‘The camp has grown tighter around us’: Palestinian refugees in Lebanon between war and internal restrictions

In the early hours of Thursday, March 5, an Israeli aircraft struck an apartment near the Khalil al-Rahman Mosque in the Beddawi Palestinian refugee camp in northern Lebanon. The attack killed Hamas leader Wasim Attallah al-Ali and his wife Zeinab Tawfiq Aboul Hajal and wounded their daughter. It marked the first strike on a Palestinian refugee camp in northern Lebanon since Israel’s military escalation on the country on March 2.

Tala, a Palestinian from Beddawi, recalls the night of the strike. “I heard the ambulances and realized there had been an explosion in the camp. I turned on the news and I got really scared. There was nothing we could do. My mother had already packed a bag with our papers, blankets and pajamas. I felt like that was it, that we had to leave and the entire camp would come under fire,” she says. 

While fear gripped Tala, others tried to rush to the scene of the airstrike. But a distance that would have taken only minutes to traverse a year ago, now required passing through several military checkpoints to reach the site of the attack and retrieve the victims. 

Over the past year, Beddawi, just like all Palestinian camps in Lebanon, has undergone unprecedented changes that have directly impacted the lives of its residents. Since Israel and Lebanon agreed to a ceasefire in November 2024, the Lebanese military began imposing restrictions on movement within Lebanon’s camps. This measure was built upon by a subsequent agreement between Lebanon and the Palestinian Authority (PA) to confiscate any weapons held by Palestinian factions in the camps. 

Today, the attack on Beddawi signals an Israeli declaration of expanding hostilities into northern Lebanon, after months in which strikes had largely been concentrated in the south. It also places Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon more squarely within Israel’s direct line of fire.

Amid this expansion, Palestinians living in camps across Lebanon find themselves braving attacks from Israel, intent to stamp out any resistance to its occupation of Palestine, while living under security conditions that have tried to cordon off Palestinian life in a different way. 

Since the escalation of Israeli violence in Lebanon, Mada Masr has spoken to sources across camps in the country to understand the conditions Palestinians must navigate amid the threat of war and displacement and the economic hardship that follows both. 

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Founded in 1955 on an area of less than one square kilometer, Beddawi is the second-largest Palestinian refugee camp in northern Lebanon after Nahr al-Bared and is home to around 18,000 people.

Over the past year, Beddawi has changed in step with a plan hatched in a meeting in May between Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas and Lebanese President Joseph Aoun, which resulted in the “formation of a joint committee to follow up on conditions in the camps and remove weapons from them.” 

A Palestinian activist from Saida working on Palestinian political affairs in refugee camps tells Mada Masr that the objective agreed upon by the PA and the Lebanese authorities was to tighten pressure on Hamas and Islamic Jihad inside the camps.

In April, the Lebanese military began implementing a plan to close secondary entrances to Beddawi, restricting access to just two main entry points. Around 12 passages that residents had used daily were sealed off. The move also isolated the Khalil al-Rahman neighborhood, considered an extension of the camp.

Before January 2025, different parts of the camp were not separated, the activist in Saida tells Mada Masr. But after Israel’s 2024 war on Lebanon, the Lebanese military gradually began sealing off the camp and closing its access points. Small walls were built, and neighborhoods such as Khalil al-Rahman were effectively separated from the camp.

“Ever since the closures began, I’ve been terrified they will make it easier to wipe us out,” says Suha, a Palestinian from Khalil al-Rahman. “How are people supposed to escape in such a small space? Camps in the north are where most displaced people [from other Palestinian camps in the south] come. It will only become more crowded. And we will be targeted with or without reason, just because we are Palestinians.”

The division is not only geographical but social as well. A family whose members live only meters apart suddenly found themselves split in two, with half inside the camp and half outside it. Visiting relatives who live next door can now take half an hour, according to the Saida activist.

The separation impacted residents’ livelihoods as well, the activist adds. “A shopkeeper from Khalil al-Rahman whose business is based inside the camp suddenly found himself outside it, even though his shop is only a minute from his home. This has made daily life much harder and, at the same time, it has deepened people’s fears of what might happen if an emergency or a massacre were to occur inside the camp. With the entrances closed, responding to such emergencies would be far more difficult.”

