Dahiyeh: Trip through Beirut’s most dangerous neighborhood shows Lebanon’s war isn’t over

(This is the first of a three-part series on Lebanon.)

BEIRUT – Before I got into the taxi for the scariest and most revealing cab ride of my life, the driver gave me the instructions. 

Do not get out of the car.

Do not take pictures.

Do not use his name.

Do not record his voice.

Obviously, interviews with some of the most battered, bomb-shelled people in the world were out of the question. I obeyed wholeheartedly. This was not only for protection of the driver to whom I’d pay $30. It was for mine.

I was an American about to enter the Beirut neighborhood of Dahiyeh. It is on the southern end of the city and is frequently in the news for serving as Israel’s pinata. Every so often, Israel beats the neighborhood with bombs hoping a Hezbollah leader falls out, dead or at least disfigured. 

Collateral damage in women and children and businesses be damned.

The U.S. supplies 66 percent of Israel’s weapons. I look as American as Wonder Bread and a Yankees ballcap in a BBQ joint. I look like I walked off a Chevrolet commercial.

He made one thing clear: I was not welcome.

I had read frequently about Dahiyeh, particular as my December trip to Damascus and Lebanon approached. On Sept. 27, 2024, Israeli bombs leveled six buildings killing 33 and injuring 195.

Among them was Nassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s secretary-general and leader. An estimated 500,000 people in southern Beirut fled. During the attacks of 2024, more than 2,700 Hezbollah fighters in Lebanon were killed.

In November 2024, Israel and Lebanon agreed to a ceasefire. However, Israel bombed Dahiyeh in March 2025 after it said Hezbollah sent two missiles toward Israel territory, one of which it intercepted and the other fell short.

Then on Nov. 23, 13 days before I arrived in Beirut, Israel blew up a Dahiyeh apartment building housing Haytham Ali Tabatabai, Hezbollah’s chief of staff. It was Israel’s third attempt at killing the Hezbollah leader. Four others in the building also died and 28 wounded.

Israel prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu then said he won’t stop.

The arrival

Why go? I’m a travel writer, not a war correspondent. But I love Beirut and it saddens me to watch the slow destruction of a city that has seen so much pain and suffering, both from abroad and within. For perspective, I wanted to see the damage first hand.

I didn’t have to go far.

Dahiyeh (pronounced DAH-yea) means “suburb” in Arabic but it’s a suburb in name only. It houses between 350,000-400,000 people and there is no demarcation line between Beirut and Dahiyeh. If your idea of a suburb is cul-de-sacs and fast food chains, Dahiyeh will scare the daylights out of you.

Dahiyeh is less than a 15-minute drive from the relative calm of central Beirut. On the way, my driver warned me again to be careful.

“If they see you, they’ll think you’re going from Point A to Point B,” he said. “Maybe you’re pointing out places for Israel to bomb.”

The driver is a Beirut native living in another suburb. In his entire life, he had only been to Dahiyeh twice. He seemed more nervous than me. Or maybe he was just tired of the violence that has gone on since the 15-year civil war began in 1975.

“My son is studying to be a dentist,” he said as he maneuvered seamlessly between wild, speeding cars. “I want him to have a good life, not like my life. All my life has been in war.”

He remembered the bombing in 2024 when everyone fled. The Corniche, a beautiful two-mile boardwalk along the Mediterranean and my favorite place to hang in Beirut, became a makeshift refugee camp. Crude tents covered the beach and walkway.

“They had no food, no drink,” he said. “Kids were crying: ‘I want food!’”

The Corniche has cleared but last month’s bombing and Netanyahu’s comments have everyone in Beirut on edge.

“Everybody is afraid something will happen,” he said. “Of course we’re scared.”

He showed me a video of Israel’s warning it allegedly gives inhabitants of a building it aims to bomb. It tells everyone to get at least 500 meters away. The video is a red circle rapidly enlarging on the image of a building. However, I read many Lebanese say they only get 10-15 minutes lead time.

“That’s when they bomb buildings with munitions,” my driver said. “They don’t announce when they kill a leader.”

