mess up, and still ask for help.
“Call it nuclear family”