In a ruined Hezbollah stronghold, supporters question the costs of war
The bodies were laid out in long rows, hundreds of them, mostly fighters but civilians too, in plywood boxes poking out from heaps of earth.
“It’s our culture to view this as a victory,” said Mahmoud, a police officer, standing by the grave of a relative and tracing the outline of the coffins with his finger. “But anyone who tells you that we won militarily … something has gone wrong in their head.” Like others in this story, Mahmoud spoke on the condition that he be identified by his first name, fearing retribution from Hezbollah.
The ceasefire in Lebanon that came into force last week was spun by the Iranian-backed militant group as a triumph over Israel, but among its supporters — now getting a first glimpse of their devastated villages — the sense of loss is overwhelming. After more than a year of cross-border fire between the Israeli military and Hezbollah, which began its attacks on Oct. 8, 2023, in solidarity with Hamas, Israel ramped up its aerial campaign in late September and sent ground troops across the border soon after, laying waste to much of southern Lebanon.
The first stop for many returning families was to makeshift graveyards like this one in Tyre, where women wailed over their loved ones as they ran their hands through the dirt. With the Israeli military still holding its positions inside Lebanon, and civilians warned to stay away from communities close to the border, many of the dead are still in temporary resting places, awaiting final burial.
Large swaths of this ancient Phoenician city have been reduced to ruin after more than a month of Israeli airstrikes. In Tyre, and in many of the dozens of predominantly Shiite villages across southern Lebanon, Hezbollah exercises tacit control and enjoys broad popular support, due in large part to its social welfare network. While Israel said its military campaign was focused on dismantling the group’s military infrastructure, locals believe it was also aimed at punishing its supporters.
“With some strikes they just wanted to inflict harm, that is all,” said Abed Raee, standing near what was left of a law office leveled by an Israeli strike last month. A contractor, Raee was hired by the legal firm to pull books from the rubble and to try to recover the company’s safe, which was trapped between floors. “They knew this building was empty, but as it went on, they clearly just wanted to damage the shape of the city,” he said.
Raee was among the few who resisted evacuation orders and stayed in Tyre as the war grew more intense. “We were parallel to Haifa,” he said, referring to the Israeli port city. “Every time there was a missile or artillery attack on Haifa, Israel would hit back here.”
Across the street, Jafaar Hachem was returning to his apartment for the first time. While his building appeared to be structurally sound, there was no water or electricity. Tyre’s main water pumping station was hit by an Israeli airstrike on Nov. 18, one of dozens of strikes that damaged civilian infrastructure across the south.
“In the last 20 days or so, they were hitting places like this just to send a message,” said Hachem, an engineer. “Anyone who has a conscience would be supportive of the resistance because of this savagery,” he added, in a reference to Hezbollah. The war, he said, was “building hate against [Israel] for 100 years to come.”
The United Nations has estimated there is more than 8 million tons of rubble in Lebanon’s two southern districts and that the cost of rebuilding will run into the billions. On Tyre’s main shopping thoroughfare, dust and soot covered every surface. A site hit by Israel 30 minutes before the ceasefire went into effect was still burning.
Hezbollah is eager to prove that despite its heavy losses, and the widespread devastation in areas it had pledged to protect, it remains the dominant authority on the ground — and can still provide for its constituents. Cleanup efforts began in Tyre almost as soon as the fighting stopped, and Hezbollah is holding daily press tours in the area.
On Friday, the group allowed The Washington Post to attend a funeral for slain fighters. Representatives from Hezbollah led a convoy of reporters to the scene but did not monitor their interviews or movements.
In Maarakeh, which translates to “battle,” hundreds of villagers gathered to throw rice and flowers on the coffins of young militants. Many of the fighters, normally stoic, had tears in their eyes as they carried the caskets. Some locals wondered openly what the men had died for.
“I was deceived by all of their promises,” said Kamal, a chef, standing in the middle of the solemn procession. “A lot us were.” He had always supported Hezbollah, he said. Now, he just wants to get his children out of the country.
“I was promised they would destroy Tel Aviv, but none of this happened. Hezbollah is also still here, so this will just happen again in 10 or 15 years,” Kamal said.
The road from Tyre stretches inland through the southern villages of Ain Baal, Qana and Tebnine, revealing scenes of ruin at every turn. Buildings pancaked by airstrikes line the streets; cars piled high with mattresses snake through traffic. Gas stations are destroyed, power cables down.
Abed al Malik, 28, was helping his mother sweep the glass out of her damaged pharmacy in Tebnine. “We are trying to salvage what we can,” he said, as he picked up a charred pacifier and tossed it into the trash pile.
“Hopefully, this is the last war,” he said. “We can’t handle anymore.”
The strike that damaged the pharmacy had targeted the building next door, which Malik said had housed a small mosque at the front, with apartments and a toy store farther back.
While residents in Beirut’s southern suburbs told The Post that Hezbollah officials have begun assessing the damage to buildings and promising compensation, none of the dozens of home and business owners interviewed in Tyre and the surrounding villages said they had been approached by the group. Yet most were confident that Hezbollah would come through for them in the end.
“It’s early,” said Mohamad al Amin, 30, whose building in Tyre was destroyed. “It’s the most difficult phase, but we’re certain they will help us.”
Still, he added, happiness over the ceasefire was quickly giving way to anxiety: “Now we start wondering what happens next, and that feeling just keeps getting worse.”
Source » msn
