A ceasefire between Israel and Hizbullah came into force in the early hours of November 27th. By the following day, the UN said almost 580,000 displaced people across Lebanon were moving back towards their homes.
In the period since, Israel has been accused of dozens of violations, including the killing of at least 13 people, though its forces say that they are forcefully enforcing the ceasefire’s terms. On Monday, Hizbullah fired two projectiles towards contested, Israeli-controlled land, in what it called a “warning” shot. Though the situation remains febrile, the ceasefire agreement has still drastically altered the reality on the ground.
The Irish Times spent three days this week travelling in south Lebanon: from the ancient city of Tyre to towns and villages further south and east. It was not possible to visit the border regions, where Israeli forces are warning residents not to return to and, in some cases, are still stationed. But everywhere we could access there were signs of mass return, of cleaning and clearing; a sense of reclamation, but also of grief.
In the city of Tyre, a man appeared to be relaxing in a chair in a first floor room. The outer wall had been blown off, meaning he could gaze out over the corniche and to the sea beyond it.
Driving away from the city, there was still a regular crunch of glass under tyres, and the sight of former buildings turned to a grey mass of rubble. Small villages were lined with destroyed, burned up or dust-covered vehicles and driving on some roads was impossible because of debris littering the ground. Unifil vehicles were spotted moving in various locations – along with the Lebanese army and an international committee, Unifil is tasked with overseeing the terms of the ceasefire agreement, which should see Israeli forces leave Lebanon by January, and Hizbullah withdraw their heavy weaponry above the Litani River.
No electricity, no internet, no water, no life
— Aida Alayan (30)
Aida Alayan (30), had just returned to Bint Jbeil District with her extended family. Their building had separate apartments for her brothers, her and her father, all of which were badly damaged.
“No electricity, no internet, no water, no life,” she lamented.
All the windows in Alayan’s family home were shattered. She was afraid to walk on the balcony in case it collapsed. A round hole, seemingly caused by shrapnel, had been blasted through the concrete on the first floor.
“We came back three days ago,” Alayan said. “My father almost had a heart attack seeing what happened. This is the place I was born, our memories.”
From the front, they looked out over a flattened building – previously a three-floor home – with a second visible down the road. A third was out the back, behind her father, who sat eating oranges with neighbours.
The fresh fruit was a reminder of the importance of South Lebanon as an agricultural region. Oranges, sweet potatoes, lemons, apples and corn are ready for harvesting, locals said, but olives and bananas – in many places – went unpicked until it was too late.
Alayan said all her brothers previously worked abroad: one in Germany, another in Central African Republic. “They sent money to build the house and look what happened. Haram, haram,” she repeated, upset.
Alayan wants to leave Lebanon as soon as possible now. “We don’t believe in the ceasefire, we’re taking our winter clothes.” In other areas, Hizbullah has promised to carry out reconstruction and distribute compensation, but Alayan was worried. “I don’t think someone will help us rebuild the house,” she said.
In Kherbet Selem, about 12km from the Israeli border, only the mosque’s minaret still stands in the centre of the town square, along with a monument, Arabic script etched into it roughly translating as: “Israel is absolute evil”. The buildings around were grey shells – one used to be a house: what was left of its livingroom was still scattered with ornamental animals – a zebra, lion, leopard and deer – and a small statue of a man who looked like Santa Claus.
The town’s name translates as “the ruins of Salem,” but it could also be understood in Arabic as “destruction of the peace”. Its municipality building was destroyed in the final days of the war, according to local mayor Mohamad Rahal.
In an interview organised by Hizbullah, Rahal said 25,000 people lived in Kherbet Selem before the war and “only a few stayed” after the September escalation. Since the ceasefire, “everybody’s back,” apart from around 52 people who were killed.
Those who remained in Kherbet Selem during the war survived by eating food they found in abandoned houses, said Rahal.
Now electricity and water provision is a major problem with the numbers of returnees – a lot of infrastructure was destroyed throughout the bombardment, he said. There are also still bodies under the rubble in some areas. “We will dig them up.”