Lama, a Palestinian from Beddawi, describes the harsh reality refugees in the camp now face. “The camp has grown tighter around us,” she says. “A trip between the camp and Khalil al-Rahman now takes about half an hour, when it used to take just minutes before the closures. We’ve been denied visits, and moving around has become much harder.” Residents, she adds, have protested the isolation measures several times, but the demonstrations have not led to any change in the Lebanese authorities’ policies.

Ammar Youzbashy, a volunteer at the Palestinian Cultural Club in the Mar Elias camp in Beirut, says the events in Beddawi illustrate how closures affect the darkest details of daily life, such as strikes. “Locking people inside a ‘ghetto’ is bad in itself,” he says. “I shouldn’t have to repeatedly explain that it makes life harder for children or school students. These are obvious outcomes. But the heart of the matter is: why should an entire people be sealed off? And during war, there should be no closures at all. People need easier routes, whether to flee, to access assistance or to move around. This issue has to be resolved. But who will resolve it? That should be the responsibility of those in the de-facto leadership within the camps. They are the ones who must take the decision.”

“I’m afraid the closures will make it easier to wipe us out. There is no place for us to take shelter,” Haya, a Palestinian from the Beddawi refugee camp, tells Mada Masr.

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The tightened restrictions have affected most of Lebanon’s 12 Palestinian refugee camps: Beddawi and Nahr al-Bared in northern Lebanon, Rashidieh and Burj al-Shemali in Sur and Mieh Mieh and Ain al-Hilweh — the largest camp in the country — in Saida. The measures involved sealing off secondary entrances connecting camps to surrounding areas or tightening security procedures at the gates in order to control movement. 

A Palestinian resident of Ain al-Hilweh who is active in the camp’s political and social affairs tells Mada Masr that relations between the camps and the Lebanese authorities “have not been good, but they have become worse.” 

The clearest example, he says, is Ain al-Hilweh near Saida, which has long been cordoned off. Anyone entering is questioned about everything. Even if you’re carrying a plastic bag, it has to be searched. Cars are searched. IDs are checked every time you go in or out. 

Recently, he adds, Lebanese authorities introduced regulations that scrutinize even the smallest sources of income. If someone owns a taxi, they now need permission from the Lebanese authorities to work and to move in and out of the camp. It’s a form of humiliation, not just restriction, he says. And it’s the model the authorities have been trying to apply to all the camps in Lebanon over the past months.

A scene similar to what happened in Beddawi on March 5 unfolded in Ain al-Hilweh in Saida in November. After Israel bombed the camp, Lebanese military checkpoints stopped vehicles carrying the bodies of those killed, according to the Palestinian activist in the camp. “Imagine a car carrying the dead being stopped to verify identities,” they say. “Think about what it is like for the living.”

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As the Israeli aggression escalates, residents now find themselves facing the threat of war and displacement in an increasingly complex environment. On the one hand, the restrictions imposed by Lebanese authorities on the camps have remained unchanged even as the escalation resumed. On the other, refugees are grappling with severe economic hardship as services provided by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees (UNRWA) — a lifeline for Palestinians in Lebanon — continue to decline.

The entire Palestinian camp of Burj al-Barajneh now falls within areas threatened with evacuation and bombardment in Dahiyeh, according to Youzbashy. Some of its residents have already been displaced to camps in the north or to the Mar Elias camp. The same goes for Shatila camp in Beirut, which lies very close to the targeted areas. 

The camps in the south, meanwhile, are “literally living under fire,” he tells Mada Masr.

The Israeli assault is “undoubtedly targeting the Palestinian camps, and we may see further escalation,” Youzbashy says. So far, we have not seen large-scale displacement from the camps in the south, but there have been intermittent attacks that could signal the possibility of wider bombardment at any moment, he adds.

Amid the increasingly complex relationship between the camps and the Lebanese authorities, a sense of dread about what lies ahead has settled over camp residents. That fear has only doubled with the Israeli assault, according to the activist in Saida. “People are afraid that something could happen at any moment and they will be displaced. But where would they go? The Lebanese state does not recognize them and has not even eased the closures imposed on the camps. It considers UNRWA responsible for them, while UNRWA says it has nothing. The situation will be extremely difficult.”

Over 470,000 Palestinian refugees are registered with UNRWA in Lebanon. Of them, around 231,000 are estimated to currently reside in the country, with about 80 percent living below the poverty line, according to a recent report by the Palestinian Human Rights Foundation (Shahed). The report warned that cuts to UNRWA’s activities are directly undermining the daily living conditions of refugees in Lebanon.

