Dying for a Future: The Harrowing Journeys of Lebanon’s Women and Children on Death Boats

By: Sandy Hayek

Driven by despair and clinging to a hope that feels more like a mirage, Nadia, Samah, and Ahlam armed themselves with “their chance”, a perilous gamble that meant facing the specter of drowning and the possibility of death. Today, after enduring three fateful nights, they stand ready to take the same risk again. But why?

Each of them has a story. Despite their different experiences, they share much in common. Nadia, Samah, and Ahlam come from the same neighborhood: Bab al-Tabbaneh, Tripoli, one of the poorest areas on the Mediterranean. Nadia is a child on the verge of turning 18. Samah and Ahlam are both responsible for families and children. Each of them has suffered immense injustice at the hands of life, society, and the state.
Are you ready to hear their heartbreaking stories?

Nadia’s Story

Four years ago, Nadia was healthy, charming, and beautiful. She was her father’s favorite, even though her mother was often described as “poor.” Despite this, Nadia was closer to her father, Mohammad al-Hamwi, known as al-Samak.

Years earlier, her father had married a second woman, with whom he had two children. He then traveled to Africa for work, where her stepmother’s family lived.

Mohammad worked for Lavajet, a waste removal company, and was also a fisherman. But he longed for a better life. His journey to Africa didn’t go as planned. He was bitten by a fly, contracted malaria, and nearly lost his life.

His second wife, Sara, urged him to return and seek a way to reach Europe. By then, Lebanon’s northern region had seen a surge in illegal crossings on “death boats” to Europe, fueling dreams of reaching the so-called European paradise.

After consulting with fishermen and sailors in Tripoli’s port, Mohammed decided the risk was worth it—if not for himself, then for his children.

Nadia remembers his stubborn determination. “He was very set on going,” she recalls. “My mom was terrified, but Sara, my stepmother, wasn’t. She didn’t want to leave.”

Now, Nadia—her body skeletal, her eyes lost in thought, her face pale with sorrow—falls silent.

Like her brother Ali, Nadia speaks little. She struggles to recall what happened, so her aunt, Fatima al-Hamwi, who now cares for the two children, steps in.

Fatima recounts: “After Sara insisted on traveling by sea, my brother Mohammad made arrangements with smugglers. We knew nothing at the time, but after the tragedy, we learned that he had sold his house for $10,000 to pay for the boat journey. That house had cost him $50,000 when he was an employee.”

On April 23, 2023, at 10 p.m., Mohammad came home and shouted: “Are you ready? Grab your things and follow me.” Without hesitation, they obeyed. They reached Akkar’s Abdeh coast, where many others awaited, just like them. The silence was broken only by the cries of babies in their mothers’ arms. Then, the smuggler ordered: “Get on the boat. Quickly, before anyone sees us.”

They climbed in, and the boat set off.

“It was Ramadan,” Nadia recalls. “I prayed Taraweeh as soon as we left. I clung to my mother, who was six months pregnant with twins. An hour into the journey, the cold intensified. I looked at the sky, dreaming of what awaited me in Europe. Then, we heard a Lebanese army boat approaching.”

The army ordered them to stop, but the smuggler refused. “If you leave territorial waters, you’ll be locked up!” they warned. Yet he pressed on. The army hit the boat, disabling the engine. Moments later, water started seeping in.

“The boat was small. In the center was a tiny room with four windows and worn leather chairs lining the edges. Women and children were inside, men and young boys on the deck. There were 80 of us, nowhere near enough space. When the water started leaking, panic erupted. People screamed. Children wailed. It was like a movie.”

Ali, Nadia’s 15-year-old brother, buries his face in his hands, holding back tears. Since that night, he has suffered from relentless nightmares.

After a pause, Nadia continues: “I froze as I watched the boat sink. I was paralyzed. My mind went blank. It all happened so fast. Suddenly, we were underwater. I tried to float, to swim. I screamed for my mother, my father, my siblings; no one answered. It was dark and freezing. I cried and shouted until Ali responded, ‘I’m here.’”

Together, they swam until the army boat returned and pulled them out of the water, bringing them back to Tripoli’s harbor.

“We returned alone,” she says. “Ali and me. I lost my father, my mother, the twins in her belly, my stepmother, and her daughters.”

Since that night, neither Nadia nor Ali has returned to school. Neither has received psychological treatment for their trauma.

“Nadia never stops asking about her father,” Fatima says. “She believes he’s still alive.”

Nadia interrupts angrily: “My father came out of the water! He was a great swimmer. He lived in the sea half his life. People saw him surface. When he realized his wives and children were trapped, he dove back in to save them. Before the boat sank, he broke a window with his head and hands. If he hadn’t, no one would’ve survived.”

