"Is there still war outside?" wondered a six-year-old boy with dark shadows under his eyes, one of 1,700 people hiding from Israeli bombardments on the asphixiating third, fourth and even fifth underground floors of a parking lot in Beirut's southern suburbs.
Mohammed Hilal has been ducking there with his family for 22 long days, since Israel launched a massive military onslaught on Lebanon and which levelled much of the heart of the suburbs where Hezbollah maintained its command headquarters.
Bunker busters and implosion bombs make any shelter unsafe, and terror spread even more after Israeli jets zoomed overhead, dropping flyers to warn civilians to leave the area because bombing would soon be extended.
In a neighbourhood long deserted by its residents, nothing leads one to think that there is an underground shelter, much less that 1,700 people were hiding inside -- except for the fleet of scooters parked outside. Scooters are a trademark used by Hezbollah militants to control the streets of the suburbs.
After an obscure passage through cement stairs leading five floors below, the air becomes thicker and a surreal scene of underground life emerges as if from the movies to show a sea of families, gathered across the giant open space of the parking lot.
Each family crams a single car parking space, delineated by red parallel lines painted on the shining gray floor. Despite the air-conditioning system, most are soaking wet from the humidity. "My house is in B3, come and visit us," a smiling seven-year-old Samah told journalists.
A teenager is skidding across a long alley, pushing a cart where two boys and a girl are giggling from the thrill of the only available amusement activity. Shirtless men lie on their backs on the floor, listening to the news of the war on radio sets placed on their chests as they put their arms over their eyes to avoid the blinding neon lights.
Veiled women sit in circles, some chatting, others reading verses from the Koran. A girl is changing into pajamas, as her sisters hold a sheet to shield her from the eyes of the neighbours. An elderly woman moans from the pain to her bones, as she lies on a thin rug on the ground.
"We have been living five floors below, we are sleeping on the floor of a public parking, what do you want? Her bones ache from the humidity," said her grandson, Ali. "We cannot even go back home to shower during the day because of renewed bombardments. We can hardly clean the children with wet cloths. Can you imagine all these people taking turns in the few toilets of a public parking lot?"
Under a "No Entry" sign usually designed for cars, children scream happily as they run in all directions across the gray floor. Despite the gloomy, near-dark underground second floor, they are gleefully playing hide-and-seek.
"We are like Nasrallah, the Israelis will never catch us," said a mischievous seven-year-old Ali. A little girl with a pony tail is jumping on one leg along the bright-red lines delineating single parking spaces.
Instead of children's rhymes, cheerful little girls and boys chant the slogan "Allah, Nasrallah and all of the suburbs," as they giggle on a children's roundabout. A boy sitting on the central wheel flashes a victory sign.
A group of children are sitting in a circle on the ground. They are not playing truth-or-dare. They may be boys and girls, but they are old souls.
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