War does not erase social classes but sharpens their differences: the wealthiest can flee and rent new homes, the poorest sleep in shelters or inside their cars.
Migrants, however poor and racialised, have no place to welcome them. This is the reality for hundreds of thousands of migrant workers in Lebanon: caught between Israeli bombs and a land that has never recognised them.
According to the latest data from the International Organization for Migration (IOM), approximately 164,097 migrants were identified in Lebanon as part of periodic monitoring, updated to January 2026.
The same organisation estimates that by March 2026, over 45,000 migrants will have been forced to flee their homes or workplaces due to hostilities.
But the numbers recorded by the IOM are extremely reductive when considering the hundreds of migrant workers who are not registered.
Most domestic workers enter the country legally under the Kafala system , but many become "irregular" when they flee abusive employers, losing the legal status tied to their "sponsor," or because their permits expire.
Furthermore, due to the economic crisis , many employers no longer renew workers' documents, leaving them in a legal limbo. 'Kafala is like modern slavery' Mary and Kadiatu walk through the streets of the Shatila refugee camp . They come to collect food at one of the distribution points for aid sent by Medical Hope , a project for migrants and refugees in Lebanon.
"My name is Kadiatu Gundo, I am 29 years old, and I come from Sierra Leone. I arrived in Lebanon in 2021. I have been here for almost five years," she tells The New Arab .
"I came to work as a domestic worker. I needed money to continue my studies and help my son. There are agencies in our country that send people here to work. We pay them money for that. They say, 'you will do office work, catering, hairdresser, depending on your skills.' But as soon as you land, they force you to do only domestic work."
When Kadiatu lands at Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport, her passport is taken away, becoming from that moment the property of the "madame", mistress of the house and employer.
"I worked in the south. The work was too much, and I could never rest. I asked to change, and they found me another madame in Beirut. But the pressure was too much, I felt depressed, and I ran away," she shares with The New Arab. "The first madame didn't pay my last salary. Now I work part-time when they call me, but with the escalation of the war in May, it has become increasingly difficult. We tried to be patient, but it's not easy. We suffered humiliations long before the war. Now we are here illegally because our mistress has our documents. Kafala is like modern slavery."
Mary says it bluntly: "I am more afraid of the slavery we are forced into than of the sound of the bombs." She explains that she left the university she was attending in Sierra Leone, "because I thought coming here would be better. The agent told me I would earn 500 dollars a month working in an office."
However, she shares, "As soon as I arrived, they gave me a bucket and a rag. I burst into tears. I told the agent I wanted to go home because it wasn't what they promised me. The agent in Lebanon asked my family for 2,000 dollars to send me back. My brother had already spent almost 1,000 to send me here. I was desperate."
The pay Mary received for working up to 18 hours a day, without any days off, ranged from $150 to $250 per month. But many girls work for an entire year without receiving a single dollar because the madame must "recover the travel expenses".
"They made me work two months without paying me. They said that since I didn't speak Arabic, they wouldn't pay me what we had agreed on. I had health problems, a haemorrhage that lasted five months because of a contraceptive I had taken in my country. The madame said in Lebanon no one would remove it unless I paid 1,000 dollars," Mary continues.
Before the war, Mary ran away and met Kadiatu, with whom she now shares an apartment near Shatila along with 15 other women.
"It's a dangerous place," Mary tells The New Arab. "The children throw stones at us and spit on us because we are black. We live there only because the prices are reasonable.
"I would like to go home, but not now that I have no savings. I lost my father and my sister while I was here, and I couldn't go back because the madame had my passport. Even when I wanted to talk to my family on the phone, they would cut my connection," she continues. "Living here is like being in prison," Mary concludes, tired and discouraged. "The war is 'just an addition' to our painful life."
