SIDON, Lebanon — In Sidon a woman draped in her late husband’s civil defense uniform weeps against her father-in-law as colleagues and neighbors gather to grieve. Hussein Jaber, 32, a veteran Lebanese first responder with the interior ministry, was killed May 12 by an Israeli strike in Nabatieh while rushing to rescue a man wounded in an earlier attack. His colleague Ahmad Noura, 45, died alongside him. Jaber’s death came days before what would have been his first wedding anniversary.
Their funerals the following day joined a growing list of ceremonies for emergency workers who have been killed responding to strikes since the fighting that reignited on March 2. More than 100 Lebanese first responders have died in Israeli airstrikes since the conflict began, according to local tallies; the ceasefire that took effect in April has not halted attacks, and Lebanese officials say more than 380 people have been killed during that pause alone.
At Nabatieh’s hospital, where staff can see bombardments on the horizon, Mona Boud Zeid, director of Al Najdeh al-Shaabiyeh Hospital, said the medical community fears the same devastation seen in Gaza. Gaza’s health ministry has reported that more than 1,700 medical workers and first responders have been killed in that campaign. International humanitarian law protects hospitals, ambulance crews and rescue teams, Zeid said, but “what we see now… it’s not that.”
Medical aid groups have condemned attacks on rescue workers. Doctors Without Borders, which has teams at the Nabatieh hospital, said Jaber and Noura were killed after hurrying to the scene of an earlier strike and called the deaths “part of an alarming pattern.” A third medic with the pair survived with injuries.
Outside the morgue on May 13, uniformed civil defense members stood in a quiet vigil before transferring the wrapped bodies to a temporary burial site near Sidon. Families said they could not bury the dead in their own villages because of ongoing strikes, meaning many will have to perform the ritual of burial twice if safer conditions return.
“We were never just colleagues,” said search-and-rescue team leader Abdallah Hallal, his voice failing as he spoke of Noura. Hallal, who has led rescue operations for more than 20 years, described long ties among teams who have pulled survivors from rubble and responded to disaster and war together.
Across southern Lebanon, the same scenes of uniforms, helmets and empty stretchers have become symbols of loss. In Tyre, condolence ceremonies marked the deaths of Hadi Daher, Hussein Al-Sati and Hussein Ghadbouni, who were killed responding to a strike in Majdal Zoun. Hundreds attended, saluting coffins draped in Lebanese flags while fireworks and the national anthem framed a farewell that mixed honor with raw grief.
Journalists and civilians have also been killed in recent weeks. In Baisariyah, family and colleagues gathered after an Israeli strike killed Amal Khalil, a reporter for the Lebanese daily Al-Akhbar, and wounded a freelance photographer.
The human cost goes beyond the dead. Lebanese officials say at least 2,896 people in Lebanon have been killed and nearly a million were displaced from the south since the fighting began. Israel says Hezbollah’s strikes since March have killed 18 soldiers and four civilians on its side.
Even as they bury friends, first responders continue to prepare for the next shift. At the Nabatieh ambulance unit, paramedic Ali Al Rida Hammoud strapped on body armor and checked equipment. Hammoud, wounded earlier in the war, carries memories of fallen colleagues, including Joud Suleiman, the son of Nabatieh’s chief paramedic, who was killed in March while en route to a rescue.
“I’m not a hero… but I’m not afraid,” Hammoud said. “I’ve seen so much, but I believe I can protect my people, my country. Despite everything, you have to keep moving. Where should we go? This is our country.”
For many families, the war has meant repeating rituals under uncertain skies. Temporary graves in makeshift cemeteries are a frequent sight; funerals are held where it is momentarily safer, not always where the dead belonged.
International organizations and local hospitals have warned of mounting risks to medical neutrality. Israel has repeatedly accused Hezbollah of misusing ambulances and medical facilities for military purposes, allegations the Lebanese health ministry denies and for which Israel has not provided publicly available evidence. Humanitarian groups stress that, absent proof, the protection owed to medical services under international law remains in force.
Back at the morgue and at gravesides, religious leaders and families pray as medics and rescue teams salute. The same faces that once rushed toward smoke and rubble now line the streets to carry coffins and comfort widows, all while preparing to answer the next emergency call.
The dual burdens of duty and grief have become the daily reality for Lebanon’s first responders: to save lives under fire and to bury those they could not save, even as the violence continues to reshape towns, families and the emergency services themselves.
