One of the great frustrations about covering any war is that it often becomes all about reporting the latest casualty figures and the latest faraway utterings from Condoleeza Rice. That’s the “news,” at least in a conventional sense.

For a change, I’d like to tell you the news about two friends of mine, and their war. What Ms. Rice has had to say has so far meant little to them other than prolonging what they’re going through.

Back when we started this blog (Three weeks ago? Four?), I introduced you to Musa, the 50-something chain-smoking father of seven who has been driving me around the country, keeping me safe in his battered brown Mercedes taxi.

His indefatigability, his sense of humour and his faith that some higher power is protecting him, his car and his passengers are contagious. We’ve kept each other’s spirits up on some long, dangerous drives. These days, however, it’s getting harder and harder to cheer him up.

Soon after the shooting started on July 12, Musa’s family home in the southern Lebanese town of Nabatiye was destroyed. Luckily, his relatives had already fled by then, and when they arrived in Beirut, they moved in with Musa. They were 23 people in a three-room apartment.

It was crowded, but it was safe. There were no bombs were falling on Shiyah, the packed neighbourhood on the outskirts of Beirut where Musa lived. Musa, as usual, just shrugged. “What can I do?” he told me with a shrug shortly after opening his home to so many people. “They are my family.”

Monday night, Musa’s apartment was badly damaged when an Israeli shell crashed into the building next door, annihilating the six-storey structure and killing 41 people.

Musa was fine, and none of his relatives were seriously hurt, but they’re on the move again. This time, they’ve moved in with some more relatives in another neighbourhood closer to central Beirut – four families to a five-room apartment. Musa’s still smiling, but the chain-smoking has hit a new level. His car is stuffed with empty packages of cigarettes.

Another friend and colleague is Hisham, a burly man in his late 30s who translates for me when I’m working in the besieged southern port of Tyre. When I left the city on Friday – deciding with my editors that I should pull back to Beirut to get the wider perspective for a few days – Hisham got depressed. “Mark, my friend,” he told me in his West African-accented English (he was born in Sierra Leone). “I have a feeling I’m not going to see you again.”

I promised him I’d be back Monday, three days ago, but then the Israelis destroyed the last link between Tyre and the north, a muddy trail through a banana patch. They’ve warned that any vehicle moving south of the Litani River – a shallow flow that is the natural boundary of south Lebanon – is liable to be targeted. Hisham tells me the threat seems to be a serious one, and has warned me against returning.

For the past few days, Hisham and I have kept in touch only by text messages we send between our mobile phones. He's single and usually, he likes to talk women and vodka first, war and politics a distant second.

These days, Hisham’s care-free side is gone, replaced by a creeping terror. The bombing of Tyre has been non-stop, he tells me, with shells falling closer and closer to his home. He too has pulled up stakes, and is now staying in the common area of the Rest House, one of two hotels still functioning in the city.

Like Musa, Hisham is a Shiite Muslim who had no love for Hezbollah when this war started. For Musa, it’s about not believing in politics or leaders anymore after men with big ideas destroyed this country during its long civil war. For Hisham, it’s simpler: radical Islam is simply anathema to the way he lives.

Both men now finds themselves cheering a bit when Hassan Nasrallah gives one of his speeches, or when they hear news that the Israeli army has lost soldiers fighting in the villages that surround Tyre.

Musa and Hisham think that Israel’s war on Hezbollah will end with the Islamic militia stronger and more influential than ever inside Lebanon. Both think that the country’s pro-Western leaders are now largely irrelevant.

"It's crazy here again tonight," Hisham wrote me in one recent message as bombs fell on Tyre. "When will this end?"

I wished I had an answer for him.