Curled up in his father’s lap, clinging to his chest, Hussein Mikdad cried his heart out. The 4-year-old kicked his doctor with his intact foot and pushed him away with the arm that was not in a cast.
“Make him leave me alone!” he cried. His father reassured him and pulled him closer, his eyes tearing in grief – and gratitude that his son was healing.
Hussein and his father, Hassan, were the only survivors from their family when an Israeli strike last month collapsed their home in Beirut, killing 18 people – including Hussein’s mother, his two sisters and his brother.
Doctors at the American University of Beirut Medical Center repaired Hussein's fractured thigh and the torn tendons in his arm. Hussein should be able to walk again in two months, albeit with a lingering limp, they say.
A prognosis for Hussein’s invisible wounds is much harder. He is back in diapers and has begun wetting his bed. He hardly speaks. He hasn't asked about his mother and siblings, his father said.
The Israeli military said the Oct. 21 strike hit a Hezbollah target, without elaborating.
Children have often been the victims as Israel has escalated its bombardment in Lebanon since late September. More than 100 have been killed and hundreds wounded in the past six weeks, according to the Lebanese Health Ministry. Of the 14,000 wounded by Israeli fire the past year, around 10% are children.
Israel has vowed to cripple Hezbollah to stop the Lebanese militant group's fire on northern Israel, which began just after Hamas’ Oct. 7 attack triggered the war in Gaza. It says Hezbollah hides its fighters and infrastructure in residential areas.
Increasingly, strikes have been hitting homes and killing families.
“It leaves us with a generation of physically wounded children, children who are psychologically and emotionally wounded,” said Ghassan Abu Sittah, a renowned British-Palestinian reconstructive surgeon who is also treating Hussein.
‘What do they want from us?’
Beirut’s Lebanon Hospital Geitaoui has nearly tripled the capacity of its burns center – already one of Lebanon’s largest – since September to accommodate war wounded, said its medical director Naji Abirached.
About a fifth of newly admitted patients are children.
Ivana Skakye turned 2 last week in one of burns center ICU units. The tiny girl remains wrapped in gauze around her head, arms and lower body — six weeks after an Israeli strike left her with third-degree burns over 40% of her body.
Fatima Zayoun, her mother, was in the kitchen when the Sept. 23 strike hit outside their home in a southern village. The house was damaged and a fire broke out.
Zayoun rushed to grab her two daughters, who were playing on the terrace. They were covered with black ash, she said.
Ivana was unrecognizable, her hair burned away. “I told myself, `That is not her,’” Zayoun said.
Ivana’s 7-year-old sister Rahaf had burns to her face and hands and has recovered more quickly. Ivana could be discharged in a few days, said her doctor, Ziad Sleiman. But the family has no home to return to, and Zayoun worries Ivana could suffer infections in the crowded displaced shelters.
Zayoun was 17 last time Israel and Hezbollah were at war, in 2006. Displaced with her family then, she said she almost enjoyed the experience, riding out of their village in a truck, mixing with new people, learning new things. They returned home after the war.
“But this war is hard. They are hitting everywhere,” she said. “What do they want from us? Do they want to hurt our children? We are not what they are looking for.”
Attacks on homes rob kids of security
Abu Sittah, the surgeon, said that for children, an attack on their home can have lasting effects.
They "for the first time lose that sense of security — that their parents are keeping them safe, that their homes are invincible,” he said.
Parents in displaced shelters report increased anxiety, hostility and aggression among kids, said Maria Elizabeth Haddad, a psychosocial worker. The children talk back and ignore rules. Some become clingy. Others develop speech impediments. She cited one with early signs of psychosis.
One recent morning, children played in a school-turned-shelter north of Beirut, where nearly 3,000 people displaced from the south live.
The kids — ranging from 6 to 12 and hailing from different villages — split into two teams, competing to grab a handkerchief. As they played, a tiny girl clung to a visiting AP reporter, holding her hand. Finally deciding she could trust her, she whispered a secret in her ear: “I am from Lebanon. Don’t tell anyone.”
The game fell apart when two girls got into a fist fight. Pushing and shoving were followed by tears and tantrums.
Symptoms of anxiety will last as they grow – a craving for greater stability, difficulties with attachment -- said Haddad, manager of psychosocial support programs in the Beirut area for the U.S.-based International Medical Corps.
“It is a generational trauma. We have experienced it before with our parents,” she said. “This is not going to be easy to overcome.”
New phases of life begin
The night the strike hit, Hassan Mikdad had stepped out for coffee. He watched his building crumble.
His friend, Hussein Hammoud, rushed to help search. In the darkness, Hammoud spotted some fingers in the rubble. He thought they were severed – until the boy screamed. It was Hussein.
When he dug him out, Hussein had a metal bar embedded in his shoulder, glass lodged in his leg. Hammoud held the child’s almost-severed wrist in place.
Hussein’ two sisters — Celine, 10, and Cila, 14 — were pulled out of the rubble the next day. His mother, Mona, was found locked in an embrace with her 6-year-old son, Ali.
Hassan Mikdad lost nearly all evidence of his 16 years of family life – his family, his shop, his motorcycles and car, all destroyed.
Only Hussein remains. They must start together from scratch, he said. In the hospital, he buys the boy a new toy every day.
“What I am living through seems like a big lie. ... The mind can’t comprehend,” he said. “I thank God for the blessing that is Hussein.”