As Lebanon enters its sixth consecutive week of escalating hostilities, the landscape of the country is being reshaped not just by the physical destruction of infrastructure, but by a profound and harrowing humanitarian crisis that is increasingly wearing a female face. According to recent data from UN Women, the scale of the upheaval is staggering: nearly one-quarter of all women and girls in Lebanon have been forced to flee their homes since early March 2026. This mass migration is not a singular event but a daily exodus; on average, 16,750 women and girls are uprooted every 24 hours, driven from their communities by the relentless rhythm of evacuation orders and the omnipresent threat of violence.
The geographic heart of this displacement lies in South Lebanon, where entire neighborhoods have been emptied. The women fleeing these regions are not just seeking safety; they are carrying the weight of entire families, often acting as the primary caregivers for children, the elderly, and the wounded, all while grappling with their own personal losses. For many, the journey leads to informal settlements or one of the 677 collective shelters established by the Lebanese Government. However, these sanctuaries are at a breaking point. With all but 11 of these shelters currently at maximum capacity, the resulting overcrowding has stripped women and girls of their privacy, dignity, and any semblance of the security they once knew.
Among those caught in this tide of displacement is Faten, a 42-year-old mother who arrived in the town of Barja after a grueling journey from Tyre. Faten is one of the estimated 620,000 women and girls who have been displaced across the nation. Her story is emblematic of the “double burden” faced by women in conflict zones. Faten did not just lose her home; she lost her husband, leaving her to navigate the chaos of war as a widow and a sole provider. When she first reached the Bishop Maroun Al Ammar Primary Healthcare Center in the Chouf district, she was more than just physically exhausted—she was emotionally depleted, a state shared by the hundreds of women who pass through the center’s doors each day.
The Barja Health Center has become a vital lifeline in the region, a hub where the physical wounds of war are treated alongside the much deeper, invisible scars of psychological trauma. Nearly 70 percent of those seeking aid at the facility are women. Many of them arrive in a state of “functional shock,” focused entirely on the immediate survival of their children while suppressing their own grief and terror. This suppression, experts warn, is a ticking time bomb for the nation’s long-term mental health.
On the front lines of this psychological battle is Fatima Al Shamma, a 28-year-old social worker whose daily life is defined by the stories of those who have lost everything. Fatima’s role is as much about bearing witness as it is about providing clinical support. In the makeshift counseling spaces of the center, she encounters women who have been displaced not once, but multiple times, each move further eroding their sense of self and stability.
“At first, most women hesitate,” Fatima observes, describing the wall of silence that often greets her. “But gradually, they begin to speak. And when they do, you realize how much they have been holding inside, how disoriented and emotionally exhausted they are.” The recurring theme in these sessions is a devastating sense of isolation. Fatima notes that the question she hears most often—”I am alone. Who will stand by me?”—reflects a breakdown of the social fabric that typically supports women in Lebanese society.
The crisis has exacerbated existing gender inequalities in ways that are both subtle and overt. In the cramped quarters of collective shelters, the traditional roles of caregiving have become exponentially more difficult. Without access to basic necessities—including menstrual hygiene products, clean water, and private spaces for nursing—women are forced into a constant state of hyper-vigilance. The lack of privacy is not merely an inconvenience; it is a protection risk that increases the vulnerability of women and girls to various forms of gender-based violence and harassment.
Furthermore, the mental health infrastructure in Lebanon, already strained by years of economic instability, is struggling to keep pace with the surge in demand. Counseling services are a luxury in a time of war, yet they are as essential as bread or medicine. UN Women has recognized this gap and is currently scaling up gender-responsive mental health and protection services. By establishing safe spaces specifically for women, the organization aims to provide more than just referrals; they are creating environments where women can reclaim their agency and leadership.
For Faten, the support she received from Fatima was transformative. It didn’t change the fact that her husband was gone or that her home in Tyre was inaccessible, but it changed her ability to process that reality. Through psychosocial support centered on active listening, Faten began to find her footing. She now visits the center weekly, not just for aid, but for the sanctuary of being heard. “Mental health is the foundation of everything,” Fatima explains. “Without it, recovery is not possible.”
The urgency of this work is underscored by the sheer volume of need. The Barja center supports approximately 100 individuals daily, with more than 60 percent requiring immediate, high-level psychosocial intervention. This includes women like 34-year-old Samar, who fled Bint Jbeil in such haste that she left behind her identification documents and the medication she requires for a chronic illness. For Samar, the trauma of displacement is compounded by the physical toll of untreated illness and the bureaucratic nightmare of being a “stateless” person within her own borders.
Perhaps most concerning to Fatima and her colleagues is the impact of the conflict on the younger generation. Adolescent girls and young women are reporting unprecedented levels of anxiety and a profound loss of hope for the future. In a stage of life that should be defined by education and aspiration, these girls are instead focused on the grim mechanics of survival. “At their age, they should be looking ahead to the future,” Fatima says. “Instead, they are trying to survive a crisis with no clear end.” To combat this, the center is attempting to engage youth through volunteer initiatives and group sessions, trying to provide a sense of purpose amidst the surrounding instability.
The toll on the humanitarian workers themselves is a story that often goes untold. Fatima admits that the emotional weight of her work is staggering. To stand in the breach and absorb the collective trauma of hundreds of women requires a level of resilience that is difficult to maintain. “This work is emotionally demanding every single day,” she shares. “We hear, see, and feel pain constantly.” Yet, for Fatima and the teams on the ground, the idea of stepping back is unthinkable.
The conflict in Lebanon is creating a generation of women who are defined by their displacement, but also by their extraordinary endurance. As the weeks turn into months, the focus of the international community must remain on these invisible wounds. While the physical rebuilding of Lebanese towns will eventually begin, the rebuilding of the female psyche will take much longer. Providing “safe spaces” is not just about physical locations; it is about creating a societal infrastructure where the pain of women is seen, heard, and systematically addressed. In the quiet corners of the Barja Health Center, that work is happening one conversation at a time, proving that even in the darkest hours of conflict, the act of listening remains one of the most powerful tools of resistance and recovery.
