Metro’s foreign correspondent Gergana Krasteva reports from Lebanon
My taxi driver keeps one eye on the road and the opposite on the rear-view mirror, as if expecting smoke to rise ahead of us.
The closer we get to Shatila Refugee Camp, in Beirut’s southern suburbs, the tighter his grip on the steering wheel becomes.
He’s the second driver I hailed down – the primary flat-out refused to drive to the neighbourhood. Each are skittish, and with some reason.
Ever for the reason that displacement of 700,000 Palestinians in the course of the Nakba in 1948, Shatila has been a haven for people fleeing conflicts to Lebanon’s capital – but in addition the epicentre for Israeli massacres.
Within the wake of Israel’s escalating violations of the ceasefire with Hezbollah, which began last November 2024, residents fear that the war could engulf the camp too.
Having just returned from Nabatieh, the toughest hit major city within the south – just an hour’s drive from the capital – I can understand why Palestinians and Lebanese alike are on edge.
There, an Israeli attack blow-torched a automotive, killing two parents metres away from their child’s school. Israel alleged Hezbollah members were inside it.
It’s the primary of eight assassinations that may ripple across Lebanon within the weeks to return.
Meanwhile, Beirut – ever restless – is attempting to move on from last yr’s war with Israel. But in Shatila, where scars of past conflicts are on every corner, time doesn’t move with the identical pace.
My fixer, a delicate man who’s a Palestinian refugee himself, awaits outside a pharmacy, a couple of minutes from the doorway of the camp.
Ahead lies probably the most densely populated areas on this planet on account of its high concentration of refugees in a small space.
Greater than 20,000 people live here – though some estimates go as high as 30,000 – in lower than 1 square kilometre. A city crammed inside a city, built on the promise of survival.
Shatila – and the impoverished conditions inside, which haven’t modified much up to now 75 years – rarely make the news; that’s unless it’s for a tragedy.
Beyond the crumbling concrete partitions that surround Shatila, its fundamental artery, the market. It’s claustrophobic, relentless and at the identical time, lively.
The air is thick, powdered with dust kicked up by the roaring motorbikes, a continuing fixture inside Shatila.
Yet, it’s the smell – a combination of frying oil and sewage – that assaults all of the senses. Despite the most effective efforts of residents to maintain the streets clean, the strained water and sewage systems are buckling under pressure in any case these years.
Buildings – all adorned with Palestine Liberation Organisation (PLO) flags – on either side lean so close they appear to press one another for balance.
Above all of it, an internet of electrical wires connect either side, often dripping so low that I actually have to duck my head to avoid them.
Posters of Yasser Arafat overlook the sagging rooftops, while photographs of Palestinian leaders killed in Israel’s war in Gaza appear to have grow to be a everlasting fixture.
As I pass by a fruit and vegetable stall, the vendor jumps up from his plastic chair, yelling at me for taking pictures.
Pointing on the Fuji X-T100 dangling around my neck, he questions who I’m. Outside visitors will not be unwelcome in Shatila, but residents are wary of recent faces.
Once I tell him I’m a journalist and I’m reporting on the Palestinian chess club within the camp, his face softens and he takes me inside his shop to indicate me a big memorial dedicated to Palestinian journalists killed in Gaza.
Shatila is sort of a maize – and as soon as I step off from the market streets, I lose all sense of direction.
On several occasions, my fixer is forced to step in, yanking me back by the shoulder, each time I enterprise too deep contained in the camp.
‘Not that way, it’s dangerous,’ he snaps, together with his tone leaving no room for arguments, as I turn around from a dark, narrow street.
Before moving to town of Saida, some 30 miles from Beirut, he grew up within the neighbourhood, and is well aware how quickly a mistaken turn can result in something bad.
Everyone I meet is eventually welcoming – and appreciative that I actually have travelled from London to report on what is going on inside.
The conditions in Shatila has not modified much in recent many years, except that it has gotten worse.
Every latest wave of refugees – from Syria and from Palestine – has pushed the camp further into its limits.
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