Last Saturday an Israeli air strike, at lunchtime and without warning, destroyed a building where a family displaced by the war were sheltering in a town in southern Lebanon called Saksakiyeh. A ceasefire, announced last month, has failed to stop the conflict between Israel and Hezbollah, the Shia Muslim armed group. In this part of the country, Israel's attacks come day and night.
When I arrived, rescuers had already ended their search. At the top of the rubble a man looked at the devastation in silence. Neighbours had recovered a kids' bicycle, damaged, and a purple teddy bear, which was covered with dust.
Nine people were killed there. The Israeli military said it had targeted Hezbollah members who were operating from a building that was being used for military purposes, and that they had posed an "immediate threat". It did not give details. Relatives said the victims were a woman in her 70s, a son and his wife, another son, her four grandchildren, and her great-granddaughter, who was two years old. (The Israeli military said it was "reviewing reports regarding harm to uninvolved civilians".)
As the sun set, I was told by residents to leave. "That's when things get active in the sky," one of them said.
Southern Lebanon is the heartland of the country's Shia community, from which Hezbollah gets most of its support, and has been under constant Israeli bombardment. And Hezbollah, the militia and political party backed by Iran, has carried out rocket and drone attacks on northern Israel and against Israeli troops that invaded during the war and remain in Lebanon.
I visited towns and villages in Lebanon's south in the past two weeks. Countless buildings have been destroyed, and streets remain deserted as residents are reluctant or unable to return. Some of the people I met were exhausted from constant wars but, as the Israeli attacks and occupation continued, many still believed Hezbollah was the only force capable of defending them.
Arab Salim is a village of narrow alleys surrounded by lush hills. Like most communities in the south, posters hanging on walls and from lamp-posts celebrate fighters killed in battle. From a pre-war population of around 6,000 people, only a tenth is estimated to be there. (We had to co-ordinate our travel to southern Lebanon with Hezbollah's media office; the group did not interfere in our reporting.)
On my drive, I passed the wreckage of a pick-up truck that had been hit by an Israeli air strike a couple of hours earlier. At all times, an Israeli drone flew overhead; occasionally, I could also hear Israeli fighter jets and the sound of explosions in the distance.
Life appeared to be on hold. The main street was still decorated for Ramadan, and almost all houses seemed abandoned. The village was quiet, but not in peace. Near the mosque, I met two cousins, Fatmeh and Dunya, both in their 80s. Outside, a banner paid tribute to the late Hezbollah leader, Hassan Nasrallah, killed by Israel in 2024. "We've witnessed many wars. But we've never left," Fatmeh said. "Whatever happens we thought we'd die in our homes rather than leave."
More than one million people have been displaced across Lebanon, or one in five of the population, most of them from the south, the eastern Bekaa Valley, and the southern suburbs of Beirut known as Dahieh, areas where Hezbollah holds sway. Many are still living in tents in streets and squares. "They're being humiliated," Dunya told me. I asked the pair how they felt with the constant presence of Israeli drones. "I can't lie, I get a bit afraid," Fatmeh said. "But then my nerves get steady... We're counting on God."
Down the road, Hussein Haydar, who was 56, had stayed with his wife, son and one-year-old grandson. "When we hear bombs, we start laughing around him," Haydar told me. "He thinks it's a game when he sees us laughing." A Hezbollah flag had been put on what was left of the façade of his grocery, destroyed after an Israeli air strike hit the building next door last month. Haydar was slightly wounded in the attack. "The community supports Hezbollah because they're defending us," he said. "They're the only ones keeping us on our land."
While we met, the Israeli military issued evacuation warnings for three villages nearby, often an indication that an attack is imminent. I left shortly afterwards. The air strikes came about half an hour later.
Hezbollah, or Party of God in Arabic, was created in the 1980s during Israel's occupation of Lebanon in the Lebanese civil war. From its beginning, the group has been financed, trained and armed by Iran, and the destruction of Israel remains one of its official goals. The latest escalation in their conflict started when Hezbollah fired rockets into Israel on 2 March, following the killing of the Iranian supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, as the US and Israel launched a war on Iran. Israel responded with widespread air strikes across Lebanon and another invasion of the country's south.
