Amid Rubble and Ruin, Nabatieh’s Monday Market Stands as a Testament to Survival and Resistance

On a chilly February morning, Sanaa Khreiss tightens her cardigan against the cold as she unpacks her van at the Monday Market in Nabatieh, southern Lebanon. Though the air still carries the sting of winter, Sanaa and her husband Youssef arrive early to set up their lingerie stall in the nearly empty souk. With practiced efficiency, Sanaa arranges her colorful merchandise, a small act of defiance and persistence amid grey skies and post-war recovery. Despite the weather and the damage caused by recent conflict, she carries on, her quiet warmth offering comfort to passers-by she’s come to know over the years.

Youssef, once a municipal driver in Khiam, lost his job after the 2023 Israeli war devastated the south, including Nabatieh. He now assists his wife at the stall, moving with measured calm. Though reserved and silent, he warmly engages with customers, masking the weight of loss—his home, job, and peace of mind. His adjustment to market life is emblematic of the quiet resilience many Lebanese have had to adopt, finding new roles and livelihoods amid destruction and uncertainty.

The Monday Market is no ordinary bazaar. It traces its origins to the Mamluk and Ottoman eras, functioning for centuries as a vital trading post. Traders once traveled by mule between Palestine and Lebanon, stopping at Nabatieh to rest and exchange goods. The market evolved from a khan—a caravanserai for merchants—into a bustling hub of commerce. Nabatieh’s location made it ideal, connecting villages across the region and forming part of pilgrimage and trade routes that stretched as far as Mecca and Damascus. The souk became a social ritual that stitched together the fabric of southern Lebanon.

Vendors Rebuild Hope and Resilience Amid Destruction in Nabatieh’s Shattered Marketplace

All of that changed on November 13, 2024, when Israeli airstrikes obliterated large portions of Nabatieh’s historic center. The Monday Market was reduced to rubble. Iconic shops such as Al-Sultan and Al-Dimassi—beloved for their desserts and family legacies—disappeared overnight. Merchants like Sanaa now set up stalls amid destruction, sweeping rubble aside just to clear space for business. She remembers competing with high-end lingerie shops that are now gone, and jokes that rainy days bring fewer vendors—giving her less competition—but the underlying reality is somber: the war has upended everything.

Before the war, Sanaa sold lingerie in bulk—especially to brides preparing their trousseaus. Now, purchases are modest and deliberate. With many customers having lost their homes and incomes, shopping is driven by necessity rather than indulgence. Yet Sanaa remains hopeful. She keeps her prices stable, trusting that the market will recover. Her determination reflects that of the other vendors, many of whom show up despite loss, cold, and uncertainty, to keep the tradition of Monday Market alive.

Jihad Abdallah, another vendor, travels weekly between different towns, selling women’s sportswear. He was among the first to return after the ceasefire, clearing debris himself to restart business. Originally from Bint Jbeil, his knowledge of local markets is extensive, but the challenges are new. Many customers from surrounding villages haven’t returned, leaving business slow. Still, he presses on. “The Israelis want to make this land unliveable,” he says, “but we’re here. We’re staying.” His sentiment is shared by many, who view their return not only as economic necessity but also a form of resistance.

Carrying Legacy and Defiance Through Stalls, Stories, and the Spirit of Nabatieh

Further down the market, Abbas Sbeity sets up his stall with unsold children’s clothes—items that should have been sold when school started last fall. When the war began, he had to empty his van to fit mattresses for his children to sleep on. Abbas has been coming to this market for 30 years, a tradition passed down from his father and grandfather. He remembers riding in on a mule as a child. Today, he smiles at the memory, though sadness tinges his voice. The market was once a place of joy, a weekly event that brought people together—not just for shopping but for laughter, street food, and sweets.

Among returning vendors is Rachid Dennawi, selling dried fruits and nuts. A native of Tripoli, he makes the long journey to Nabatieh because of its livelier spirit and loyal customers. People like Abir Badran, wrapped in a cardigan and scarf, return not just for quality goods but for a sense of community. “Finally, you’re back!” she says, picking dates from his stall. For Abir, supporting the market is an act of defiance. “The Israelis want to sever our ties to this land,” she says. “But we won’t let them.” The market’s return symbolizes survival.

Despite the ceasefire, Israeli attacks continue sporadically. Mayor Khodor Kodeih—himself injured in an October airstrike—estimates that rebuilding the market will take at least two years. He criticizes the lack of Lebanese governmental support but insists the city will rebuild. Around him, life stubbornly goes on: cafes open, friends greet each other, and laughter finds space even in the shadow of destruction. A banner in front of a leveled shop jokes: “We’ll be back soon … we’re just redecorating.”

As visitors walk from the ruined Sultan Square into quieter neighborhoods of cobbled streets and operating shops, they witness a city of contrasts. The destruction is raw, but the humanity is intact. Nabatieh’s Monday Market may never return to its past grandeur, and future generations may never experience its former glory. Yet for now, it stands as a symbol—of culture, resistance, and the enduring spirit of a people who refuse to be erased. In every stall, every greeting, and every sweeping motion of dust from the streets, Nabatieh insists: we’re still here.