Israeli airstrikes near the Rafik Hariri Hospital have ignited fears and chaos in the region, particularly following claims that a second medical facility in Beirut is concealing Hezbollah assets. As the crisis unfolds, we speak with those on the ground.
Rescue workers tirelessly wield jackhammers, excavators, and pickaxes, pausing intermittently to listen for any signs of those still trapped beneath the debris. Hope dwindles as silence lingers under the rubble. Many labor on through the night, grappling with the aftermath of Monday’s airstrikes that left 18 dead—among them four children—and injured 60 others.
“I don’t understand this narrative that we belong to a culture of death,” says Qassem Fakih, 39, his face covered in dust from hours of digging for his relatives trapped in the rubble. “We are people who cherish life; they are the ones who are killing us.” Tragically, he has already pulled out four young cousins who didn’t survive, and he continues to search for two more missing family members.
As the workers unearth another body, Fakih can only look on helplessly. “Look! Do these look like Hezbollah weapons to you?” he shouts, holding up a handful of children’s toys found amidst the destruction. The airstrike struck a mere 40 meters from the entrance of Rafik Hariri Hospital, the country’s largest public health facility, which the Lebanese health ministry reported had suffered “significant damage.”
Dr. Fathallah Fattouh, who directs the hospital’s emergency room, recalls the panic that ensued when bombs struck nearby. “Initially, people thought the hospital itself was hit, which caused widespread anxiety,” he explains, noting the steady stream of patients who arrived, covered in dust, bleeding, and in need of urgent care. “When a building collapses, it’s usually the people inside who suffer fatal injuries,” he adds.
An hour prior to the strike, Israel had released a statement alleging that Hezbollah was hiding substantial amounts of cash and gold in a bunker beneath al-Sahel Hospital, another facility in Dahiyeh, providing no evidence but sharing an animated graphic of the purported underground location. The announcement provoked panic at al-Sahel, prompting staff to begin evacuating patients amidst scenes of chaos.
Dr. Omar Mneimneh describes the situation: “Patients were screaming in terror; it took us seven hours to evacuate about 30 patients.” He warns that if al-Sahel closes, lives will be at risk for those dependent on vital treatments like chemotherapy and dialysis. “Other hospitals are already overwhelmed due to an influx of patients from southern Lebanon,” he emphasizes.
In a bid to counter Israel’s claims, al-Sahel opened its doors to reporters, showcasing empty hospital beds and a mostly vacant underground storage area. Members of Hezbollah were present but did not intervene as journalists inspected the premises. “There are no tunnels, no hidden treasures for Hezbollah. This is a private institution, unaffiliated with any party,” declares Halimah al-Annan, a veteran nurse at the hospital.
While the media was given access to al-Sahel, an Israeli military spokesperson urged reporters to check the building next door, which he claimed had access to an underground bunker. Upon inspection, journalists found nothing more than old boxes and a locked storage space.
The fear among Lebanese medical professionals is escalating, reminiscent of the recent airstrikes in Gaza that have devastated healthcare facilities there. Dr. Fattouh expresses palpable anxiety, stating, “The risks are mounting. We are increasingly exposed to being bombed; it feels like a matter of life and death.”
