In the once peaceful hills of Lebanon's Bekaa Valley, where rolling green fields stretch for miles, a nightmare now unfolds. The valley, like much of Lebanon, is under siege from above. In recent days, Israeli airstrikes have rained destruction on the area, leaving families shattered and communities living in constant fear.

The bombardment has been unrelenting. In one devastating hour, more than 30 airstrikes pummeled the region, and the toll is grim. 

At least 46 people have lost their lives, but that number is expected to rise as more bodies are pulled from the rubble and survivors battle their injuries in overcrowded hospitals. The victims are civilians—mothers, fathers, children—ordinary people who just days ago were living their lives in peace.

Among the many fighting for survival is six-year-old Noor Mossawi. 

She lies unconscious in the pediatric intensive care unit of Rayak Hospital, her tiny body wrapped in bandages, her skull fractured by the force of a missile. Her life, once so full of joy and energy, now teeters on the edge.

By Noor's side, her mother Rima sits in silent prayer, clutching the Quran and willing her daughter to wake up. Her face is etched with grief and exhaustion. 

"Noor is so bright, so full of life," Rima says, tears welling in her eyes. "She loves to meet new people, always filling our home with laughter. Now... the house feels so empty without her voice."

That joy was stolen from Rima's family last Monday when Israeli bombs began to fall near their home. As the explosions grew closer, Rima huddled at the front door with Noor and her twin brother, Mohammed, unsure of where to go or how to protect them. 

The fear was suffocating. "We weren’t brave enough to go inside," she recalls, "because we thought the building would collapse on us if it was hit."

In a moment of terrible clarity, Rima grabbed Noor and Mohammed, hoping to carry them to safety. But the missile was faster than her fear. It struck with devastating precision. Noor was severely injured, while Mohammed escaped with only minor wounds. The family’s world was turned upside down in an instant.

In Rayak Hospital, Noor’s father Abdallah paces the halls, consumed with anger and helplessness. When he sees his daughter’s broken body, the weight of it all overwhelms him. "Please film my child," he pleads. "She doesn’t know what war is. 

She doesn’t know what weapons are. She was just playing at home when the bombing began. They [Israel] want to terrorize us, to make us flee."

Abdallah, like many in the Bekaa Valley, feels abandoned by the world. He insists he has no ties to Hezbollah, the militant group that Israel claims it is targeting. "We have nothing to do with weapons," he says. "But now I wish I did. I wish I could protect my children from this terror."

This is not an isolated story. Noor is just one of the many innocent victims caught in this deadly conflict. Since the bombings began, Rayak Hospital has admitted over 400 civilians, many of them children, and the toll on the hospital’s staff is immense. 

Dr. Basil Abdallah, the hospital’s medical director, is exhausted but determined. "We’re seeing trauma that no one should have to witness," he says. "Children with horrific injuries. Elderly patients, women—this isn’t war, this is slaughter."

Dr. Abdallah and his staff are working around the clock, but the emotional toll is wearing them down. "Most of our doctors and nurses are depressed. We’re human beings, and this is too much to bear," he says. "We see these broken bodies come through the door, and we just want to cry, but we can’t stop. We don’t have that luxury."

The situation is becoming dire. The hospital is rapidly running out of medicine, supplies, and space. With each new wave of bombings, more civilians flood the emergency room, and the staff fears they won’t be able to keep up. 

"We’re already stretched to the limit," Dr. Abdallah warns. "If this continues, we won’t be able to save everyone."

And still, the bombings continue. In the sky, Israeli planes circle overhead, bringing more death and destruction to a region already on its knees. Hezbollah’s response has been limited, firing sporadic rockets into Israel, while its backer, Iran, watches from the sidelines. 

For now, the people of the Bekaa Valley are left to fend for themselves, with little hope that help will come soon.

Back in the ICU, Noor’s mother continues her silent vigil. Every beep of the monitor feels like a lifetime. Every breath her daughter takes is a small victory in a world filled with loss. "I was soothing her before the attack," Rima recalls, her voice breaking. "I told her not to be afraid. 

That nothing would happen. I was wrong."

As the sounds of airstrikes rumble in the distance, the entire hospital shudders. But Rima barely reacts anymore—there’s nothing left but prayer and hope. She looks at her daughter, still motionless, and whispers: "Please wake up, Noor. Please wake up."