From their site on a hill in southern Lebanon, grave diggers watched black smoke billow from an opposing road. Just a kilometer away, Israeli soldiers were blowing up buildings on Lebanese soil, under the newly planted Israeli flag.
A few days before the end of the war in Lebanon, its fall seemed inevitable. Israeli soldiers were concentrating their positions in the occupied south while Hezbollah members are preparing for the next round of fighting in the areas they still control. In the cemetery in his village of Majdal Zoun, men dig 20 graves – nine of Hezbollah soldiers who have already been killed, the rest are those who are expected to die in the upcoming battles.
“Just listen to the sky above us,” said one of the men, Muhammad Ali, 50, as the sound of an Israeli jet was heard. “This war is not over yet.”
When the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel ended on April 16, an uneasy peace prevailed in southern Lebanon, a region hit by the latest war.
Thousands of people displaced from the south filled the highways and returned to their homes. But unlike the last wars between Hezbollah and Israel in 2006 and 2024, this was not a homecoming or a self-proclaimed celebration of Hezbollah’s victory. The temporary suspension gave people just a moment to survey the damage and search for the summer clothes they had left behind.
As the collapse of Israeli houses echoed through the hills, the highway was once again filled with traffic – this time driving north.
Now, the initial ceasefire has opened up a heated conflict in southern Lebanon, leaving the country vulnerable to an endless war again.
My colleagues and I traveled through southern Lebanon in the first 10 days of the deal, including the northern edge of the so-called “yellow line,” a new border declared by Israel that separates the area of Lebanon now under Israeli control from the rest of the country. We spoke to rescue workers, municipal workers, returning residents and a few left behind during the war that broke out after Hezbollah, an Iranian-backed terrorist group, opened fire on Israel in coordination with Tehran.
This was Hezbollah’s second major war with Israel in two years, also in Lebanon returning to the south, there was dissatisfaction with the leadership of the party. A consensus appeared to be emerging among the Shiite Muslims who form Hezbollah’s base of support that they need a new political party in Lebanon, a country with a mix of political and social sects.
But their frustration stopped until Hezbollah’s abandonment. With Israel announcing plans to capture government forces in the south and Lebanon making no move to fight Israeli forces, people see Hezbollah fighters as their only hope to keep their homes and land.
“What is this life?” Zeinab Baz, 53, cried when she came to the other side a lot of wire and twisted metal, all that was left in his house. “Everything good is gone.”
Homecoming
Returning home after weeks of war had become an unpleasant ritual for those returning to the south. Many were displaced before, when the war with Israel last escalated in 2024, and returned when that conflict ended and rebuilt their damaged homes.
When Hezbollah opened fire on Israel in March, many among its base of support questioned whether the latest flare-up was worth the cost. And in the south, those costs were evident.
Among the orange groves and olive groves were scattered villages that had been completely milled. Every floor of the building, its walls blown away by the wind, leaned on its sides against waist-high mounds of steel blocks and hanging ropes. Outside the row of shuttered shops, two abandoned brown horses stood awkwardly in the parking lot.
At a cemetery in the coastal city of Tyre, one woman, Suheila, 54, searched for a makeshift grave for her son, Hussein, a Hezbollah fighter killed in the battle. When he found it – marked by a picture of himself propped up on a cinder block – he fell to his knees and began pounding the hard ground with both hands. For him, there was no illusion that the ceasefire was a victory for the Shiites of Lebanon, protected by Hezbollah’s backer, Iran.
“What is this victory?” cried Suheila, who gave only her first name, citing security reasons. “What is this victory, Hussein?”
A few kilometers from Qasmiyeh, Farida Ali Awila beamed as she sat beside a gas station and waited to check on her home in the Shiite village of Touline.
Beside him, a member of Hezbollah handed out leaflets to passing cars showing Mojtaba Khamenei, Iran’s new supreme leader, that drivers could display triumphantly on their windshields.
Mrs. Awila watched in silence for a few minutes. Then his anger roared.
“We lost many men, they died for what? For whom? Iran?” he shouted. “Iran is making deals behind our backs and our men are dying for them?”
The posters were part of the group’s effort to give credit for the Iran deal. But they were also among the most public acknowledgments of the group’s loyalty to Tehran, which has held the heaviest hand in Hezbollah’s operations since its former leader, Hassan Nasrallah, was assassinated by Israel in 2024.
His successor, Naim Qassem, does not inspire the same loyalty among Lebanese Shiites as Mr. Nasrallah once did. The other main Shiite political group, the Amal Movement, commands less popular support and influence. Many Shiites longed for a strong political leader to represent them during a war few thought would only be won on the battlefield.
Under Mr. Nasrallah, “it was like we were asleep, but we knew someone was watching over us,” said Khadija Ramez Ghozyel, 60, in Qlaileh, a town near the country’s Mediterranean coast.
Now Hezbollah fighters, he said, “are the only ones we have” to protect the Shiites in the south.
Hezbollah’s Heartland
That sentiment was widespread throughout the southern countries, which are predominantly Shiite Muslims and strongly support Hezbollah. The signs of group access are many. Billboards of slain fighters line the streets, with portraits of men in uniform placed amid bright yellow Hezbollah flags. After the deal went into effect, hundreds gathered each day in cities to mourn Hezbollah fighters killed in the war.
Ambulances arrived in towns with the bodies of soldiers and civilians, which were kept in morgues or makeshift cemeteries. As paramedics opened their back doors, giving mourners one last glimpse of their loved ones, women jumped into cars and threw themselves over the bodies.
“They were heroes, they were protecting us,” said Rehab Tamara, 43, in Haloousiyeh, five miles inland, where she and hundreds of other residents gathered Saturday for the funeral of three Hezbollah fighters.
For years, Hezbollah positioned itself as the protector of the Shiite community in Lebanon, providing peacetime social services and promoting the political and economic interests of one of the country’s most marginalized groups. But as in the stakes In the latest coalition war, Shiite reliance on Hezbollah for physical protection has been at the fore.
The Israeli army has taken control of the newly occupied strip that runs six kilometers south of Lebanon. Lebanese government forces withdrew from much of the south after the outbreak of war, and while the government still follows the political decision, it has little influence over Israel.
“We have a government but we want a government to protect us, and not just let Israel do whatever it wants,” said Fatima Mowamis, 70, standing near her home in Haloousiyeh.
Israel has continued to launch strikes on what it describes as Hezbollah targets, citing terms of the agreement that allow Israel to defend itself. Hezbollah has responded by firing rockets at Israel and Israeli troops in Lebanon, while reiterating that it will not lay down its weapons.
“I don’t feel safe at all,” said Hanan Hamze, 46, standing on a hill in Majdal Zoun.
A week after the undertakers had prepared the graves, hundreds of villagers flocked to the top of the mountain to bury their loved ones. Many look in disbelief at the Israeli flag on the other side.
“It looks like the war will start again,” said Ms.
Hwaida Saad again Sarah Chaayto reporting contributed.