Today, Nadia and Ali live with their aunt, a widow who relies on sporadic aid to support them. Poverty looms in every corner of their modest home.

Two innocent children, deprived of an education, struggle to afford even the cost of transportation to school. They represent countless others in Lebanon’s slums, children whose rights are disregarded, whose futures are stolen.

Nadia clutches her phone, scrolling through photos of her father. Her eyes brim with sorrow. When asked about her greatest wish, she answers simply: “To live.”

Samah’s Story

Before the conflict between Jabal Mohsen and Bab al-Tabbaneh, Samah was content. But war has no regard for its victims, most of whom are women and children. Their bodies, their rights, their needs, and their dreams become the battlefield.

Samah’s husband was killed by a sniper in Bab al-Tabbaneh during one of the rounds of violence, leaving her alone with four children: Luay, Julie, Layla, and Zakariyya.

She lives in a modest rented home on al-Jihad Street, struggling to make ends meet. Without an education or a trade, she searched for work but found nothing. “How can I find a job in this country? Even those with degrees are unemployed! I tried, but every job was either unsuitable due to hours or paid too little. I won’t abandon my children in the streets, vulnerable to deception and exploitation. I’ve always wanted to get them out of this neighborhood to give them a better life.”

Samah married young and is now nearing 50. Adjusting her headscarf, she says: “The media wanted me to share my story, but I refused. This is my first interview.” She looks away, lost in thought. “I apologize. My head isn’t functioning.”

As her voice trembles, she clenches her sweater tightly, seeking warmth. “My brother-in-law was talking to a smuggler,” she recalls. “He wanted to get his family out. I saw hope in that chance.”

A chance for a different life, away from all this humiliation. You know what? Every night before I sleep, I am overwhelmed with fear for my children’s future. They are all brilliant, and two of them will be going to university next year. I dread that day. I can’t afford their tuition fees. I can barely feed them! But how can I deny them an education? My conscience won’t allow it. I can’t find a solution. I avoid them when they excitedly talk about going to university.”

Samah is homeless again. She scans the dimly lit room, where the only furniture is a small carpet and a few antique sofas. Loose windows allow the frost to creep in from every angle. She interrupts her thoughts and says, “My brother-in-law told me the boat was ready, and the journey to Europe was guaranteed. The problem was securing $2,000 per person for the trip. I immediately started looking for ways to get the money, $10,000 in total. I didn’t hesitate, despite knowing how many had died at sea. But others had made it safely. Maybe God would help us survive and start over in a European country.”

“I don’t remember the exact date of the trip, but I know it was in 2022. I packed the children’s belongings, whatever I could fit into small bags. At midnight, we set off. We arrived on the coast of Qalamoun in Tripoli. A small fishing boat was waiting for us. I told my brother-in-law it was too tiny. The smuggler pointed to a large boat in the distance, its lights shining on the sea. ‘We’ll board that one once we reach open waters,’ he said. We believed him and climbed aboard. There were too many of us, about 93 people on a boat meant for 60. But we took the risk.”

“We were literally sitting on top of each other. You couldn’t move your legs, your hands. I sat next to Zakariyya and Julie. Behind me were Layla and Luai. I was afraid for Layla because she had a bad back. She had fallen off a balcony and broken a vertebra. I fought hard to get her admitted to the hospital, enduring humiliation just to secure her treatment. I borrowed money from politicians, charities, and benefactors to fund the surgeries she needed to walk again. All this suffering drove me to flee, to look for a new chance. How could I stay in a place where I had no right to medical care or dignity? On that tiny boat, I replayed these struggles in my mind. I told myself, ‘My children deserve a better life. They know I did this for them. So, forgive me.'”

“As we neared the big boat, I thought relief was finally coming. But the smuggler didn’t stop. The passengers shouted, ‘Stop! That’s the boat!’ But he kept going, claiming another one was on its way. I knew he was lying. I hugged my children and whispered, ‘Don’t be afraid.'”

“The boat kept sailing, and then the wind, lightning, and thunder intensified. Our world became nothing but sky and water. Suddenly, the engine stopped. It had broken down. The smuggler reassured us, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll fix it.’ Some of the men dove into the water, trying to repair it, but nothing worked. Three nights passed like this. We lived through horror beyond words. Screaming, fear, crying… The children stopped crying after a while. They just moaned. They all vomited. No water, no food. All we could do was hold each other for warmth and pray the cold wouldn’t kill us.”

