Kenyans ‘stuck’ in Lebanon under Israeli hell of fire

Hundreds of Kenyans are currently stranded in Lebanon, feeling abandoned as a violent conflict escalates in the region between Israel and Hezbollah militant group.

Their story of fear under hellish bombardments and gunfire has become their constant reminder of how far they are from the safety of home.

But it also pokes holes on the government’s strategy of sending labourers abroad with no fallback safety measures when those countries become warzones.

On Thursday, the government insisted all Kenyans were safe in Lebanon, but didn’t clarify whether there were plans for evacuation or at least relocate them to safer parts of Lebanon.

Halima Mohamud, Kenya’s non-resident Ambassador to Lebanon, who is based in Kuwait, told The EastAfrican her embassy was in touch with all Kenyans stranded in Lebanon and that they had been provided with information on who to call in case of danger.

“No Kenyan has died or been injured. We are in communication with them,” she said.

“We have a hotline number, and we are ready to assist any time 24 hours.” That number was given as +96590906719 or +254114757002.

But those stranded in Lebanon give a different experience. They argue they had provided the information needed but haven’t heard from authorities since.

Those trapped are migrant workers, most of them women, who came to Lebanon to work in the domestic and hospitality sectors.

According to the Ministry of Foreign and Diaspora Affairs, at least 26,599 Kenyans are in Lebanon. In October last year, 1,500 Kenyans were allocated jobs in Lebanon as part of a deal between various agencies and the Kenya National Chamber of Commerce and Industry.

“I came here last year, filled with hope and dreams, believing I’d find greener pastures. But now, this place has become my living nightmare.

“It’s as if our government has abandoned us, leaving us feeling like we don’t even belong—like we are invisible, forgotten. We try to hold on, but every day is harder than the last.

"Bombs are falling everywhere; the air is filled with the constant sound of destruction. Just yesterday, one exploded so close to my home that the entire building shook. I live in constant fear, waiting for death to come for me, but I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die,” said Sharon Akinyi, 31, a caregiver.

The bombings began last week as Israeli launched offensives on Hezbollah, whom it accuses of scaring away residents near the border with Lebanon.

Hezbollah is allied to the Hamas militant group in Gaza, with whom Israel has warred for the last one year when the militant group launched unprecedented attack on Israel in October 2023.

At least 400 people have been killed in Lebanon since the offensives started. Some Kenyans claimed their employers locked away their travel documents as they fled the bombardment areas, leaving them at the mercy of the shelling.

Yet this conflict was always on the horizon from as early as January. In July, the government in Nairobi had, in fact, asked Kenyans to fill out a form providing detailed information including their addresses and phone contacts.

“Months have passed, and it feels like we've been forgotten. No updates, no news—just silence.

“It’s like we’re invisible. How can they send us a link and then leave us here, stranded and scared? Nobody is saying anything, and it makes me feel so abandoned.

"Some girls are still arriving here, completely unaware of what they’re walking into. How is that even possible? How can they let people come into a war zone without warning?” said Alice Kalekye, who works as a care giver in Beirut.

The Kenyans described a harrowing reality of living in a war zone, with the sounds of bombs and gunfire becoming a constant backdrop.

While other countries evacuate their citizens, they feel abandoned, pleading for their own government to step in and assist them.

“I’m traumatised. I can’t sleep, I have no appetite, and every day feels heavier than the last. We’ve tried reaching out to the agents back home, begging for help, but they push us off to the agents here in Lebanon.

"These agents demand $200 just to let us leave. Some of us have food, but many don’t. Some are starving, with no access to anything,” said Vionah Kerubo a house manager. These workers spoke to the Nation on a conference call.

“We need help. We are not safe, and time is running out. We cannot continue living like this. Someone has to listen. But no one is talking about us—the migrant workers, locked away in houses, with no help, no protection.

"It’s terrifying to know that your own government is silent, that the agents who sent you here are still sending more girls into this nightmare. How much longer do we have to wait before someone steps in?” said Ms Kerubo.

Some of the stranded Kenyans workers worry about their families back home, attempting to shield them from the truth of their plight while grappling with their own fear and anxiety.

“The situation here is beyond terrible. Every day feels like a nightmare we cannot wake up from. We have been praying, begging our government to come to our aid, but our cries seem to fall into silence.

The fighting started in the south, and we had hoped those caught there would be rescued, but nothing happened. They fled to the north, where I am now, only for this side to be consumed by the same horrors,” said Anne Ngugi, a house manager.

Mary Kamau recounted her experience of feeling trapped, her passport held hostage by her employer. She longed to return home and be reunited with her family. Now every moment feels like an eternity of anguish, a relentless reminder of their vulnerability.

“We feel trapped, unable to escape. Our passports, held by our employers, are our only way out, but they refuse to release them. We are desperate. We beg for help. We are pleading with our government, with anyone who can hear us—please help us return home,” said Ms Kamau.

The weight of fear and hopelessness presses down upon them, leaving them gasping for air in a world that seems intent on suffocating them.

“We came here because there were no opportunities in Kenya, but this... this is not safe. Yesterday, we didn’t even sleep in the house. It's worse now, much worse. My stomach knots every time I hear the sound of bombs or gunfire.

"The planes circle endlessly above us. I just wanted to provide for my family, to give them a better life, but it’s not safe anymore. My parents are worried sick, but I keep lying to them, telling them everything’s okay. It’s not. Nothing is okay. I’m scared. I want to come home. Where is our government? Why is there no help? We don’t even have an office here to turn to. We cannot die here, not like this,” said Sheila Kaduka.

Purity Mogunde, another migrant worker, painted a harrowing picture of their reality. She describes how the once-promising journey has devolved into a harrowing ordeal. With each passing day, the sound of war encroaches closer, drowning out any hope of normalcy.

She says they are haunted by the thought of their families back home, praying for their safety while living in a state of perpetual uncertainty.

“I've been working in Lebanon for five months now. We were staying in Faraya Mountain, but the situation has deteriorated significantly. We can't sleep because of the constant sound of explosions all day and night. We urgently appeal to our government for help in getting us out of here.

“Our employers are refusing to give us our passports, and we lack any travel documents. Please, we implore our government to take action,” she said.

The ongoing conflict between Israel and Hezbollah has turned southern Lebanon into a battlefield, raising fears that the entire country could soon become embroiled in a wider regional war.

What started as daily exchanges of fire following the 7 October Hamas attacks on Israel has now evolved into a deadly struggle between Israel and the Iran-backed Hezbollah.