Khaki green outfits, tents, and sleeping bags were visible in the rubble of the municipality building, along with a sign-in book for workers, and a burst-open safe for storing valuables. The mayor said it was empty when it was hit, “unlike Nabatieh,” a city about 27km away whose mayor was among 16 people killed by Israeli air strikes that reportedly hit the municipality building as they were holding a meeting about aid distribution.
For Hizbullah’s supporters, who frequently cite the massive military support that Israel receives from the US and other western countries, the group’s continued existence at all feels like a victory.
“As long as the resistance is still standing, I feel like there’s dignity. Like all Lebanese, I prefer to continue with the ceasefire but if the Israelis are insisting on fighting then we will fight back as well,” said Rahal.
He said southern Lebanon is “our land ... Because we were born here and raised here, we’re attached to it and we can’t be separated. We’re a nation of people who refuse, we do not agree that anyone will assault us ... You have to defend your own homeland.”
Halfway up a steep road in the same town, 80-year-old Maryam Al Tawel was chatting to her grandson, who sat astride a motorbike. He drove away and she began tearing up. Her son’s car, in front of her, had its windscreen damaged by shrapnel, she said. . “He bought it new.”
Tawel stayed in Beirut for the last two months. “We are very happy to be back ... we hadn’t been to Beirut before, it’s the first time we went there.”
Her house was still standing, but she said: “I lost my glasses,” looking even more upset. Her 83-year-old husband, Ali Mohamed Al Tawel, ambled up. “Even if we are homeless here we would rather live here than in a castle in Beirut,” he interjected.
Visible in many villages across southern Lebanon are tributes to Hizbullah fighters – or “martyrs” – killed by Israel over the last year. Their posters are on walls and buildings: one had even been turned into a perforated decal on a car’s back window.
The last week has seen a rush of funerals, after the bodies of people killed during the war were released from temporary cemeteries or storage places. Some funerals – such as in Majdal Selm and Braasheet this week – saw burials of more than 20 people at a time. In Souaneh, hundreds of people gathered on Tuesday at a funeral for five Hizbullah fighters killed over the previous few months. As many as 23 fighters from the village died in total, locals said.
Huda Hamadi’s son Hamza was among them – the 33-year-old was killed on September 29th. “I’m proud of him, he put my head in the sky,” she said. “I will meet him in paradise. We don’t believe in this life, we are waiting for the afterlife.”
Hamadi encouraged her son to become a fighter: he joined when he was just 15. “I wanted him to be like his brother,” she said. Hamza’s brother is still alive.
Fakhreh Bassel (75) said her nephew, Abbas Sultan, was killed in the final days of the war. Sultan was 40 – a good man, she said, who used to visit her every day, “like his brothers, helping us. I wish for him to be in paradise, God be with us.”
For most of her life, Bassel said the Israelis had been their “enemies. Every 10 to 15 years they destroy our villages. They hate us.”
The funeral seemed like a chance for Hizbullah’s supporters to reaffirm their support for the group.
Hizbullah is a political party and a social movement, as well as a militia recognised as a terrorist organisation by the US and others. Its support comes mostly from Shia Muslims, who make up about one third of Lebanon’s population. In the country’s last elections, Hizbullah won 13 seats of 128.
“Israel destroyed our villages, all the roads, they broke the mosque,” Hizbullah MP Ali Fayyad told media in advance of the funeral. The more recent actions of Israeli forces do “not belong to a ceasefire” and “we consider that we have the right to defend ourselves,” he said.
Five coffins, draped in Hizbullah’s yellow and green, were unloaded from vehicles. Mourners wailed and threw purple petals. The dead were carried to a stage, where prayers and readings commenced.
Behind the gender-segregated crowd, a man punched a generator in anger. “Where are you, God?” he cried. His brother-in-law was among the dead.
When the ceremony ended, the coffins were carried along the village’s winding paths to the cemetery. From a vehicle up ahead, announcers with microphones led the procession in chants and prayers, their voices echoing across the hills around them. One, a man in a khaki uniform, was missing his right hand – an injury suggesting he may have been a victim of Israel’s exploding pager attacks in September.
The announcers called out support for Hizbullah, and “death” to Israel and America, though the response of the mourners seemed muted. More residents, including women holding babies, stood outside their homes, crying, as the crowd passed by.
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