A Wounded Childhood

“They always say they need 15 minutes and then make me wait for hours. I hate it when the camera crew is late!” 12-year-old Hussein Dheini blurts out the moment we arrive at his new home in Tayr Debba.

Before heading to Sour to record the interview, he insists on showing the photographer a video of the hymn “Nida’ al-‘Aqidah” (The Call of Faith), performed by students from Dar al-Imam al-Hussein for Quranic Studies. A few minutes pass before he approaches the television and asks, “Did you recognize me?” He was the lead singer.

The trip to the studio is filled with Hussein’s lively chatter, jokes, and laughter. But as soon as he sits before the camera, his enthusiasm wanes, and he grows frustrated with the cycle of repetitive questions. He keeps his answers brief, limiting them to a yes, a no, or silence.

He talks about Toura, his hometown, and describes walking down from his family’s house at the summit to his grandfather’s home, where the family would gather. He attended elementary school at the Martyr Ahmad Qasir School, where he was a quiet student, though he admits to occasional mischief. No academic subject particularly appealed to him, but over time Arabic grew on him. He still sees his former classmates, especially his closest friend, Hussein Hamza, from the nearby town of Ma‘roub. “I feel like he’s been my brother since we were in fifth grade,” he says.

After the massacre, Hussein could not bring himself to return to his childhood home. While he and his mother were in Iran for his treatment, his father relocated the family to Tayr Debba, honoring his son’s wish to leave a home that no longer felt safe.

“No, I don’t miss Toura,” he declares, his tone decisive yet strained, as if convincing himself he must sever ties with the village where he once grew tomatoes, cucumbers, and mint, eating what he harvested straight from the soil.

His mother was in the kitchen making lunch when his father returned from work. The pager beeped, and Hussein picked it up to give it to his father. “I saw a signal on the screen but couldn’t read it in the dark room,” he says. “I brought the pager closer to my face — and it exploded.”

He was rushed from hospital to hospital, each unequipped to treat his severe injuries and unable to admit him. A few days later, he was transferred to Syria and eventually to Iran. There, he underwent successive surgeries and endured agonizing pain in his eyes and face. His mother turned to prayer to ease his pain, reminding him of his own inner strength.

His sight gradually returned, but his physical mobility remained limited. It was during this time that he formed deep bonds with fellow survivors​​ — “they understand me best,” he says. Together, they went on pilgrimage to the shrines of Imam Reza in Mashhad and Lady Masumeh in Qom.

“The sky was clear, and then it was overcast.”

“The sky was clear, and then it was overcast.” This is how Hussein describes the moment he learned that Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah — the “kind and compassionate man whose warmth embraced everyone” — had been martyred.

After they returned from Iran, his mother proposed that Hussein and his brothers collaborate on a project: crafting memorial pins with photographs of martyrs. “I liked the idea,” he recalls. “We got the tools, created a social media page, and now people select the martyr’s photo and we design it.”

In his free time, he plays soccer with his brothers and neighbors or races bicycles his father repairs in a shed beside their new home. He enjoys building sandcastles on the beach but prefers floating in the calm water of a swimming pool.

He inherited his parents’ quick temper and tries to calm himself by drawing or playing games on his phone. “I would like to learn photography,” he says, “so I can photograph the brothers in Imam Hussein’s mourning procession in Sour.” Having taken photos with a professional camera, he now longs for one of his own so he can dedicate himself to the craft. 

He diligently memorizes the Qur’an, recites at mourning councils, and aspires to become a religious scholar.

Hussein dreams of visiting al-Aqsa Mosque after liberation. When asked about Gaza, he says, “I see Imam Hussein there. They have destroyed everything in Gaza; the population is dwindling and the famine grinds on. To those my age, I say: Remain steadfast! We in Lebanon will not abandon you, and we will walk this path together.”

Hussein loves the resistance, calling it “our protector, our comfort, and the eye that watches over us.” For him, resistance is the condition for freedom: “Without it, the South would remain occupied, and the enemy would take our place.”

After lunch, Hussein insists that we play in the restaurant’s arcade. “They’re letting you play for free because I’m injured and you’re accompanying me,” he tells me, then laughs. He admits that the injury has changed him, making him more sensitive. As evening descends after a long outing, we take him home. “I had fun today,” he says, as we part ways.