SIDON, Lebanon — Nareej Ramal sat wrapped in the civil defense uniform her husband wore every day, weeping in the arms of his father-in-law. Hussein Jaber, 32, a seasoned first responder with Lebanon’s interior ministry, was killed by an Israeli drone strike on May 12 in Nabatieh while trying to pull a wounded man to safety. His colleague Ahmad Noura, 45, also died; a third medic with them was injured.
Their deaths came just days before Ramal and Jaber’s first wedding anniversary and are part of a grim toll: more than 100 first responders have been killed in Israeli airstrikes since the fighting between Israel and Hezbollah began on March 2. A ceasefire that took effect in April has not halted strikes in southern Lebanon, and families continue to bury loved ones amid ongoing danger.
Medical and aid organizations warned that the killings mirror patterns seen elsewhere in the region. Doctors Without Borders, which has staff at Nabatieh hospital, said Jaber and Noura rushed to an earlier strike and called the attack on rescue workers “part of an alarming pattern.” Lebanon’s health ministry rejects Israeli claims—repeatedly made by Israeli officials—that Hezbollah uses ambulances and medical facilities for military purposes. International humanitarian law, experts say, protects hospitals, medical staff and rescue teams.
“We can see the strikes from our hospital,” said Mona Boud Zeid, director of Al Najdeh al-Shaabiyeh Hospital in Nabatieh. “It’s like what we’ve seen in Gaza. Maybe our hospitals, our nurses, our doctors will go through the same.” Gaza’s health ministry reports that Israeli attacks killed more than 1,700 medical personnel and first responders during that conflict.
On May 13, a dozen uniformed civil defense members kept a quiet vigil outside the hospital morgue before moving the wrapped bodies to a temporary burial ground in Haret Saida, near Sidon. Because many home villages remain under threat, burials are often provisional — forcing families to grieve twice, organizers said.
“We were never just colleagues,” said team leader Abdallah Hallal, his voice breaking as he spoke of Noura. Hallal has led search-and-rescue missions for more than two decades, pulling survivors from rubble and facing the hazards of disaster and war alongside his team. The losses, he said, are deeply personal.
Scenes of collective mourning have repeated across the south. In late April, helmets, stretchers and idle rescue vehicles stood like silent memorials at the Tyre headquarters as hundreds gathered to honor Hadi Daher, Hussein Al-Sati and Hussein Ghadbouni — first responders killed while answering a strike in Majdal Zoun. Funerals for civilians and journalists, including Amal Khalil of the Lebanese daily Al-Akhbar, have filled homes and streets with grief.
Official Lebanese figures say Israeli attacks have killed at least 2,896 people in Lebanon and displaced nearly a million from the south since the war began. Israel says Hezbollah’s rocket and missile strikes since March have killed 18 soldiers and four civilians inside Israel. More than 380 people have been killed in Lebanon since the April ceasefire was supposed to pause hostilities.
Even as they mourn, rescuers keep going. In Nabatieh, paramedic Ali Al Rida Hammoud strapped on body armor before another shift, carrying memories of comrades lost earlier in the war — including Joud Suleiman, the son of Nabatieh’s chief paramedic, who was killed in March while heading to a rescue.
“I’m not a hero,” Hammoud said. “But I’m not afraid. I’ve seen so much. I believe I can protect my people, my country. Despite everything, you have to keep moving. Where should we go? This is our country.”
Across southern Lebanon, the same dilemma plays out repeatedly: men and women trained to rush toward danger find themselves exposed to it, and each funeral renews the grief even as the work of saving lives continues. For families and colleagues, duty and loss have become inseparable as the violence continues around them.