“A woman sat in front of me, cradling her baby. She was exhausted. After a while, she handed him to me. I carried him for two days straight. When I tried to return him, she shook her head and whispered, ‘I don’t want him. Throw him in the water.’ That was one of the hardest moments of my life. I held onto him, trying to comfort him. Zakariyya looked at me and asked, ‘Mama, are we going to die here?’ I couldn’t answer. I just let the tears fall silently.”

“Most of us tried using our phones to call for help. After many failed attempts, I finally got a signal. I called my brother and said just one sentence: ‘We’re stuck at sea. We’re going to die.’ Then the call dropped.”

“Days later, we saw a Lebanese army boat approaching. They called to us on a loudspeaker. We were rescued.”

“Back at the Tripoli port, we were interrogated for hours, but we never got our money back. The smuggler was imprisoned, but that didn’t change anything for us.”

Samah falls silent again. Her eyes wander around the room, heavy with sorrow. Then she says, “At the time, I thought all the poverty and humiliation I endured would be easier than waiting to die at sea. But I won’t lie; if I had another chance to escape safely, I would take it.”

Ahlam: The Patient Woman

Ahlam (meaning “Dreams” in Arabic) is aptly named. She dreams of many things, but her greatest wish is to reunite with her son. He is wanted by the Lebanese state for attempted murder. “He was just 17, foolish and reckless. He didn’t know any better. I had no choice but to smuggle him out of the country. I haven’t seen him in over ten years. I thought illegal migration might be my only chance to reach him in Germany, where he’s living undocumented after being deceived by smugglers there.”

Ahlam is 57. She and her husband, who has undergone multiple heart surgeries, live off a mountain of medications. Their married children can barely sustain themselves, let alone help their parents. So she poured her life savings into the dream of escaping to a country that respects its elderly and its poor.

Her husband hesitated before agreeing to the dangerous plan, but she insisted: “Either we die together, or we live together.”

The couple packed their few belongings and set off from Qalamoun’s coast. After nights at sea, they reached the Turkish shore. But their relief was short-lived. “A massive boat approached us. The people on board spoke in Turkish. When we told them we were Lebanese, Turkish officers pulled us out of our boat, handcuffed us, and took us to a prison in Izmir.”

Their journey ended in a cell, where they endured the terrifying earthquake that struck Turkey at the time. “I sometimes wonder how we are still alive after everything we’ve been through.”

After surviving the disaster, a Turkish charity helped them obtain passports and return to Lebanon. They came back haunted by memories of suffering. But despite everything, Ahlam remains resolute. “If I could escape again, I would. There’s not much time left in life. Either we live the rest of it with dignity, or life is meaningless.”

What Do the Numbers Reveal?

From September 2013 to September 2022, at least 248 people drowned at sea attempting to migrate illegally, according to Information International. Hundreds more vanished without a trace. In 2021 alone, Lebanese authorities intercepted 25 boats carrying around 750 migrants, while in 2020, four boats with 126 people were stopped. The migrants, mostly Lebanese, Syrians, and Africans, particularly Ethiopians, set sail from Tripoli, Minieh, Qalamoun, and Abdeh in Akkar, Lebanon’s poorest regions.

Italy’s Role in Combating Illegal Migration

While the number of “death boats” leaving Lebanon has declined in the past two years, the threat of new tragedies remains ever-present. As Lebanon’s economic collapse deepens under external pressures, more people are pushed to risk their lives for a chance at survival. The devastation caused by the ongoing Israeli war has further crippled the country, with damages across all sectors, hitting women and children the hardest, amounting to an estimated $8.5 billion.

Beyond the war’s direct destruction, financial lifelines for many Lebanese have been severed due to shifting U.S. policies. The Trump administration’s decision to halt USAID funding deprived Lebanon of critical support in education, healthcare, and economic development. Now, further threats loom over UNRWA, the UN agency that provides essential services to hundreds of thousands of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. Cutting off its funding would not only worsen humanitarian conditions but also accelerate the desperation driving more people toward perilous migration routes.

With Lebanon failing to address the root causes of illegal migration, European nations have stepped in, most notably Italy, a key destination for Mediterranean crossings. According to Le Monde, Italy receives 56% of all migrants making the journey due to its relatively high wages, social services, and lower cost of living. In response to the crisis, the Italian government, through the “Work Corridors” initiative, has pledged to accept 300 labor migrants from Lebanon, Ethiopia, and Ivory Coast under a program led by the Sant’Egidio community. However, these migrants will not be granted asylum.

For many Lebanese, the dream of a better life remains tied to migration. But as the world focuses on facilitating these journeys, a pressing question remains: Shouldn’t the real priority be ensuring that people can build dignified lives in their own countries—without having to risk death at sea?