She arrived at St Joseph’s with her husband, Saif al-Din Mustafa, and their four children after renewed fighting forced them from a shared room in Dahiyeh, Beirut’s southern suburbs. At the time, she was eight months pregnant.
She cradles her newborn daughter, Yana, while keeping watch over her four older children, who dart through the church grounds. With her husband spending his days searching for work, much of the responsibility for holding the family together falls to her.
Much of Roudaina’s attention is focused on her eldest daughter, Tebyan.
The eight-year-old was diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome in Lebanon and had been attending a specialised education centre. Since the latest conflict, however, the annual cost of care has risen from $2000 to $6000 a year – far beyond what the family can afford.
Roudaina also says Tebyan experienced racism from other students at the centre, Dar al-Ahlam, or House of Dreams. “They told her things like, ‘You’re ugly’, ‘You’re Black’ and ‘You should go back to your country’.”
Dar al-Ahlam did not respond to requests for comment at the time of publication.
The effects of the war have lingered in other ways, too. Tebyan struggled during the 2024 conflict, Roudaina says, and remains highly sensitive to loud noises.
“She used to scream and cry loudly whenever there was a bomb nearby, and now, if there is ever a loud noise, it triggers screaming and panic.”
Roudaina recounts this matter-of-factly, as though years of conflict and displacement have made such stories painfully familiar.
Like Rufaida, she gave birth while sheltering at St Joseph’s.
One night in April, her water broke at 5am in the dormitory she shared with dozens of other women. The costs of her pregnancy were covered by the church and an NGO called Assameh.
But the family’s legal problems remained. Despite being registered as a refugee, Roudaina says her legal status in Lebanon remains precarious because her Sudanese passport has expired. She claims the Sudanese embassy has refused to renew it.
She fears deportation more than anything. Returning to Sudan is not an option, she says. Her husband refused military conscription in 2008, was subsequently imprisoned and later escaped custody. Going back, she believes, would place him in serious danger.
The lack of documentation has also affected her children.
“None of my children, except Tebyan, have up-to-date documents, so I cannot enrol them in public schools,” she says.
For many refugee families in Lebanon, access to education is often shaped as much by paperwork as by the availability of school places. According to UNHCR figures, only about half of refugee children of primary school age are enrolled in school.
Non-Lebanese students enrolling in afternoon “second shift” classes — sessions created to accommodate large numbers of refugee students — are generally required to present valid residency documents or UNHCR-issued identification.
Despite the obstacles, Roudaina still hopes her family might one day be resettled in a third country.
Such opportunities are increasingly rare. According to this year’s UNHCR Global Trends report, fewer than 82,000 refugees were resettled worldwide last year, despite nearly 2.9 million being identified as in need of resettlement.
UNHCR says resettlement remains a “limited protection tool” reserved for refugees “facing acute protection risks,” and depends on the willingness of third countries to agree on accepting refugees.
Wherever her family ends up, Roudaina’s hopes remain simple. “All I want is for my daughters to grow up without the fear of being hurt,” she says. “Tebyan deserves better than this.”
Both mothers have also found solace in their newborns. “I regained strength while giving birth. The whole process has kept me going,” Rufaida says.
Mohammad is now searching for work in Beirut, though hampered by chronic damage to his Achilles tendon, worn down by years of manual labour. The persistent pain has left him limping.
“I have to do surgery on my ankle but I cannot because of the situation. It is preventing me from working. My foot is swollen, and the doctor said I have to refrain from certain work, like manual labour, and this is affecting my chances of getting a job.”
After having lost his home and work in Bint Jbeil, he has wanted to find daywork to help support his family. Now he sighs as he points to the swelling in his heel, seemingly overwhelmed by his fate.
Even so, he still imagines a different future for his son. “We want him to pursue a career and an education, and grow up in a safe environment. Our child will not live a life like ours.”
At the mere mention of Ahmad, a gentle smile returns to Rufaida’s face. Her tired eyes drift back to her son, fast asleep in her arms. For a few brief seconds, the wars that have followed her across two countries seem far away.
*Editor’s note: Rufaida and her family are identified by their first names only to protect their identities.