They're the only ones keeping us on our land.
In the villages and rubble of southern Lebanon, a ceasefire that lasted only days has given way to a war that never truly ended — Israeli airstrikes continue, Hezbollah rockets still cross the border, and more than a million people have been displaced from their homes. Yet among those who remain in the Shia heartland, support for Hezbollah endures not as ideology alone, but as something closer to survival instinct — a conviction, forged through generations of occupation and war, that no other force stands between them and erasure. Lebanon's new president seeks disarmament; Hezbollah refuses; and the nation, already fractured, holds its breath between exhaustion and necessity.
- A Saturday airstrike in Saksakiyeh killed nine members of one family — including a two-year-old — weeks after a ceasefire was supposed to have ended the killing.
- More than 400 people have died since the April truce collapsed, and Israeli jets and drones now operate almost constantly over southern Lebanon while Hezbollah continues firing across the border.
- Over one million Lebanese — roughly one in five — have been displaced, with entire neighborhoods erased and communities hollowed out to a fraction of their former populations.
- Residents who remain in the south, exhausted and fearful, still hang Hezbollah flags on the ruins of their storefronts and describe the group as the only force keeping them on their land.
- Lebanon's president is pushing for Hezbollah disarmament, but the group's leader has refused, and those living under occupation warn that forcing the issue risks tearing the country apart along sectarian lines.
The search had already ended by the time the reporter arrived in Saksakiyeh. An airstrike had flattened a building where a family had taken shelter after losing their home to the war. Nine people were dead — a grandmother, her sons and their wives, four grandchildren, and a great-granddaughter who was two years old. A child's bicycle and a dust-caked teddy bear lay in the rubble. Residents told the reporter to leave before nightfall. "That's when things get active in the sky," one said.
A ceasefire announced in April had promised to end the fighting between Israel and Hezbollah. It lasted days. More than a month later, Israeli jets and drones operate overhead almost constantly, and Hezbollah continues firing rockets and drones across the border. The war that was supposed to stop has simply resumed.
In Arab Salim, a village where only about 600 of the original 6,000 residents had stayed, two cousins in their eighties said they had lived through many wars but had never left. "Whatever happens, we thought we'd die in our homes rather than leave," one said. Nearby, a grocer whose shop had been destroyed in an airstrike had hung a Hezbollah flag on what remained of his storefront. "They're the only ones keeping us on our land," he said. Minutes after the conversation ended, evacuation warnings were issued for three nearby villages. The airstrikes arrived thirty minutes later.
More than one million people — roughly one in five Lebanese — have fled their homes since the war began. At least 2,800 have been killed, with more than 400 of those deaths occurring after the ceasefire was supposed to have taken effect. Hezbollah, founded during Israel's occupation of Lebanon in the 1980s and financed by Iran ever since, is more than a militia — it is a political party, a social movement, and for Lebanon's historically marginalized Shia community, an essential part of identity and survival. In the coastal city of Tyre, a man who lost his brother and a dozen neighbors to an Israeli bombardment in the final minutes before the ceasefire was to begin said simply: "Who is Hezbollah? It's me, you, and her."
Lebanon's new president has vowed to disarm the group. Hezbollah's leader has refused. The president himself has warned that forcing the issue could fracture the country along sectarian lines. Polls suggest most Lebanese want Hezbollah to surrender its weapons — but in the south, where the group is woven into the fabric of daily life, that consensus does not hold. The people who remain are caught between exhaustion and necessity, between wanting peace and believing that only Hezbollah stands between them and erasure.
The rubble still smoldered when the rescuers stopped digging. A Saturday afternoon airstrike had flattened a building in Saksakiyeh, a town in southern Lebanon where a family had taken shelter after losing their home to the war. By the time I arrived, the search was over. A man stood at the top of the debris pile, silent. Neighbors had pulled out a child's bicycle, bent and broken, and a purple teddy bear caked in dust. Nine people were dead—a woman in her seventies, her sons and their wives, four grandchildren, and a great-granddaughter who was two years old. The Israeli military said it had struck a building used by Hezbollah operatives who posed an immediate threat. It offered no further explanation. As evening fell, residents told me to leave. "That's when things get active in the sky," one said.
A ceasefire announced in April had promised to end the fighting between Israel and Hezbollah, the Shia armed group that dominates southern Lebanon. It lasted days. Now, more than a month later, Israeli jets and drones operate overhead almost constantly, and Hezbollah continues firing rockets and drones across the border. The war that was supposed to stop has simply resumed, and the people living in the rubble have learned to live with it.
I spent two weeks traveling through southern Lebanon's towns and villages. The scale of destruction is difficult to absorb. Entire blocks have been erased. Streets that should be busy sit empty because most residents have fled or cannot return. Yet in conversations with those who remained, a pattern emerged: exhaustion, yes, but also a stubborn conviction that Hezbollah—despite everything—was the only force capable of protecting them from Israel. In Arab Salim, a village of narrow alleys nestled in green hills, only about 600 of the original 6,000 residents had stayed. Posters on walls and lampposts honored fighters killed in battle. Two cousins in their eighties, Fatmeh and Dunya, told me they had lived through many wars but had never left. "Whatever happens, we thought we'd die in our homes rather than leave," Fatmeh said. When I asked how they felt about the constant Israeli drones overhead, she admitted fear. "But then my nerves get steady," she said. "We're counting on God."
