Nabatieh, Lebanon – It is a bitterly cold February morning, and Sanaa Khreiss tugs her cardigan tighter as she begins unloading her van.

The sharp bite of early spring has kept most people away from the Nabatieh souk, but not Sanaa and her husband, Youssef.

The market is quiet as the sun breaks through the grey clouds, except for a few vendors setting up.

Sanaa, who has sold at this spot for the past four years, moves with the calm precision of someone who has perfected her craft over time.

She arranges the lingerie she sells, piece by piece, carefully lining them up, each addition bringing a touch of colour and vibrancy to her stall.

The soft murmur of voices grows as more vendors arrive, helping each other set up canopies to shield their stalls from potential rain.

The task is far from easy. The wind tugs at the fabric, and some canopies still hold water from the recent rainfall. But they press on, and slowly, the white shapes pop up, and Nabatieh’s Monday Market has started.

Sanaa smiles at the occasional passer-by, her warmth never fading. She has come to know many by name and can anticipate their requests. Her voice is quiet but inviting.

“I choose the Monday Market because there’s always a lot of movement, and it’s a historic, popular spot in the south,” Sanaa tells Al Jazeera, her fingers brushing over lace and satin as she unpacks more items from the van.

In the stall next door, her husband Youssef works in silence. His movements are precise, almost meditative, but there is a hint of tension in how he arranges the containers and cookware.

Youssef has never imagined himself here; he used to be a driver for the Khiam municipality, but lost his job when the municipality ceased operations after the outbreak of the Israeli war on Lebanon in 2023, which particularly devastated Lebanon’s south, including Nabatieh, one of the region’s biggest cities.

Since then, Youssef has quietly adapted to the life of a vendor beside Sanaa.

Youssef is quiet and reserved, a stark contrast to Sanaa’s extroverted warmth. He focuses intently on his tasks, but when approached by a customer, his blue eyes shine with welcome, and his voice is friendly.

At first glance, no one would guess the weight those eyes carry – war, displacement, losing his livelihood and their home in Khiam. But at the market, it is business as usual.

The market

Shoes, toys, spices, clothing, books, food, electronics, and accessories – the Monday Market sells all that and more.

The Monday Market in Nabatieh has its roots in the late Mamluk era (1250–1517 AD) and continued to thrive under Ottoman rule. Along with the Souk of Bint Jbeil and the Khan Market in Hasbaiyya, it is one of the oldest weekly markets in south Lebanon, established as part of efforts to extend trade routes across the region.

Back then, traders moved between Palestine and Lebanon, transporting goods by mule and donkey over rough, slow roads. Nabatieh’s location made it a natural stop – a bustling centre where merchants from nearby villages would gather to buy, sell and rest before continuing their journeys. The market also sat along a wider network of internal pilgrimage routes, connecting Jerusalem to Damascus, Mecca and Najaf.

Nabatieh Mayor Khodor Kodeih recounts that merchants travelling between Palestine and Lebanon would stop at a “khan” – an inn that also served as a trading centre – on the site of the current market.

A khan typically featured a square courtyard surrounded by rooms on two levels, with open arcades. Merchants would rest, trade and display their goods there, gradually transforming the site into the bustling Monday Market.

Over time, the market has become more than just a place to buy and sell – it is a ritual that stitches together the social and economic fabric of southern Lebanon.

The area around the old khans expanded into a larger open-air souk. Israeli air strikes during the last war destroyed the original khans, but traces of the market’s past still remain. Today, the Monday Market spans three to four city blocks in central Nabatieh, surrounded by remnants of Ottoman-era architecture. While shops remain open throughout the week, the market itself is made up of temporary stalls and stands that operate only on Mondays.

Before Israel’s recent war on Lebanon, the market filled the streets, framed by Ottoman-era buildings with wooden shutters and iron balconies. Merchants packed the narrow alleys with vibrant goods, their calls for business filling the air. But on November 13, 2024, Israeli air strikes reduced the historic market to rubble. Stone arches crumbled, shopfronts burned, and what was once a bustling hub was left in ruins.

