In search of belonging as a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon

I am a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon.

I was born and raised in the Ain El-Hilweh Palestinian refugee camp located in Saida, southern Lebanon. Established following the Nakba in 1948, it’s one of 12 Palestinian refugee camps in the country. It might be the largest one, but it always felt too small. The concrete walls surrounding it block the view of the ‘outside world.’

Like millions of refugees around the world, I did not choose to become a refugee. In 1948, my grandparents were forced to leave Deir El-Asad in Acre, heading for an unknown destination. My father was a young child, and my mother was just an infant. “In three days, the situation will improve, and you will return,” my great grandmother told my grandfather. Why have those three days turned into 77 years?

I, like other Palestinian refugees, have gone through identity crises morphed by accumulating traumas, the first of which stems from growing up away from our homeland. From a young age I knew I was Palestinian, but I didn't know what that actually meant. I have never seen Palestine, never stepped on its soil, and have never played in its neighborhoods. My internal wounds grew bigger when I realized that every “I have never” in these statements was realistically “I will never.” What is a refugee who does not have a homeland to return to?

Growing up, I wanted to become a doctor and help people who needed medical care. But I soon faced the harsh reality that as a refugee I could not practice medicine in this country. Choosing that path would mean I would have to leave Lebanon, which I was not willing to do. So I decided to become a nurse. 

A career serving those most in need

When I joined MSF in 2011, my appreciation for nursing as a profession doubled. I never expected I would be able to say that I have been working in the humanitarian field for 14 years, but the days have passed quickly while serving people most in need of health care, who may have limited access to it.

I initially worked with MSF inside Ain El-Hilweh camp for many years, during which our activities took many forms. Much like other Palestinian camps in the country, Ain El-Hilweh hosts Syrian refugees who fled the war that started in 2011. In 2015, I moved to MSF’s project in south Beirut, where we ran two clinics in the Shatila and Bourj El-Barajneh Palestinian refugee camps. In 2023, I moved to the Beirut project, where we established a clinic for migrant workers who face challenges accessing health care.

In 2017 and 2023, several armed clashes broke out in Ain El-Hilweh camp. MSF launched emergency responses in both years, which I joined to support my community. I’ve also taken part in several emergency vaccination campaigns supporting Ministry of Health efforts. In 2017, we vaccinated children against measles. In 2020, we vaccinated people against COVID-19, and against cholera in 2022. 

In 2020, we also witnessed the Beirut port explosion, yet another trauma in the country that shook me just as it shook the city. MSF's emergency response included providing primary health care, dressing wounds, ensuring people with non-communicable disease had their medication, providing mental health services, and donating clean drinking water and hygiene kits. At that point, I was no longer just a refugee supporting refugees.  

The ceasefire has not stopped the war 

In September 2024, Israel escalated its war in Lebanon, which required an emergency response yet again. But this response was not like prior ones; it was much larger as the deadly war retraumatized many Lebanese people, migrants, and refugees alike. MSF went from operating one mobile medical team to 22 teams across Lebanon. We worked hard to provide health care and medication to the displaced wherever they were, in shelters, overcrowded apartments, or even on the streets. 

This latest emergency response lasted for two months, but the war did not stop with the declaration of a ceasefire. We are still witnessing Israel bombing in south Lebanon and the southern suburb of Beirut, and Israeli forces are still in Lebanon. We are still supporting people who were displaced and have not found homes or even villages to return to. It pains me greatly for Lebanon to suffer from Israel’s war that steals lives, hope, and memories, just as is happening in Palestine.

I may not know who I am to Lebanon, but I'm certain of what Lebanon is to me. After spending 39 years in this country, it is no longer the closest thing to home: It has become home. It is a homeland I sing for, a homeland I feel a sense of belonging and loyalty to. 

My family members who emigrated from Lebanon always ask me why I don't leave like they did, and I always answer them that this country needs me just as I need it. My mission is to serve Lebanese society, which includes Lebanese people, migrants, and refugees—Palestinian and Syrian.

I am raising my 7-year-old son as though he’s a dual citizen, Palestinian from his father's side and Lebanese from his mother's side. But the bitter reality is that my son lacks both citizenships because his mother can’t pass her citizenship on to him. No matter how much I try to protect him from the traumas that are passed down through Palestinian generations, trauma is inevitable. But we find ways to cope, in search of belonging. We persevere, and we thrive. 

On World Refugee Day, I say: my name is Muhammad Sunallah, and I am a husband, a father, a nurse, and a humanitarian worker. But I am who I am today because I am a refugee.