About a month ago, UNRWA announced a 20 percent cut to salaries and reduction of services provided to refugees, though the cutbacks had begun much earlier, according to a Palestinian involved in the political and cultural affairs of Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon. “It’s not just about cutting staff salaries,” they say. “Services themselves have been reduced by about 20 percent. We’re talking about a clinic that used to open five days a week that now opens only for three. Someone who needs the service might not be able to access it. The situation in Lebanon is already bad, so imagine what it’s like for Palestinians.”

Employees’ working hours have also been cut by around 20 percent, along with their salaries, even though many families depend on them as their main income. According to the activist in Saida, this points to an even harsher reality ahead, particularly in the midst of war.

UNRWA has also stopped covering many aspects of medical care, narrowing what treatments it will fund, the source says. In addition, it has suspended the small subsistence allowance — US$50 every three months — that it previously provided, along with assistance that had been directed to Palestinians displaced from Syria.

UNRWA’s political standing in camps has also become increasingly contested. At the start of 2025, four prominent teachers in the UNRWA teachers union were suspended for “violating the principle of neutrality" for participating in social efforts to support the people of Gaza. The initial suspensions were met with widespread protests in camps across Lebanon, but UNRWA did not relent and moved to dismiss the teachers.  

This comes atop Lebanon’s continued prohibition on employment for Palestinian refugees, which deeply impacts their lives. “People think the idea that Palestinians have been barred from working for decades has no basis in reality,” the activist says. “But that’s completely wrong. It is true that refugees find ways to work — either within the camp or through contacts outside it — the restrictions have tightened in recent years, and people increasingly find their livelihoods targeted.”

Nursing, for instance, had long been one of the professions Palestinians were permitted to practice. But under a new Lebanese law, a Palestinian refugee can now be hired only if no Lebanese candidate is available for the position, the source says.

Living conditions have also grown more complicated due to the financial crises affecting Palestinian factions, according to the source. Many refugees in the camps are affiliated with various factions — such as Fatah, Hamas or Islamic Jihad — but these groups have either cut their salaries or the payments are no longer adequate to meet daily needs.

“We’re talking about the sole sources of income for Palestinians in Lebanon, and these have become extremely difficult,” the activist says. “Since around 2019, people have had to rely on having someone abroad. But not everyone has that option — not to mention that the crises here are far harsher than what a small remittance can solve.”

What is truly worrisome, they say, is that UNRWA appears to be acting “as if there is no war.” Representatives from the agency said they currently have “literally nothing to offer” and are waiting for funding, in a meeting with local organizations held a week into the Israeli aggression, the activist adds. Even the number of centers that might be opened and equipped to shelter displaced people remains unclear, according to the source.

“During the previous war in 2024, shelters were opened in Saida, Nahr al-Bared camp, Beddawi and other places,” the source in Saida says. “This time, the number of centers is limited, as if UNRWA is opening them drop by drop.”

So far, Israeli evacuation warnings have affected four camps: Buss, Rashidieh and Burj al-Shamali in the southern city of Sur, as well as Burj al-Barajneh in Beirut’s Dahiyeh. According to the source, these camps are considered completely at risk. “These are four camps that are part of the evacuation plan,” they said, “which means there must be clear plans for them in place.”

The Palestinian involved in the camps’ political and cultural affairs noted that the number of schools prepared or announced as potential shelters is far smaller than in previous times. The reason remains unclear. “Is it because large-scale displacement hasn’t happened yet? Or because UNRWA does not want to open these centers?” they ask. “Even if it doesn’t, the schools haven’t been prepared to function as displacement shelters in the first place. In Saida, we had three schools that were open before — Rafidia, Nablus and Sakhra — but they are now closed.”

In the early days, only the Siblin center in Saida was opened. Yet two schools — Beit Jala and Birzeit — stand nearby, and UNRWA did not open them. Displaced people in the area forced them to open, and around 700 Palestinians, Lebanese and Syrians took shelter there. UNRWA later asked them to leave and move to the Siblin center, announcing it would no longer administer the two schools.

Ali Huwaidi, the director of the 302 Commission for the Defense of Refugee Rights, said in press statements that “the agency’s administration removed the United Nations flag from the two schools and scrapped their names from the buildings.”

