By sunset, the old stone streets of Batroun are lively again.
Families crowd ice cream shops near the sea. Restaurants along the waterfront fill with people posing for photos beneath strings of lights as music spills into narrow alleyways. On screens above bars, football plays. It is a Sunday afternoon, and the Lebanese northern coastal town already feels like it is easing into summer.
A few days earlier, on a Wednesday evening during Eid Al Adha, people gathered at a beach resort hosting a party. The venue was busier than would normally be expected at this stage of the season as many expatriates – especially those returning from Gulf countries, where the holiday stretches over several days – came home for the break.
“I wasn’t sure about coming because the security situation remains fragile, but I booked at the last minute,” said Ziad, a 35-year-old Lebanese living in Riyadh. “I always enjoy being here with family and friends, and I miss the weather.”
Across the north, beach clubs continue advertising events, businesses stay open and preparations for the summer season – however uncertain – move ahead.
Same country, different realities
While life in northern Lebanon appears relatively ordinary, the reality in the south is starkly different.
Nearly 140 kilometres separate Batroun from towns enduring daily Israeli air strikes and repeated displacement. But the distance often feels greater – measured less in kilometres than in exposure to risk.
Israeli forces have continued striking southern Lebanon and have threatened new attacks on Beirut despite an announcement earlier this week that Israel and Lebanon had agreed to implement a conditional ceasefire.
The war between Israel and the Iran-backed militant group Hezbollah has persisted despite several ceasefires declared from Washington since April. Hostilities reignited on March 2, when Hezbollah opened fire on northern Israel in support of Tehran as it came under US-Israeli attack, making Lebanon again part of a Middle East war.
Israel’s campaign has killed more than 3,500 people and forced about 1.2 million to flee their homes, including hundreds of thousands from southern Lebanon. Lebanese authorities say most of those displaced are Shiite Muslims.
Israeli troops have also pushed deeper into southern Lebanon, establishing what they describe as a security zone aimed at protecting northern Israel from attacks. They have destroyed homes and towns there. Their occupation now extends farther into Lebanese territory than at any point in roughly 25 years. Last weekend, Israeli forces captured the Crusader-era Beaufort Castle, about 60km from Beirut.
Hezbollah’s leader said on Thursday that the group rejected the new US-brokered ceasefire proposal and would continue attacks on northern Israel as long as southern villages were under fire.
Southern Lebanon has borne the brunt of the fighting. While bombardment has largely stopped in Beirut, Israeli strikes in the south have remained a daily occurrence.
Historically, during conflicts with Israel, the Israeli military has concentrated strikes on Shiite-majority areas viewed as Hezbollah strongholds – places that are also densely populated with civilians.
Elsewhere in Lebanon, several areas remain comparatively insulated. Residents speak of anxiety over the country’s future, but their daily routines often remain intact.
“Many of our fellow citizens are living through a war they never chose, and that leaves me feeling both angry and heart-broken,” Jana, who lives in the predominantly Christian Keserwan district, told The National. “For me, life goes on. Most of my outings are between Keserwan, Batroun and Naccache [about 8km north of Beirut].
“Restaurants and cafes there are busy, despite everything happening in the country.”
This disconnect is not new. Lebanon has long functioned through fragmented geographies – politically, economically and along sectarian lines. But the conflict has made those divisions more visible, creating parallel experiences of the same war.
Adaptation has become one of the country's defining coping mechanisms.
“People adapt because they have to,” said Ali Haidar, who works in the food and beverage industry. “The country has lived through years of crisis and conflict. People have become accustomed to uncertainty, and the Lebanese are known for resilience and for holding on to life.
“In northern areas especially, people come to disconnect for a while. We’re all hoping for a better summer and for more expatriates to return.”
Not normality, but adaptation
Experts warn that what appears to be normal life is often survival through routine.
“It is the bare minimum people need to preserve some sense of psychological and social continuity in an extremely difficult environment,” said Leila Dagher, associate professor of economics and policy at the Lebanese American University.
“The fact that restaurants, cafes, family gatherings and some commercial activity continue in parts of the country should not be mistaken for economic recovery or genuine stability,” she told The National. “It reflects resilience, but also exhaustion. People keep going because the alternative is paralysis.”
“The visits by expatriates during Eid and the expected summer arrivals can provide a short-term injection of spending. However, I would be cautious about overstating this effect. The economy remains deeply vulnerable, and any meaningful recovery will depend on sustained stability, restored confidence and the ability of businesses and households to plan beyond the immediate crisis,” added Ms Dagher.
Tony Ramy, president of the Syndicate of Owners of Restaurants, Cafes, Night Clubs and Pastries in Lebanon, described the overall picture as “tragic”.
“A few areas are considered relatively safe and are therefore more active than others. While places like Naccache, Dbayeh, Antelias and Batroun are seeing some movement, downtown Beirut remains heavily affected,” he said.
“People are mostly going to restaurants on weekends, and their purchasing power has become limited because of inflation and because Lebanon has effectively lost its middle class.”
The tiny Mediterranean country is still reeling from the unresolved financial collapse that began in 2019. The destruction and instability caused by the war have only deepened the strain.
“The restaurants seeing activity represent only about 15 per cent of the sector. This is not a tourism economy,” said Mr Ramy. “A functioning tourism economy means restaurants operate every day and across the country – not only in selected areas.”
Lebanese expatriates visiting during Eid mostly came from Gulf countries, he said, but numbers remain below previous years.
“I don’t think the sector will improve significantly this summer. We may still see Lebanese expatriates from Gulf, African and European countries. But those travelling from farther away will be more hesitant to visit. Unlike last summer, we are not expecting Gulf tourists.”
Back on Batroun’s waterfront, the contradiction feels almost ordinary. But conversations repeatedly circle back to the same questions: will Beirut be struck again? Will the conflict widen? How long can daily life continue before economic realities catch up?
“I always follow the news to figure out when I can safely come back home,” said Natalio Chlela, a 31-year-old Lebanese living in Dubai. “It creates a lot of anxiety because you never know whether the situation will deteriorate.
“I used to come for several weeks at a time. Now I split my visits into shorter trips to minimise the risk. Once I’m in Lebanon, I mostly go out in northern areas,” added Mr Chlela. “We still want to come home. We’re willing to take that risk because we don’t want to miss Lebanon in the summer.”
Lebanon is not at peace, but it is not fully at war either. Instead, it exists in two places at once.
Some people interviewed by The National for this article asked to be identified only by their first names
