Lebanon's dead denied final farewell amidst escalating conflict
The scent of gunpowder hangs heavier than grief in Tyre, Lebanon. As Israeli forces press deeper into the south, a more insidious consequence of war is unfolding: the erosion of even the most fundamental human right – a dignified farewell to the deceased. The traditional Lebanese custom of a final procession through the streets, a last glimpse of home for the fallen, has vanished, replaced by hurried burials in makeshift graveyards, marked only by stark, spray-painted numbers.
A war against remembrance
For generations, Lebanese families have honored their dead with a poignant ritual. The casket, carried by loved ones, would wind its way through the streets of the deceased’s hometown, a final, mournful parade. Now, the relentless advance of the conflict has shattered this tradition, forcing families to abandon their ancestral land and hastily inter their loved ones in temporary plots further north. In Tyre, the grim reality is laid bare: two-meter-wide trenches, hastily dug, now serve as mass graves, each marked with a chilling numerical epitaph – a cold statistic in the face of profound loss.
Rabih Koubaissi, a man now weathered by two wars in just three years, remains in Tyre, overseeing these hurried burials, defying Israeli orders to evacuate. He speaks of the profound disruption to Islamic burial rites. While Islamic jurisprudence allows for the use of a casket – a practice known as wadiaa, meaning “deposit” – the preference is typically for direct interment, a return to the earth without the intervention of a vessel. But war, as always, bends the rules.
“A Muslim can be buried in any Muslim cemetery,” Koubaissi explains, “But people have an emotional attachment. They want their loved ones buried in their ancestral land. It reflects belonging, heritage, and presence.”
The weight of unwashed grief
The brutality of the conflict extends beyond the immediate violence. The process of preparing the dead has itself been compromised. “Sometimes we just receive pieces of bodies,” Koubaissi recounts, his voice heavy with weariness. “In those cases, we just collect what we can, place them in a shroud and a body bag, and then put them in a coffin.” The prospect of burying loved ones twice, first in temporary graves and then, hopefully, back in their hometowns, is a source of immense anguish for families.
The future remains uncertain. Israeli statements suggesting an indefinite occupation of the territory south of the Litani River have fueled fears that Lebanese families may be denied the chance to repatriate their loved ones for months, or even years. The memory of Dhayra, a village near the border, serves as a stark warning. After the 2006 war, residents rushed to rebury those killed by airstrikes, only to find their graveyard desecrated by Israeli bulldozers, the mosque reduced to rubble, and the bodies requiring relocation to an alternative site.
The few who remain in Tyre offer a glimpse of the enduring human need for connection and remembrance. A young couple, risking their own safety, tend to flowers at the graves of two young men from Al-Qlailah, the only plots adorned with photographs of the deceased. Hecham Reda, a medic from Aita al-Chaab, stands weeping over the grave of his friend Hadi, lost too soon in this latest conflict. “Hadi was always with us, putting out fires, carrying the martyrs. In this war, he didn’t have time. The strike that hit him was fast, brutal.”
As airstrikes echo in the distance, Koubaissi looks out over the rows of unmarked graves. The hardest part, he says, is answering the families’ desperate questions about their lost loved ones. He carries a burden of unspoken truths, offering only comfort in the face of unimaginable loss. The wars never truly end; they simply leave behind a landscape of shattered memories and a profound sense of displacement.