As long as God gives me life, I will continue.
For twenty-five years, Mona Khalil stood between the sea turtles of Lebanon's southern coast and the forces that would have erased them — dynamite fishers, developers, and the recurring violence of war. She died in a Beirut hospital on Friday, at 76, from injuries sustained when an Israeli airstrike destroyed her home near Tyre, the orange-painted sanctuary she had built as both a conservation project and a testament to resilience. Her death reminds us that the casualties of armed conflict extend beyond the human — they reach into the patient, unglamorous work of those who dedicate their lives to protecting what is most vulnerable.
- An Israeli airstrike struck a civilian home near Tyre that doubled as a sea turtle sanctuary, killing its 76-year-old founder and burning her assistant.
- Mona Khalil had already survived the 2006 war's bombardment of the same property, choosing to remain when others would have fled.
- Her Orange House Project had spent decades holding off not just military destruction but local dynamite fishers and developers hungry for the coastline she protected.
- Lebanese environmental groups are now mourning publicly and condemning the strike, warning that irreplaceable conservation work has been severed at its root.
- The turtles she monitored, the volunteers she hosted, and the mile of beach she kept clean now face an uncertain future without the person who held it all together.
Mona Khalil returned to her family's land near Tyre in 1999, after sheltering in the Netherlands through Lebanon's civil war years. One evening she found a loggerhead turtle digging a nest in the sand, and that encounter changed everything. She painted her house orange — a tribute to the Dutch flag and the country that had taken her in — and founded the Orange House Project, a sanctuary for loggerhead and green sea turtles nesting along Lebanon's southern coast.
What followed was a quarter-century of stubborn, loving work. International volunteers and tourists came to stay in her bed and breakfast, walk through banana groves to the shore, and help protect hatchlings through the night. The house had no air-conditioning and frequent power cuts, but most visitors understood they were witnessing something rare. Khalil also fought harder battles: against dynamite fishers who resented her interference, against developers who coveted the land, and against the recurring violence of a militarized zone. When Israeli bombardment struck her home during the 2006 war, she stayed. Asked in 2017 about her commitment, she said simply: "As long as God gives me life, I will continue."
She did continue — until an Israeli airstrike this month destroyed the orange house and left her with fatal injuries. She died in a Beirut intensive-care unit on Friday. Her assistant, an Ethiopian woman who worked alongside her, survived with burns. Lebanese conservation groups mourned her as one of the country's most respected voices for marine protection, someone whose decades of effort had inspired generations to care for their ecosystems.
Her death has drawn attention to something environmental organizations are increasingly documenting: armed conflict does not only kill people and destroy infrastructure — it dismantles the fragile, irreplaceable work of those who spend their lives protecting the natural world. The Orange House Project was not a military target. It was a sanctuary. That it became a casualty of war is a loss that will outlast the conflict itself.
Mona Khalil was 76 when an Israeli airstrike destroyed the house where she had spent the last quarter-century protecting sea turtles. She died in a Beirut intensive-care unit on Friday, succumbing to injuries sustained in the strike that hit her home near Tyre, on Lebanon's Mediterranean coast. Her assistant, an Ethiopian woman who worked alongside her, survived with burns.
Khalil had returned to her family's land in 1999, after spending the Lebanese civil war years in the Netherlands. One evening that year, she encountered a loggerhead turtle digging a nest in the sand on the beach near her property. That chance meeting became the seed of a life's work. She painted her house orange—a deliberate homage to the Dutch flag and the country that had sheltered her during Lebanon's darkest years—and established what she called the Orange House Project, a sanctuary dedicated to protecting the nesting sites of loggerhead and green sea turtles along the southern coast.
What began as a personal mission evolved into something far larger. Khalil opened her home to international volunteers and tourists who came to help monitor and clean a mile-long stretch of beach. Visitors stayed in her bed and breakfast, walked through banana groves to reach the shore, and participated in the delicate work of protecting vulnerable hatchlings. The courtyard filled with rescued dogs and cats. The house lacked air-conditioning and suffered regular power cuts—conditions that prompted some guests to leave critical online reviews—but most who came understood they were witnessing something irreplaceable: a chance to see sea turtles nest and hatch, and to contribute to their survival.
The work was not without friction. Local fishers who used dynamite fishing resented her conservation efforts, as did property developers eyeing the land. Khalil fought these battles and won them. She also endured the physical toll of living in a militarized zone. Her sanctuary sat on territory that Israel had repeatedly invaded and occupied. Tourists had to coordinate visits with the Lebanese military. During the 2006 war between Israel and Hezbollah, Israeli bombardment struck her house. Yet she remained. In a 2017 interview, when asked about her commitment, she spoke with quiet certainty: "As long as God gives me life," she said, "I will continue."
She did continue—until the strike this month took her life. The Lebanese wildlife conservation group Green Southerners released a statement mourning her death and condemning the attack. They described her as one of Lebanon's most respected voices for marine conservation, someone whose work had inspired generations to value and protect their ecosystems. Another environmental organization, Live Love Beirut, called her legacy "incredible" and her life "selfless and impactful."
Khalil's death carries a weight beyond the loss of one conservationist. It represents the collision of two forces—military conflict and environmental protection—that rarely make headlines together. The Orange House Project was not a military target. It was a sanctuary, a place of learning, a refuge for animals and the humans who came to help them. That it became a casualty of war speaks to something environmental groups are increasingly documenting: the way armed conflict destroys not just lives and infrastructure, but the fragile work of protecting the natural world itself. Khalil's decades of effort to preserve a nesting ground for sea turtles, to educate visitors about biodiversity, to fight against destructive fishing practices—all of it now depends on others to carry forward.
Citas Notables
Her work made her one of Lebanon's most respected voices for marine conservation and biodiversity protection.— Green Southerners, Lebanese wildlife conservation group
Her life was selfless and impactful. May the work she cared for so deeply continue for generations to come.— Live Love Beirut, environment-focused social enterprise
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What made her stay, even after her house was hit in 2006? Why not leave?
She had already left once, during the civil war. The Netherlands gave her safety, but it wasn't home. When she came back in 1999 and saw that turtle nesting, something shifted. She wasn't just protecting turtles anymore—she was rebuilding a life in a place she loved, on her own terms.
The Orange House Project sounds small, almost intimate. How many people did it actually reach?
It was intimate, yes, but the ripple was wider than the numbers suggest. Tourists came from abroad, volunteers stayed in her home, local people watched what she was doing. She changed minds about dynamite fishing, about what the beach was worth. That's not measured in visitor statistics.
Her assistant was Ethiopian. What does that tell us about the work?
It tells us the project attracted people from everywhere who believed in what she was doing. It was a place where someone could come, regardless of where they were from, and be part of something that mattered. That's rare.
Do you think she knew the risks she was taking by staying?
Of course she knew. She lived through the civil war. She saw bombardment in 2006. But she also said she wouldn't stop as long as she had life in her. That wasn't naïveté. It was a choice made with full knowledge.
What happens to the turtles now?
That's the question no one can answer yet. The sanctuary is gone. The beach still exists, but the protection infrastructure she built—the monitoring, the education, the presence—that's gone with her. Unless someone steps in, the work stops.