The Take: What is the conflict between Thailand and Cambodia?
In this episode:
Tony Cheng (@TLCBkk), Al Jazeera correspondent
Episode credits:
This episode was produced by Marcos Bartolomé and Sarí el-Khalili, with Phillip Lanos, Spencer Cline, Marya Khan, Kisaa Zehra, Melanie Marich, Julia Muldavin, Diana Ferrero and our guest host, Natasha del Toro. It was edited by Kylene Kiang.
Our sound designer is Alex Roldan. Our video editors are Hisham Abu Salah and Mohannad al-Melhem. Alexandra Locke is The Take's executive producer. Ney Alvarez is Al Jazeera's head of audio.
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Beirut, Lebanon – By the time Zainab Dhaher and her family fled their southern Lebanese village last September, Israeli shelling had become relentless. They packed what they could and drove 13 hours to Beirut, only to find themselves once again within range of Israeli bombardment. The cycle of displacement repeated. 'We left in a rush. I didn't have time to pack clothes for my children,' the 34-year-old mother of two recalls, her voice cracking during a phone interview. 'We moved from place to place, and no one helped us. No food, no blankets, nothing.' Months after a United States-brokered ceasefire took effect in November, the fear still lingers. Israeli strikes on Lebanese territory have continued despite the truce, repeatedly raising fears of renewed conflict, while Israel remains in control of strategic parts of Lebanon's south. Meanwhile, roughly 90,000 Lebanese people are unable to return home because of continued devastation of their villages, and Israel's continued presence in some of them. Israeli rockets also continue to strike Hezbollah targets, while the group refuses to drop its arms – a key Israeli demand. But for Zainab, a 34-year-old mother of two, the psychological wounds from the devastating war have proven deeper and more persistent than any physical destruction. 'The sound of drones terrifies me. I cry when I hear Ahmad Kaabour's song 'Ya Rayeh Sawb Bladi' [Oh, you who is going to my land] because it reminds me of what we've lost.' Despite the ceasefire, Zainab says she can't sleep. 'I'm constantly afraid something will happen to my children. I don't think this pain will ever go away.' And in the absence of an accessible, functioning mental health system, Zainab – like many others in Lebanon – found herself turning to artificial intelligence (AI), and ChatGPT. A nation in psychological ruin Lebanon has endured a near-constant barrage of crises for years: the 2019 financial collapse that wiped out people's life savings, the devastating Beirut port explosion in 2020, a collapsing public health system, and the Israeli military's latest offensive in the south, which killed almost 4,000 people and displaced tens of thousands. Amid this chaos, the psychological toll on the population is becoming harder to ignore. Mental health professionals warn of a dramatic rise in anxiety, depression, PTSD, and psychosomatic symptoms across the country, especially among those living near the southern border, journalists covering the violence, and humanitarian workers on the ground. But in a country where therapy sessions cost between $40 and $100 – more than many can afford – mental health support remains a luxury. 'There is no national strategy for psychological recovery,' says Dr Randa Baraja, a clinical psychologist at CPRM Clinic in Beirut. 'We're seeing a resurgence of trauma not just from the recent war, but from Lebanon's entire history of violence – civil war, political assassinations, and successive economic collapse. The trauma is collective, and it spans generations.' Baraja notes an uptick in patients using ChatGPT as a kind of emotional crutch. 'We're observing a growing trend, especially among younger people, of turning to AI tools for emotional support,' she says. 'They confide in it, seek comfort, even ask it to diagnose them. It reflects the deep need for someone – or something – that simply listens.' But she warns of the dangers. 'ChatGPT doesn't offer genuine emotional attunement. It cannot replicate the human connection necessary for healing. More dangerously, it can delay access to professional help. People think they're improving, but often they're not.' That was Zainab's experience. After reading a Facebook post recommending mental health 'self-tests' using ChatGPT, she tried one. The bot's response was alarming: It listed PTSD, schizophrenia, and ADHD as potential diagnoses. 'It shook me,' she admits. 'But I couldn't afford therapy. I work at a beauty salon and earn $400 a month. Rent alone is $1,200. Therapy isn't an option for people like me,' she says, referring to the lease of her displacement home. At first, ChatGPT seemed like an outlet. But the more she relied on it, the more frustrated she became. 'Its responses felt hollow. I was getting angrier after every conversation. It felt like shouting into a void.' 'We left the war, but the war didn't leave us' The psychological effects of war are not easily shaken. According to the World Health Organization, one in five people in conflict-affected areas suffers from mental health conditions ranging from mild depression to severe anxiety and psychosis. In Lebanon, the impact is amplified by economic despair. With the Lebanese lira having lost nearly 97 percent of its value since 2019 and poverty rates skyrocketing, families are struggling to cover basic needs, let alone pay for therapy. Public mental health services are scarce, especially in rural and marginalised areas. Sarah Rammal, a 22-year-old fashion entrepreneur from the border town of al-Aadaissah, lost her home and small business when Israeli forces burned them during the war. She now lives in a rented apartment in Beirut, trying to rebuild from scratch. 'I felt like my life had been erased,' she says. 'I started talking to ChatGPT every night just to release the pain.' At first, the routine helped. 'It felt easier than talking to a real person. No judgement.' But over time, it stopped being effective. 'It didn't push me forward. I was just circling the same sadness over and over again.' Eventually, she sought professional help. 'After one session with a therapist, I felt lighter. I still use AI sometimes, but I now realise it's not a substitute.' A quiet mental health crisis Lebanese youth, already dealing with political disillusionment and economic uncertainty, were among the hardest hit by the latest war. Rania, a hotline responder at Embrace, a leading mental health NGO, says the volume of calls from young people has spiked dramatically in recent months. 'Most calls are war-related. They feel hopeless about their futures in this country,' she explains, asking to be referred to by her first name only, since she's not authorised to speak to the press. 'We've also noticed more people talking about using AI as a coping mechanism. It's easy, available, and doesn't cost money. But it's not a real solution.' To counter this, Embrace and Lebanon's Ministry of Health launched a mental health app called Step-by-Step, designed by clinical psychologists. 'It's free, confidential, and tailored to individual needs,' Rania says. 'We always try to redirect people there.' Siba Haidar Ahmed, a master's student in clinical psychology, says many of her classmates and peers have experimented with AI tools during moments of emotional crisis. 'The danger isn't in using ChatGPT once or twice,' she says. 'It's when people mistake it for therapy.' While AI can provide surface-level comfort, its effects are fleeting. 'It can give you motivational quotes or validate your emotions. But once the chat ends, reality hits. That sudden return can deepen feelings of emptiness or hopelessness.' Back in southern Lebanon, as families try to rebuild their damaged or destroyed homes after months of shelling, the psychological recovery remains elusive. Turning to their screens, many hope for comfort and answers in algorithms. Zainab, now back in her village, says she's trying to move forward, but the scars are deep. 'We left the war,' she repeats. 'But the war didn't leave us.' This piece was published in collaboration with Egab.
