After fleeing Syria Jamil and his family thought they were safe in Lebanon until an unexploded bomb from the 2006 conflict with Israel shattered their lives

Syrian family escape one war only to fall victim to the legacy of another

When the Syrian uprising turned violent in late 2011, Jamil decided to flee to Lebanon with his wife and children. Just in time. Not long after they left, the family’s home in Aleppo was bombed. Days turned to months, months to years, and their hopes of returning home faded. The only place they could afford to live was in an abandoned house in southern Lebanon. The house had been empty since the height of the Lebanese civil war in the 1980s. It was in very bad shape, but Jamil patched it up and made it feel like home.

In June 2015, while working the land around his home, Jamil disturbed a snake and was bitten. He was rushed to hospital. When he recovered, he decided to clear the undergrowth and grass so that his children could play safely.

The next day, nine-year-old Khaled, the eldest of Jamil’s five children, was helping his father gather firewood because they couldn’t afford to cook with gas. As he walked round the house, Khaled came across a bell-shaped object. He was excited, as toys were a luxury the family could not afford. He ran inside, clutching his new treasure.

It was no toy, but one of the many unexploded bombs left behind after the 2006 conflict with Israel in southern Lebanon. An explosion ripped through the house, killing Khaled and injuring his father and his brothers Hassan and Mahmoud. Jamil’s wife Iman and the two youngest children escaped the blast.

I meet the family a few weeks later in hospital. Three-year-old Mahmoud and his father are much better following surgery. Luckily, Hassan’s injuries were less severe.

Unexploded ​ord​​nance from the 2006 conflict contaminates a large area in and around villages in southern Lebanon

Jamil is still very shaken. He tells me that he was employed as a construction worker, sometimes earning as little as $50 (£32) for 10 days’ work. He and his wife had their youngest girl and boy in Lebanon. “We couldn’t go to Syria to register their births,” he says. “I’m afraid they’ll never have identity papers. I can’t even put them through school here because there are no places left.”

Recalling the day Khaled died, Jamil pauses for a few seconds. “I saw it [the bomb] when I was cleaning around the house, but I thought it was a cowbell. I didn’t pay it much attention. How could I have known?”

Unexploded ordnance from the 2006 conflict, mainly from cluster munitions, contaminates a 43 sq km area in and around villages in southern Lebanon.

The country is among the 15 most contaminated in the world. Since the violence ended, the International Committee of the Red Cross’s (ICRC) weapon contamination unit, as well as teams from other international organisations, have been working with the Lebanon Mine Action Center in the south, where there are hundreds of thousands of unexploded bomblets.

The ICRC also cooperates with the Lebanese Red Cross to raise awareness about the dangers posed to local communities. With a growing refugee population in the area, the risk of injury and death continues to rise.

Back at the hospital, we find three-year-old Mahmoud sitting in a wheelchair in the children’s room, a plasma tube hanging from his foot. In the corner, watching television, is eight-year-old Hassan. His head is partially shaved, with stitches halfway across his scalp. Hassan no longer speaks.

“Because patients stay for physical rehabilitation after their treatment, it means that there’s more time for much needed psychosocial sessions and follow-up,” says Nercesse, Hassan’s psychiatrist. “Children are extremely resilient. It will take some time to get over the trauma, and the memory will not fade away, but we are very hopeful they will get better.”

Iman flicks through photos on her phone. A smile lights up her face as she scrolls through images of Jamil holding their daughter Alia, the boys playing football, the first time they saw snow.

As the pictures reach the present day, she falls silent – there are images of Khaled after the explosion, and her family in hospital.

When I say goodbye, Hassan says nothing. He doesn’t even wave. His mother whispers: “Please speak, my love … Don’t stay silent.”