Down the road, Hussein Haydar, fifty-six, had stayed with his wife, son, and one-year-old grandson. His grocery store had been destroyed when an Israeli airstrike hit the building next door, wounding him slightly. He had hung a Hezbollah flag on what remained of his storefront. "The community supports Hezbollah because they're defending us," he told me. "They're the only ones keeping us on our land." While we spoke, the Israeli military issued evacuation warnings for three nearby villages—a signal that attacks were coming. I left shortly after. The airstrikes arrived about thirty minutes later.
The scale of displacement has been staggering. More than one million people—roughly one in five Lebanese—have fled their homes, most from the south, the eastern Bekaa Valley, and Beirut's southern suburbs where Hezbollah's influence is strongest. Many are living in tents in streets and squares. At least 2,800 people have been killed since the war began, according to Lebanon's health ministry, with more than 400 of those deaths occurring after the ceasefire supposedly took effect. The Israeli military reports eighteen soldiers and four civilians killed on its side.
Hezbollah was founded in the 1980s during Israel's occupation of Lebanon and has been financed and armed by Iran ever since. The destruction of Israel remains one of its stated goals. The current escalation began in early March when Hezbollah fired rockets into Israel following the killing of Iran's supreme leader. Israel responded with massive airstrikes across Lebanon and a new invasion of the south. The occupied territory now covers roughly five percent of Lebanon's land, extending up to ten kilometers from the border in some places. Israeli forces have flattened entire villages, a practice human rights groups say may constitute a war crime. Israel's stated objective is to create a security zone free of Hezbollah to protect its northern communities.
Hezbollah is more than a militia. It is a political party with seats in parliament, a social movement running schools and hospitals in areas abandoned by the state, and for Lebanon's historically marginalized Shia community, an essential part of their identity and survival. In the coastal city of Tyre, one of the world's oldest, Hezbollah flags lined the main road. A field near a roundabout had become a makeshift cemetery for fighters, with photographs of the dead and open graves waiting for more. Rida Hijazi, fifty-two, had lived through Israeli occupations and three separate wars. Minutes before the ceasefire was supposed to begin, an Israeli bombardment destroyed his house and business and killed his brother and a dozen neighbors—all civilians, he said. "We've always supported Hezbollah because I grew up in this environment and saw things for myself," he told me. "They were created to defend the land. Who is Hezbollah? It's me, you, and her." He said the group could not lay down its weapons as long as Lebanon remained under occupation or threat.
Lebanon's new president, Joseph Aoun, a former army chief, has vowed to disarm Hezbollah. The group's leader, Naim Qassem, has rejected this demand. Aoun has warned that forcing disarmament could alienate the Shia community and tear the country apart along sectarian lines. Polls suggest most Lebanese want Hezbollah to surrender its weapons, but in the south, where the group is woven into the fabric of daily life, that consensus does not hold. The people I met were caught between exhaustion and necessity, between wanting peace and believing that only Hezbollah stood between them and erasure.
Notable Quotes
Whatever happens, we thought we'd die in our homes rather than leave.— Fatmeh, an 80-year-old resident of Arab Salim
The community supports Hezbollah because they're defending us. They're the only ones keeping us on our land.— Hussein Haydar, a grocer in southern Lebanon
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does support for Hezbollah persist even after a ceasefire fails and the destruction is so visible?
Because for these communities, Hezbollah is not separate from them—it's embedded in their schools, their hospitals, their identity. When Israel occupies your land and bombs your home, the question becomes not whether you like the group, but whether you believe anyone else can protect you.
But doesn't Hezbollah's decision to attack Israel after Khamenei's killing seem reckless to people living there?
Some questioned it, yes. But the calculus is different when you're already under bombardment. The attack didn't start the war—the war was already happening. For many, the real question is whether laying down weapons would bring safety or vulnerability.
The president wants disarmament. How realistic is that?
Not very, at least not soon. Aoun himself has acknowledged the risk of alienating the Shia community. You can't force a population to give up what they see as their only defense without either a genuine peace or a willingness to accept the consequences of sectarian conflict.
What struck you most about the people you met?
Their ordinariness. Fatmeh and Dunya weren't ideologues—they were two elderly women who had simply decided they would rather die at home than flee again. Hussein Haydar was a grocer trying to shield his grandson from the sound of bombs by laughing with him. That's what makes the destruction so difficult to witness.
Is there any sense that this could end?
Not from what I saw. The ceasefire lasted days. The occupation continues. The weapons remain. Everyone is waiting for the next escalation, and in that waiting, the old certainties—that Hezbollah is the only force that will fight—only deepen.