From the start of the aggression until March 6, UNRWA said it had registered around 1,300 displaced Palestinians in two emergency shelters: the Siblin center, which hosts around 1,200 Palestinians, and a second shelter in Nahr al-Bared camp in northern Lebanon, hosting 100.

The Palestinian source involved in political and cultural work says that some families have been recorded as having been displaced from the camps in southern Lebanon and Beirut, though most have taken refuge in the homes of acquaintances or in rented apartments inside Ain al-Hilweh camp in Saida. But the majority remain where they are despite the risks. “If people could move somewhere safer, they would have done so,” they said. “But they have no financial means. The costs of displacement are high, and the journey itself is difficult. People are living under harsh financial conditions, with no resources.”

More schools need to be opened beyond those UNRWA currently plans to use, Youzbashy says. “Even if no services are provided there, they should at least be opened to receive displaced people.”

According to Lebanon’s Social Affairs Minister Haneen Sayed, the number of Lebanese displaced by the Israeli aggression has reached around one million, a figure she warned is likely to rise as the attacks continue.

In the face of UNRWA’s cutbacks and the Lebanese state’s sidelining of the Palestinian refugee file — on the grounds that it is not its responsibility — Palestinians in Lebanon have tried to fill the gaps through a group of volunteer initiatives. “There is a constant and ongoing crisis,” Youzbashy says. “We don’t really have national institutions in the full sense of the word, and those that do exist are economically and organizationally weak. Most of the organizations working in the camps are NGOs whose activities depend on donor funding. And donors, as you know, are tied to their agendas. Not everyone provides funding, and what is given comes within a broader plan. That’s why there is always a shortfall.”

Smaller institutions inside the camps — such as clubs and community associations — have stepped in to deliver direct aid sent from abroad, including housing assistance, blankets and mattresses. Among them is the Palestinian Cultural Club, which operates in both Mar Elias camp in Beirut and Beddawi camp in northern Lebanon. The organization provides “relief services without discrimination between Palestinians and Lebanese, because we see ourselves as one people under pressure, with a shared cause.”

Such initiatives, present within the camps themselves, have effectively taken on responsibilities that should belong to other institutions, the Palestinian source involved in political and cultural work says. Yet despite their importance, they face shortages of funding and resources — shortages that threaten their ability to respond to refugees’ needs during the current aggression.

“In 2024, funding was not like it is now,” they say. “Today, there are restrictions on the movement of money and funding. These entities play a crucial role, but they are now grappling with resource shortages. The situation is difficult from every angle.”

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When Tala learned that Ali, the Hamas leader in Beddawi, had been killed, she cried. “Mr. Wasim was very good to us.”

Ali was one of Hamas’s most prominent organizational and political figures in the Beddawi and Nahr al-Bared refugee camps in northern Lebanon. He was also known for his work in education, which had earned him a social and pedagogical standing among residents, a resident in the camp tells Mada Masr.

The strike that targeted Ali and his family came over a year after his brother Saeed, also a leader in Hamas, was killed alongside his wife and children in October 2024.

According to the Palestinian resident of Ain al-Hilweh who is active in the camp’s political and social affairs, one of the motives behind the tighter checkpoints and isolation measures across Palestinian camp is the Lebanese authorities’ attempt to sever the camps’ links to the act of resistance. 

Since October 7, 2023, resistance fighters from the camps have taken part in confrontations along the Lebanese-Palestinian border — something that has largely been absent from the Lebanese theater of confrontation with Israel for many years. Israeli strikes and assassinations have also hit several camps, including Ain al-Hilweh, Beddawi, Buss and Rashidieh. The first strike in Beirut’s Dahiyeh following the latest escalation on March 2 targeted a commander in the military wing of Islamic Jihad in Lebanon. Since then, Lebanese authorities have sought to prevent resistance activity from operating out of the camps, alongside their broader efforts to curb Hezbollah’s activities in the country, according to the activist in Saida.

But as much as the war and Lebanese authority’s strategies have prompted fear and produced separation, they have also galvanized communities. 

Minutes after the strike on Beddawi, people took to the streets in protest of the Israeli aggression.

“An Israeli strike means we are Palestinians,” one resident of the camp tells Mada Masr. “We can’t forget Palestine or the resistance.”