On 8 April 2026, 160 Israeli missiles hit Lebanon in just 10 minutes , killing more than 250 people. The largest attack since 1980. Shortly before, we were inside the St. Joseph Convent in Achrafieh, the only safe place for migrants today. Stateless, displaced, and forgotten On the first day of the war, Robert Gemayel arrived here around 4 am. "There were already about 200 people sleeping in the parking lot, so we opened the church, began registering people, and transformed it into a shelter," Robert, the communications coordinator for the MENA area of the NGO Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS), tells The New Arab. "The maximum capacity of the church is 80 people. This year we have about 200. We are over capacity, but what can we do? We have opened the crypt to welcome more people."
He adds, "Many worked as porters; when the evacuation order arrived, the entire building left, and they were left alone with no place to go. Or they worked as domestic workers, and their families went abroad, leaving them there. The system is this: when a domestic worker arrives, the owner takes possession of the passport. In case of an emergency, they leave suddenly and do not consider giving back documents. Because giving back the passport is like giving them freedom, and they would lose the money paid to bring them here. It is the Kafala system."
Government shelters prioritise Lebanese, then Syrian and Palestinian refugees, and finally migrant workers, with the latter being the most vulnerable during war, he explains. "Here the largest community comes from Sudan," Robert continues, "but we also have people from Sierra Leone, the Philippines, Sri Lanka, Chad, and other African and Asian countries. We try to keep communities together when we refer them elsewhere so they feel safe.
"The Sudanese fled war in their own country to come here, but the war followed them. Many lost parents in Sudan; they have no one to return to. Some were born here and don't even have documents. They go to their embassies, but they close their doors to them. They only have a UNHCR number, but the UNHCR is not responding to them. They are stuck in this limbo. Even if they wanted to go back, how could they? They escaped war; why should they go back to it?" 'We escaped one war only to arrive in another' Sumaya is trapped between the war she left behind and the one that now haunts her here. Last year, she gave birth to Amal, "hope" in Arabic, while displaced right here where she finds herself again.
"In 2019, I came here from Darfur, escaping the war. I worked for a few years, then got my passport back (which is now expired) and got married. My husband works in the south. We have three children: one six years old, one four, and a nine-month-old girl," Sumaya tells The New Arab. "When the bombing started, we were sleeping. We escaped on a motorcycle: my husband, my three children, and I. We couldn't take anything. We don't know if the house is still standing. I have no plans for the future. I don't know where to go."
Indrani, on the other hand, knows for sure that her house no longer exists and shows it in a picture on her phone, trembling.
She has lived in Lebanon for 21 years: "I worked 21 years as a domestic worker," she says, "but my money is all gone."
In 2024, her house in the south was bombed, so she took another one in Nabatiye, but during the new escalation, that one was also destroyed. "I have nothing left, no house, no clothes, nothing at all," Indrani shares. Anurab and Safinato are husband and wife who fled Sudan and Sierra Leone, respectively.
Anurab worked in cleaning services for wealthy Lebanese homes, but due to the war, he lost his job, while Safinato fled the house where she worked as a domestic help.
"I arrived in 2021," she says, "they took my documents at the airport, and I went to work as a domestic worker in a house for six months. They beat me constantly, they said, 'I will kill you,' 'I will poison your food.' That's why I ran away."
Anurab and Safinato are registered with the UNHCR. Although the agency stated in previous articles for The New Arab that it provides protection and assistance, refugee testimonies suggest that it actually halted monthly aid a year and five months ago.
Exhausted, Anurab concludes: "They stopped the aid seventeen months ago. We still have the cards, but we're not receiving anything anymore. Our son needs an operation, but they say they can't help us now.
"We can't return to Sudan, and we can't stay here either. We escaped one war only to arrive in another; I never imagined such a thing." Lidia Ginestra Giuffrida is a Sicilian freelance journalist focusing on human rights, migration, and conflict. She has reported extensively from across war zones, including Palestine, Syria, Lebanon, and Ukraine. Her work has appeared in Al Jazeera and New Lines Magazine, and she is a regular contributor to Italian outlets Follow her on Instagram: @ lidia_ginestra_giuffrida Stefano Stranges is an independent Italian photographer and photojournalist Follow him on Instagram: @ stef_stranges