All that remains

Arriving at Sultan Square, the usual site of the old market, one is left confused. All that remains is a vast, empty space at the heart of the city.

The famous Al-Sultan sweet shop, after which the square was named, is gone. Nearby, other sweet shops – including al-Dimassi, established in 1949 and central to Nabatieh’s culinary identity and reputation – are also missing. They once sold staples of Lebanese dessert culture: baklava, nammoura, maamoul, and during Ramadan, seasonal treats like kallaj and an all-time favourite, halawet el-jibn.

Every market morning, merchants sweep the streets, using only brooms to push the debris to the sides and clear space for their stalls. Even as the wind blows rubble back towards their stand, they keep sweeping, determined to maintain a neat and orderly market.

Sanaa remembers the high-end lingerie shops that once competed with her; they’re gone too, reduced to debris amid which vendors have set up their tents as they wait for the municipality to clear the area.

There should be more vendors on that cold morning, but the rain and war have changed things.

“The good thing about rainy days,” Sanaa jokes, “is that there are fewer merchants, so customers have limited options.”

Before the war, she sold in bulk – new brides buying trousseaus, women stocking up. Now, purchases are small and careful – with homes and livelihoods lost, shopping is for necessity, not luxuries or impulse buys.

On a typical Monday, the market runs from 5am to 5pm. Merchants arrive early, making their way to their designated spots, some on the pavement, others against a backdrop of a collapsed building.

Vegetable vendors lay their produce out in large sacks and plastic crates. Normally, the market is so crowded with people that cars can’t pass and visitors have to squeeze past each other from one stall to the next.

Though profits aren’t what they used to be, Sanaa is just happy to be back. She’s kept her prices the same, hoping the market will rebound.

“This is the most important market in the south,” she says. “And we need to follow the source of our livelihood.”

‘Deep love story with the Monday market’

Next to Sanaa’s stall is Jihad Abdallah’s, where he has rigged up several racks to hang his collection of women’s sports clothes.

Yesterday’s snow is melting as the sun comes out, but Jihad keeps his hoodie up, still feeling the lingering cold.

Customers have started trickling over, but it isn’t enough to shake the frustrated, tired look on his face.

Jihad, from the border village of Bint Jbeil, spends his week travelling between different town markets in southern Lebanon to make ends meet.

He was among the first to set up in Bint Jbeil’s Thursday Market as soon as the ceasefire with Israel was announced on November 27, 2024. Jihad didn’t have many options. Bint Jbeil was the market he knew best – he memorised the rhythms, understood customer demands, and recognised how to turn profit. Still, business was slow.

“In Bint Jbeil, the market needs time to recover because many residents from nearby villages, like Blida, Aitaroun and Maroun al-Ras, haven’t returned yet,” Abdallah tells Al Jazeera.

“However, in Nabatieh, nearby towns have seen more returnees.”

Jihad was also among the first to return to the Nabatieh market, joining the very first band of merchants in clearing as much debris as they could manage.

“The Israelis want to make this land unliveable, but we’re here. We’re staying,” Jihad says. “They destroyed everything out of spite, but they can’t take our will.”

Further down the road, Abbas Sbeity has set up his stand of clothes for the day, a collection of children’s winter clothes he couldn’t sell because of the war.

“I had to empty my van to make room for mattresses for my kids to sleep on when we first escaped Qaaqaait al-Jisr [a village near Nabatieh],” he tells Al Jazeera, pointing to the van behind him, now packed with clothes.

Abbas is trying to make a profit, however small, from clothes that were meant to be sold when children returned to school last fall.

He’s been coming to the Monday Market for 30 years, a job passed down from his father, who inherited it from his grandfather.

“My grandfather used to bring me here on a mule!” he says with a nostalgic smile. For a moment, he stares off, lost in thought. His smile stays, but his voice holds a trace of sadness.

“There’s a deep love story with the Monday Market,” he adds. “But now, there’s a sadness in the air. People’s spirits are still heavy, and the destruction around us really affects their morale.”

