Party over: displaced families shelter in Beirut nightclub

Outside one of the Lebanese capital's most exclusive venues, a large sign advises clubbers to dress "smart casual". Now dozens of destitute families occupy its dancefloor after fleeing Israeli bombardment.

Fresh laundry hangs on the guardrails around the building housing the underground nightclub Skinn, which is also known for its rooftop Skybar offering spectacular views over the Mediterranean.

Like many other families, Rida Alaq was sleeping in the street with her 79-year-old mother for a week before her sister saw on social media that the nightclub had opened its doors to people in need.

"We're fine here," the 49-year-old said softly, as men dozed on mattresses around her in the plush jet-black interior that until recently was hosting late-night parties with top DJs.

Some 1.2 million people have been displaced by Israel's intensifying campaign against Hezbollah since September 23, according to figures released by the government on Wednesday.

Most have fled homes in the south near the Israeli border or the southern suburbs of Beirut, a Hezbollah bastion.

Alaq is among around 400 people to have found refuge in the club, according to one of its managers.

The dance floor, once buzzing with partygoers, has become a playground for children riding skateboards, while families have settled into the private booths where VIP guests sipped cocktails.

At the bar, wine glasses remain neatly stacked.

Humanitarian organisations provide the families with food, and they can use the club's showers and toilets.

- 'We want to emigrate' -

As she changed her baby boy's nappy, Batoul Kanaan said she felt safe in the nightclub.

"We'll stay until the war is over," she said.

Her husband used to work as a parking attendant for the club, which was popular among Beirut's elite who used to pack out the club and bar every weekend.

Fatima Salah, a 35-year-old nurse and mother of four, said she would not be returning to the capital's working-class southern suburbs.

"We want to emigrate. Anywhere. Britain... or even Iraq," Salah said, her face framed by a blue headscarf.

"We're scared for our children, and this war is going to be long."

On Friday, a massive strike on the southern suburbs killed Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah.

Gaelle Irani, who works for the club managers, said they decided to open their doors to displaced people "the day of the big explosion", referring to the missile strike on Nasrallah on September 27.

"The owner of the place was passing by and he saw a lot of people on the streets with no shelter so he decided to open our premises," she added.

Just two kilometres (little more than a mile) away, others still sleep in the streets.

In the central Martyrs' Square, people have laid down mattresses on the ground and strung up plastic sheeting to create makeshift shelters in the middle of circling traffic.

Others have taken refuge on the steps of the huge Al-Amin mosque.

Children, many of them barely clothed, run around, while teenagers sit on the ground playing cards.

An elderly man, his legs crippled, laments having to leave his wheelchair behind in the rush to escape.

- 'Life goes on' -

Moussa Ali, another evacuee from the southern suburbs, has been living in Martyrs' Square with his two young daughters and six other family members for more than a week.

A sanitation worker, Ali fled the Hezbollah stronghold on September 23 as soon as Israeli air strikes began.

"We were so scared for the children," he said, wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with the words "Life Goes On".

He hasn't changed clothes since they fled, nor has his two-year-old daughter, Zamzam, who clings to him.

Although volunteers are distributing food, the conditions are grim. There are no toilets, and the displaced have no access to basic hygiene facilities.

Sitting apart from the others, the Abdallah family arrived late on Tuesday evening after a bomb exploded near their home in the southern suburbs.

Still in shock, Dib, the father, described how the explosion hurled him against a wall and the terrifying sound of the munition as it fell.

"It was horrible, horrible," he said.

When the warhead detonated, shards of glass rained down on his nine-year-old son Ali, who had been sleeping.

The boy, smiling despite his ordeal, was wearing only light blue underwear and a t-shirt, his feet dirty in his plastic slippers.