On 16 April, US President Donald Trump announced a ceasefire between Israel and Lebanon. Hezbollah, which is designated as a terrorist organisation by countries including the US and the UK, was not officially involved, but indicated it would abide by the deal if it was observed by Israel. The respite was short lived. Within days, Israel resumed its air strikes, mainly in the south, accusing Hezbollah of violations. Hezbollah, then, returned to its attacks on Israel and against Israeli troops in Lebanon.
Since the start of the war, at least 2,800 people have been killed in Lebanon, according to the country's health ministry, more than 400 of them after truce came into force. (The ministry does not distinguish combatants from civilians.) Israeli authorities say 18 soldiers and four civilians have been killed in the war.
The strip of land occupied by Israel in southern Lebanon constitutes around 5% of the country's territory and, in some places, extends 10km (six miles) from the border. There, as it did in Gaza, Israel has flattened entire villages with air strikes and demolitions. Israel's military says the buildings have been used by Hezbollah; human rights groups say the deliberate destruction of civilian infrastructure could be a war crime.
The authorities in Israel say the goal is to create what they describe as a security zone along the border, Hezbollah-free, to protect the country's northern communities from the group's rockets and drones and a possible ground invasion. Last year, the Israeli military said Hezbollah had developed a plan called "Conquer the Galilee" that included a large-scale cross-border attack like the one carried out by Hamas on southern Israel on 7 October 2023, which led to Israel's devastating response in Gaza.
I visited a checkpoint of the Lebanese military near the occupied town of Khiam (Lebanon's national army is not a party to the conflict). The road had been blocked with a large garbage container and tyres. Half-a-dozen soldiers were positioned a little farther behind, next to an abandoned petrol station. As I walked towards the barrier, one of them stopped me. Israeli troops, he said, were in houses at the top of the hill that overlooked their base and had frequently fired in their direction. He warned me they could fire again if I got closer. I turned back.
Weakened, Hezbollah is isolated domestically, and the Lebanese President, Joseph Aoun, has vowed to disarm it. Hezbollah's arsenal has long divided this country but the group's leader, Naim Qassem, rejects giving up its weapons. Aoun, a former army chief, says this cannot be done by force, warning of the risks of alienating the Shia community and exacerbating tensions in a country divided by sects.
Opponents accuse Hezbollah of dragging Lebanon into unwanted wars and of defending the interests of Iran - the group is part of a regional alliance Tehran calls the "Axis of Resistance". Hezbollah supporters say the group is their only protection against Israel, which they see as an enemy intent on capturing Lebanese land. But even some of them were against the decision to attack Israel after Khamenei's killing. (Open criticism is still rare but, last year, I met some supporters who appeared to be questioning some long-held views.)
In Lebanon, however, Hezbollah is more than a militia. It is also a political party represented in parliament and in the government, and a social movement that runs services including schools and hospitals in areas where the state has been absent. For a community historically marginalised, the group is an essential part in their lives and identity.
I drove to the coastal city of Tyre, the largest in the south and one of the world's oldest. Hezbollah flags - bright yellow, with a hand holding an assault rifle in the centre - lined the main road. Next to a roundabout, a field had become a makeshift cemetery for fighters. Pictures of men in uniform remembered those who had been killed while the open graves waited for the losses to come.
In the city centre, near the Mediterranean waterfront, I met a man called Rida Hijazi as a bulldozer removed broken concrete and twisted metal from collapsed buildings. As a child, Hijazi lived in Tyre under Israeli occupation; at 52, he has seen it being attacked by Israel in the conflicts of 2006, the one that started in 2023, and this year. "These wars have affected us deeply," Hijazi said. "We were people who had money. Now, we've fallen below zero."
A massive Israeli bombardment, minutes before the ceasefire was due to start, destroyed his house and business, and killed his brother and a dozen of his neighbours. All civilians, he said. (The Israeli military said it had no comment.) "We've always supported Hezbollah because I grew up in this environment and saw things for myself. They were created to defend the land. Who is Hezbollah? It's me, you, and her," Hijazi told me, pointing to my colleague.
Polls suggest most Lebanese want Hezbollah to disarm, but Hijazi told me the group, for now, could not lay down its arms. "As long as Lebanon is under occupation or under threat," he said, "we can't trust anyone."
Additional reporting by Angie Mrad, Riam El Dalati, Samantha Granville and Neha Sharma