Abbas remembers how people came not only to buy but to hang out for a weekly outing they could count on for fun, no matter the weather. Even if they didn’t buy anything, they’d enjoy the crowds or grab a bite, whether from the small shops selling manouches, shawarma, kaak or falafel sandwiches, or from a restaurant nearby, from local favourites like Al-Bohsasa to Western chains.

Many would also stop by Al-Sultan and Al-Dimassi, which were the closest to the market, to enjoy a sweet treat, a perfect way to top off their visit.

By noon, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a gloomy day as the sun struggled to break through the clouds, casting a faint light over the market. People haggled over prices, searched for specific sizes, and despite the changes brought by war, the Monday Market pressed on, determined to hold on to its place.

‘We won’t let them,’ determination versus reality

At one end of the Sultan Square, near the upper right corner, a half-destroyed building still stands where vendors used to set up shop before the war. Now, produce vendors arrange their stalls beneath it as if nothing had changed. The remnants of the structure loom above them – fragments of walls hanging precariously, held together by stray wires that look ready to snap.

Yet the vendors paid no mind, too absorbed in tending to customers. The building’s arched openings and ornate details, though battered, still hinted at the city’s rich past. Its verandas, standing like silent witnesses to the souk below, bore testament to both the scars of war and a culture that refused to disappear.

At the far end of the market, by the main road leading out of Nabatieh to nearby villages, one cart stands alone, piled high with nuts and dried fruits. Its owner adds more, making the stacks look like they might spill over at any second.

Roasted corn, chickpeas, and almonds sit next to raw almonds, hazelnuts, cashews and walnuts. Dried fruits are displayed front and centre, dates and apricots taking the spotlight.

At the back of the cart, Rachid Dennawi arranges candies – gummy bears and marshmallows in all shapes and flavours. It’s his first day back at the Monday Market since the war began.

Abir Badran, a customer dressed in a dark cardigan and a long black scarf that gently frames her face, is the first to reach Rachid’s cart while he’s still setting up. Her face lights up as she leans in to examine the dates, carefully picking through them.

“Finally, you’re back!” she says, reaching for the dates – they’re bigger and better than what she can find at other places, she says.

Rachid, originally from Tripoli in Lebanon’s north, makes the three-hour journey to Nabatieh because he believes the market is livelier, has more customers.

Over time, Rachid has built a loyal clientele, and people like Abir swear by his dried fruit and nut mix.

“The people here are different,” he tells Al Jazeera, handing Abir a handful of almonds to taste. “They don’t just buy from you – they welcome you and want you to succeed.”

But Abir didn’t just come to stock up – she is there because the Monday Market has become an act of resistance.

“The Israelis want to sever our ties to this land,” Abir tells Al Jazeera. “But we won’t let them.”

While the optimism is clear, the reality on the ground is tough.

Merchants and residents are doing what they can with what they have. Some have relocated their shops or started new businesses, but some are stuck in limbo.

Mayor Kodeih estimates it will take at least two years to rebuild the market and is critical of the Lebanese government’s support.

“We will restore the market,” he says. “It won’t be the same, but we’ll bring it back.”

The mayor was injured in the Israeli strike on the municipality in mid-October, which killed 16 people; he is one of the two survivors.

It is not easy to leave the market behind – or Nabatieh.

Despite the destruction, the city hums with life: Shops are open, cafes are busy, and people lean in doorways, greeting passers-by with warm smiles and easy conversation.

The gravity of war has left its mark. The destruction is visible at every turn – a bookshop reduced to rubble, shops flattened to the ground – but it has not stripped away the city’s kindness or its sense of humour.

In front of a lot with nothing more than a gaping hole in it, a playful banner by the shop that used to stand there reads: “We’ll be back soon … we’re just redecorating.”

One of the paths out of the Sultan Square leads visitors northeast, into a quieter neighbourhood of cobbled streets, where cafes and small shops line the way. Here, people sip coffee and linger by storefronts, seemingly untouched by the devastation only steps away.

Turning back at the boundary between the two, the destruction that has decimated the market is more apparent, as is the loss to Nabatieh and southern Lebanon.

The market’s heyday will live on only in the memories of those who experienced it, younger generations will never have that same experience.