Joumana Mansour, Nurse Team Supervisor, MSF Hermel,
Collected 11.11.2025
We heard a deafening sound, and the entire building shook. Dust and debris flew at us from all over. For a moment, it felt like the walls would collapse.
I started screaming for everyone to move away from the windows; the staff, the patients, anyone in sight. Mothers and fathers were shouting for their children. One of our colleagues had her kids at the school down the road; she was expecting them to arrive at any moment.
The road outside the clinic, leading to the mosque and the school, is always crowded at that hour. People are constantly passing by; it’s a busy neighbourhood.
Inside, panic took over. I started counting our colleagues, trying to gather everyone and make sure no one was missing. One of our patients completely broke down, crying and shaking uncontrollably, and we rushed to support her. Other parents ran to the pediatric room to take their children from treatment.
For nearly ten minutes, we were caught between fear and confusion, trying to calm people down and stop them from running outside, while drones hovered loudly above us. The noise didn’t stop. It just circled again and again.
Eventually, when we started hearing sirens and movement on the street, it became impossible to keep people inside. Everyone wanted to leave, to go home, to check on their families.
Afterwards, we began to realize how close it had been: the broken glass, the cars damaged outside, the shrapnel in the parking lot. Our psychologist, Amani, had seen a missile fall. Youssef, our storekeeper was outside – only a wall and a few meters separated him from the impact.
The following morning, we reopened. Patients came in, still shaken, telling us what they saw and how they felt. Fear was visible in everyone’s eyes.
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Related:
- blast in Lebanon
- Lebanon
- MSF in Lebanon
