Portraits of Arafat, Palestinian flags on every corner, and the golden dome that watches over Jerusalem still linger in the scene where refugees in Shatila in Beirut navigate a landscape that feels frozen in time. The improvised buildings, the tangled wires, and the impossible stairs that crown each street attest to a history that refuses to move forward. For Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, forty years ago the same streets echoed with families fleeing unimaginable violence. In 1982, during the Lebanese civil war, the Sabra and Shatila camp massacre claimed more than 3,000 Palestinian lives.
Although Lebanon endured years of internal conflict, 1982 stands out as the most devastating. The June invasion by Israel ended with a prolonged siege of the capital and a fragile sense of order. By August 21, a ceasefire allowed Palestinian militias affiliated with the Palestine Liberation Organization to evacuate under the watch of Western forces. The United States and European troops pledged protection for refugees and civilians in the camps, a promise that largely unraveled as events unfolded. In the aftermath, the international community’s resolve dimmed, and Beirut’s security deteriorated further.
Three days later, on September 14, 1982, Bashir Gemayel, the Christian faction leader, was assassinated by a Syrian intelligence agent. The city’s tensions and a thirst for revenge spiraled. Within hours, the Israeli Army surrounded Sabra and Shatila, establishing checkpoints and observation posts that restricted entry and exit. Fear became the ruling currency in these densely populated areas where thousands of Palestinians lived in poverty.
Genocide
In four days, more than 3,000 Palestinians—men, women, the elderly, and children—were slain by Lebanese Forces, the Phalangist militia, and their political successors. The groups that once carried those banners now have representation in parliament. American journalist Janet Lee Stevens, who was among the first to enter the field, described the horrors vividly: dead women found in their homes with skirts exposed, dozens of teenagers shot after leaning against walls, children with throats cut, a pregnant woman whose unborn child lay still, a blackened face silent with fear, and countless babies and young ones stabbed or dismembered and tossed like refuse. Such testimonies illustrate the brutality of those days. [1]
The United Nations condemned the Sabra and Shatila massacre as an act of genocide. Even within Israel, a commission formed after the largest protests in the country’s history found that the army stationed in Lebanon bore indirect responsibility for the events. A year later the UN concluded that Israel, as the occupying power of the camps, held accountability for the violence that unfolded there. The outrage sparked demonstrations around the world, a chorus demanding justice and accountability. [2]
No Convictions
Yet justice remained elusive. Forty years on, no one was arrested or prosecuted for the massacre, and the Palestinian community in Lebanon faced renewed hardship. About 12,000 Palestinian refugees still live in Shatila, surrounded by images of displacement and the stench of overcrowding. Thousands of Syrian refugees settled nearby, doubling the population within the same small footprint. Beyond the camp’s borders, a substantial Palestinian diaspora that began arriving in Lebanon in 1948 after the establishment of Israel still seeks a better life, often in precarious conditions.
Persevering under severe restrictions, roughly 450,000 Palestinians in Lebanon live as stateless residents. They lack citizenship, are restricted from many occupations, face barriers to property ownership, and encounter obstacles in burying their dead legally. The cumulative effect is a cascade of economic hardship and a bleak sense of a future denied. [3]
Facing a tomorrow shadowed by uncertainty, Palestinians in Shatila hold tightly to memories of yesterday. Those memories, stained by blood and mourning, persist as a shared inheritance. Forty years later, the streets bear portraits of homes that remain unreachable, while Palestinian families gather around modest tables, keeping alive a yesterday that sustains the hope of a tomorrow where rights become a reality rather than a distant dream.