In Beirut, ancient traditions like pigeon racing clash with the daily reality of Israeli drones, keeping the city in constant tension. Residents experience anxiety and fear, while some find ways to adapt through art, humor and silent resistance.
As the sun slowly set over the Mediterranean, coloring the horizon in shades of bright orange and red, Ibrahim Ammar tossed pieces of fruit into the warm evening air, urging his pigeons to fly higher and higher. With his eyes fixed on the sky and a proud smile on his face, he called out loudly: “These are my children!” as the birds circled in harmony above the city’s rooftops.
For generations, the ancient Levantine game known as “kash hamam” – a tradition where pigeon breeders try to lure and capture their neighbors’ birds from nearby rooftops – has been played over Beirut, the capital of Lebanon, becoming part of the city’s cultural identity. Ammar’s father practiced the custom with the same passion, as did his grandfather and great-grandfather before him, passing it down as a silent art passed down from generation to generation. But today, the skies over Beirut no longer belong solely to pigeons. Ammar’s flocks share the airspace with a new and formidable adversary: Israeli drones. Their presence has become an unavoidable reality as Israel’s ongoing air campaign against the militant group Hezbollah.
Their mechanical noise has become a soundtrack to everyday life, an intermittent but constant hum that accompanies phone calls, family dinners and first dates, as well as rooftop parties, classes and quiet days at the beach. The sound of drones is sharp and metallic, a thin hum like the rustle of a mosquito, lingering on the edge of hearing and seemingly impossible to ignore. It permeates space and the mind, making it impossible to forget its presence.
“BITTER MEMORY”
Even though it’s been more than a year since the ceasefire that ended the deadliest war in decades between Israel and Hezbollah, Beirut residents still instinctively turn their heads skyward whenever they hear the incessant humming that permeates the city. For many, it’s a bitter reminder that, in essence, the war has never quite ended.
According to Lebanese officials and the United Nations, hundreds of people, many of them innocent civilians, have been killed by Israeli airstrikes since the ceasefire was signed. As these attacks have intensified in recent months, the sound of drones has become even more piercing, adding to anxiety and fear of a possible new Israeli offensive. “I am always worried about the situation and constantly think about whether the war will break out again,” said Ammar, who was forced to flee his home during the war and leave his 220 pigeons in the care of a shopkeeper in another neighborhood of the city. “I go up here to forget everything,” he said from the roof, as he gently stroked one of the birds and looked down at a neighboring building flattened by an Israeli airstrike. “But pigeons sense and see the drone, even when it is very far away,” he added in a low, almost haunted voice.
UN peacekeepers say they have recorded more than 7.500 aerial violations – including drones and fighter jets – since the ceasefire came into effect more than a year ago, with drone incursions having increased significantly in recent months. Drones over Beirut are mainly used for surveillance and reconnaissance, but according to Lebanese security officials, many are armed and capable of carrying out direct attacks.
The Israeli military did not respond to requests for comment on why the drones continued to fly over the Lebanese capital despite the ceasefire agreement. Under the agreement, Hezbollah was required to disarm throughout the territory, but Israel has accused the group of rebuilding its military capabilities. For its part, Israel claims to be targeting Hezbollah operatives and weapons depots, taking measures to minimize civilian casualties. The presence of the Israeli drone, the MK model, has become so common and so notorious that it has even earned a popular nickname: “Umm Kamel,” or “Mother of the Camel.”
It has also become a source of dark humor on social media, an ironic way to cope with everyday life with an unpredictable machine that hovers over their heads. Jokes that mix fatigue with mockery circulate in posts and comments: “Brother, doesn’t this MK have any family to check on him?” “Umm Kamel, go eat lunch – we want to sleep.” “It’s been two days since you’ve seen Umm Kamel. I miss you.”
ADAPTATION TO NOISE
On the devastated southern border with Israel, where Hezbollah has long had a strong influence, attacks occur almost daily, and drones often broadcast warnings to residents over loudspeakers, ordering them to leave certain areas. There, the sky is not just airspace, but a constant source of fear. But in Beirut, life goes on, albeit under constant surveillance.
Standing outside a neighborhood kebab joint, Maher Younes, a food delivery man, turned off his motorbike and glanced up at the sky, his phone still glowing in his hand. “When it’s above us, my GPS sometimes goes completely crazy,” he said, shrugging in a kind of silent acceptance. “You just stop looking at the map and start asking people for directions.” Ali Salman, 39, the owner of a small grocery store, was very worried. As a drone made a loud whirring sound overhead, he could barely concentrate on his work. “I think of my wife and son at home,” he said, his voice heavy. “It’s one of the worst feelings. Knowing that someone is watching you in your own place, in your own home — in spaces where you’re supposed to feel safe and protected.” Others have found ways to respond to this invisible presence.
In his recording studio on the outskirts of Beirut, Mohamed Choucair, a Lebanese DJ and founder of one of the city’s most popular underground clubs, hunched over synthesizers and computer screens as a drone circled outside. During the height of the war, he set up two professional microphones on the roof of his apartment building and recorded more than 200 hours of the drone’s monotonous hum.
His plan was simple but symbolic: turn that noise into an instrument in its own right—a small act of defiance, as he described it, a “little middle finger” to the Israeli military. He created what he calls the “Unmanned Aerial Instrument” (a play on the technical term “Unmanned Aerial Vehicle,” meaning an unmanned aerial vehicle without a pilot), a system that allows producers to take drone recordings and turn them into music. “It’s soothing to feel like I’m manipulating the sound that bothers me every day,” Choucair said. “If you’re trying to scare me, I’ll show you otherwise,” he added with a defiant smile. But not everyone has the luxury of responding to noise with art. In another part of the city, brightly colored drawings, made with wax crayons, cover the walls of the waiting room at Noura Sahil’s community clinic, where she provides therapy to some of the city’s most vulnerable young people.
According to her, the drone permeates every corner of a child’s day: on the way to school, while playing in the street with friends, even when they are trying to concentrate on their homework. Even therapy sessions are interrupted from time to time, when children suddenly get up and run to the window to see if they can spot the silhouette of the drone flying overhead. “Is this normal during a therapy session?” she asks with a sense of helplessness. “They know what that sound is. You can’t lie to them.” The oft-repeated expression that the Lebanese are a stable and strong people, she adds, has its limits. “They say we are stable as a people, but are we really?” she asks. “Can you call yourself stable when your body is constantly on alert, as if it is always waiting for something bad to happen?” (New York Times)