There is no “Welcome to Dahiyeh” sign or artsy landmark. We merely crossed a busy street and my driver said, “This is Dahiyeh.”

On the fringes, the neighborhood looks like any normal, bustling zone in the city. I saw nice high-rise apartment houses, jewelry stores, a ceramics shop. People filled the streets going about their business despite an enemy in the south that has bombed both night and day.

Then it got ugly.

The destruction

Coming down a hill and turning onto another street, we passed the Shatila refugee camp for Palestinians fleeing Israel. It’s one of the biggest of Beirut’s 12 refugee camps. Looking between buildings I saw tattered blankets providing shelter to a gravel-strewn area that stood out for its poverty even in Beirut’s most bombed neighborhood.

Not far away were the remains of Tabatabai’s building. It was specially built: seven floors above ground and seven underground. It was a total, blackened shell. It had no windows. It appeared someone took a giant cheese grater and shaved off every bit of the outer walls. It looked ready a crumble like a house of shaky cards.

We passed a military checkpoint that waved us in and we passed a building with the walls covered in curled barbed wire. 

As we drove deeper into the neighborhood, the destruction increased. Buildings reduced to two floors  as if cut by a giant machete. Apartments with roofs and windows missing. Entire lots filled with rubble.

Yet life goes on. A man sold vegetables next to a vacant lot where a building once stood. A little boy carried a balloon past a pile of rubble where a man and boy picked at for useful scraps.

We saw two women in burkas leave a huge black building dedicated to Nasrallah whose photo is displayed all over the neighborhood.

Turning down a crowded side street, the driver said, “Now we’re in the dangerous part. Don’t even take notes.”

Traffic drew to a stop. I tried not to look around. People paid me no mind. When we started again, I did notice one man in a headscarf and a ratty jacket staring at me. I could feel his eyes all the way to the corner where we turned.

You don’t need a cabbie to tell you Dariyeh is a Hezbollah stronghold. Hezbollah’s yellow flag with the green Kalishnikov and machete flew from flagpoles and, in an odd contrast of peace and war, from palm trees. 

Pictures of dead Dariyeh natives hung across streets.

Hezbollah

In the center of Dariyeh’s plight, like a rabid dog fighting off armed hunters, is Hezbollah. It’s a Shiite political and paramilitary group formed in 1982 by Lebanese clerics after Israel’s invasion of Lebanon. Inspired by Iran leader Ayatollah Khomeini, Hezbollah has grown from a group of armed zealots to a bigger armed force than the Lebanese military. 

Hezbollah even has seats in Lebanon’s parliament.

Its cited goals are vanquishing all Western influence in the region, destroying Israel and establishing a government based on Iran’s political ideology. Iran financially backs it to the hilt.

Twenty-seven countries have labeled Hezbollah as a “terrorist group.” The United Nations has repeatedly called for disarmament, which Hezbollah has flicked away like lint on their kaffiyehs. 

However, in my five days in Beirut, many Lebanese told me Hezbollah is losing support. They’re tired of their leaders being targets of bombs that wipe out entire families and sections of the city. 

My driver said Hezbollah pays salaries to many of Dariyeh’s residents.

“No salaries? Everyone would get out,” he said. “Here half the people don’t want war. But they can’t say it. They’re scared.”

After about a half hour, we came out the other end. We hit a wide, busy boulevard. We passed the airport and a massive poster of Pope Leo, who had visited Beirut the previous week.

“The pope wants to stop the fighting, stop the killing, stop all this shit,” my driver said. “Will it help? We hope his visit changes something.”

He dropped me off and I profusely thanked him, giving him a $5 tip. I took another taxi down to the Corniche. I had a beer and huddled against a cold wind on an empty outdoor restaurant patio. 

The blue-gray Mediterranean was calm. So was the Corniche. Joggers ran. Children played. Couples chatted. 

It seemed like peace had come to Beirut. But somewhere just 15 minutes away, a small boy was picking through the ruins of a bombed building.

(Coming Tuesday: Is Lebanon safe to visit?)