Syrian Refugee Women Sustain Lebanon’s Agriculture Amid Growing Uncertainty

By the shores of Damour, the salty tang of the sea mingles with the earthy scent of cucumber plants. Inside a humid greenhouse, Munira* bends over tangled vines, pruning dead leaves alongside her sister, Ward. The distant roar of engines breaks the fragile quiet.

“Is that a plane or a warplane?” Munira asks, glancing nervously at the sky.

For 13 years, since fleeing Idlib, Syria, Munira and her sisters have worked as refugees in Lebanon's agriculture sector, carrying the weight of war. The hum of an engine, distant fireworks, or the echo of sonic booms instantly pull them back to the conflict that reshaped their lives.

A view of Damour from the greenhouses and plantations.

Syrian refugees like Munira have become the backbone of Lebanon’s agricultural workforce, taking on grueling tasks for low pay, often in dangerous working conditions. In the Bekaa Valley, often called Lebanon’s “breadbasket,” Syrian women form the majority of the labor force. Yet their contributions remain largely invisible, overshadowed by economic instability, displacement, and rising anti-refugee sentiment.

Munira*, 56, originally from Idlib, rests after a morning working in the greenhouse pruning and weeding.

“They’ve been a vital part of Lebanon’s agriculture for decades,” said Lour, a Lebanese NGO worker who supports Syrian women. “Lebanese farmers rely on them, but it’s not sustainable in these numbers.”

A 2021 Food and Agriculture (FAO) study found that nearly 86% percent of agricultural workers in Lebanon are informally employed — and most are women. Syrian women face significant wage disparities, earning half or two-thirds of what men make. The COVID-19 pandemic worsened this, with many women accepting lower wages to keep their jobs.

Nur Turkmani, a writer and researcher studying Syrian women’s work in Lebanon’s agriculture sector, told More to Her Story that Syrian women have played “a very critical, but invisible role” in the sector, working informally and seasonally for over a decade. “They make so much of the agriculture sector possible.”

Beyond the fields, these women bear nearly all domestic responsibilities. Many men, unable to find work for a variety of reasons, have come to rely on their wives and daughters for financial support.

Maryam*, 42, originally from Aleppo and living in the Bekaa Valley, plucks and cleans ducks this season. After her first child was born, her husband could no longer support the family, forcing Maryam and eventually her children into labor.

Nahla, 41, who works with livestock in Mount Lebanon, relies on her two daughters, the eldest just 13, for help. She regrets this, saying, “I want my children to study, learn, and pursue their dreams for the future.”

Nahla, 41, cradles her newborn son at her sister’s home in the Bekaa Valley. Usually, she works on a cattle farm in the Mount Lebanon region, but she made the journey to Bekaa for UNHCR’s medical support. Her baby was born with a congenital condition affecting his urinary system.

“Mothers often work in agriculture while their daughters stay home to do household chores,” Bethany, an NGO worker in Zahlè, the capital of Bekaa Governorate, explained, “The men began to rely on them, leaving the women burdened with everything — the work, the home, the children.”

Munira, 56, described a time when she hired men to help with pesticide application and heavy lifting. “The men we hired didn’t want to work,” she said. “So, I ended up having to do most of it myself.”

In the conflict between Israel and Hezbollah that escalated in September 2024, around 1.5 million people, including migrant workers and refugees, were internally displaced.

As the war raged on, an estimated 335,000 Syrians returned to Syria between September and November 2024. But Munira, her sisters, and many other women in agriculture stayed and kept working the land.

“We had no other options,” Fatma, 50, told More to Her Story. “We couldn’t go back to Syria at that time — we would die either way, here or there. At least here, we have some semblance of a life.”

Fatma rests after a long morning of working in the greenhouses picking cucumbers.

Caught between the uncertainty of war in Lebanon and dangers in Syria, the sisters delayed planting, causing financial losses. When they finally sold their cucumbers, it was at a steep discount — 20,000 lira (about 20 cents) per kilo, barely covering seeds and labor costs.

Their losses reflect the war's broader impact on Lebanon's food security and agriculture. Disrupted supply chains and labor shortages have compounded the crisis, prompting the World Food Programme (WFP) to issue a $49 million appeal in December for vulnerable communities.

The psychological toll has been immense. “A lot of the women were having severe PTSD and passed it along to their children,” said Lora, a counselor working with Syrian children in Zahlè. “We were in a relatively safe place, but from what you heard from the children and their mothers, it didn’t seem that way at all — they were so afraid.”

“We remembered when our homes in Syria were destroyed by bombs,” said Munira. “We were afraid to plant seeds and that thieves would come in the night. We were constantly afraid that war would break out and we would have to flee again.”

Now, with a 60-day ceasefire in place that ends January 26, 2025, many are hopeful they can begin to recover.

The fall of the Bashar al-Assad regime to opposition forces on December 8 has stirred hope and anxiety among Syrians worldwide. For some, the end of the dictatorship represents a chance to rebuild their lives.

“In Syria, I used to sleep on my roof under the stars on summer nights,” Fatma said. “For years, I have dreamed of returning to my home and sleeping under the stars again. Now, my dream may finally come true.”

Yet, even for Fatma, the idea of returning is fraught with uncertainty. Syria remains a country in ruins, with 7 million people internally displaced and an estimated 328,000 homes destroyed.

“I don’t want to return because I no longer have a home there,” said Nahla. “It was destroyed. To build or buy a new house, we need money—money we don’t have. Life is hard here in Lebanon, but at least I have a roof over my head and some work.”

Meanwhile, Lebanon’s caretaker prime minister, Najib Mikati, has urged Syrian refugees “to return to their homeland,” citing the strain on Lebanon’s resources. This adds another layer of anxiety.

“What can we do?” Nahla asked. “If they make us leave, we’ll have to leave. We have no options.”

After a long day in the fields, Fatma returned home with her sisters. Wrapping herself in a blanket against the cold, she scrolls through the latest news from Syria—a nightly ritual since Assad’s fall.

Fatma looks at the news from Syria on her phone after a day of working in the greenhouses.

“We’ll finish this season first,” she said. “We’ll harvest this crop and get it ready for sale. Only then, if Syria is safe, we will return.”

For Syrian women in Agriculture, the future remains uncertain and the options are limited. Yet their resilience offers a glimmer of hope for rebuilding their lives, whether in Lebanon or Syria.

*Names have been changed to protect identities.