Is our home safe? Is it rubble? For displaced Lebanese, anguished uncertainty.
| Tyre and Beirut, Lebanon
Displaced by war but hungry for home, Faiz Hilal鈥檚 family squeezed into their decades-old car and drove from relative safety in eastern Lebanon to their apartment near the southern Lebanese port city of Tyre 鈥� only to find their street wrecked by Israeli airstrikes.
They were undeterred by the piles of rubble and mangled metal, and cleared a dust-free path through the ground-floor car park. They hung their washing lines, and made one room habitable for their family of six.
Buoyed by hope that a fragile ceasefire will hold in Lebanon between Israel and the Iran-backed Hezbollah militia, the Hilal family is making a calculated gamble faced by many of the 1.2 million Lebanese residents forced from their homes by two months of war.
Why We Wrote This
Lebanese people displaced by war have been on an emotional roller coaster. A ceasefire has been extended, but fighting in the south hasn鈥檛 ended. Even as families yearning for home prepare to return, despite the uncertainty, they are warned not to take the risk.
In the wide spectrum of circumstances of Lebanon鈥檚 displaced, each family or individual must decide whether the risks of returning 鈥� whether their home still exists, and is accessible 鈥� outweigh the deprivations of continued displacement.
Part of the equation is that the Israeli army, in a bid to prevent both Hezbollah attacks and residents鈥� returns, now occupies a six-plus-mile-deep swath of southern Lebanon, thereby cutting off some 67 towns, which it continues to systematically demolish.
Mr. Hilal鈥檚 family reckons that Israel鈥檚 airstrikes against Hezbollah targets won鈥檛 resume in full force, and that coming 鈥渉ome鈥� to rubble is preferable to sleeping on the streets elsewhere.
鈥淲e came back to the same house, but lost everything in it,鈥� says Mr. Hilal, a laborer, pointing with a work glove to the single wire that provides electricity as he carries coils of plastic pipe for water. On the street, beside cars destroyed by explosions, city workers fix power cables. Some say a Hezbollah office was nearby.
鈥淵es, we are scared, but we need a place,鈥� says Mr. Hilal. 鈥淲e overcome our fear, to stay.鈥�
The latest war in Lebanon began on March 2, when Hezbollah launched rockets into northern Israel to avenge the assassination in Tehran, days earlier, of Iran鈥檚 supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei.
After 46 days of battle, U.S. President Donald Trump brokered a 10-day ceasefire, then extended it an additional three weeks. The result has been an emotional roller coaster for Lebanon鈥檚 displaced.
Back-and-forth migration
When the ceasefire extension was announced late last week, for example, convoys of vehicles with mattresses tied on top drove south along the coastal road from the capital, Beirut, past a billboard near the city of Sidon that read: 鈥淭his land is ours. We are on our way back.鈥�
But Hezbollah had been warning people not to return yet to the Shiite militia鈥檚 strongholds in Beirut鈥檚 southern suburbs, or to southern Lebanon, where it has had forward positions.
鈥淲hy are they going back? Just so they can get hit again next week?鈥� says one resident of the southern Beirut neighborhood of Dahiyeh, as he observed the traffic moving south. 鈥淭he Israelis are hitting everything.
鈥淗ezbollah is begging people, 鈥楧on鈥檛 go [south]! It鈥檚 not finished,鈥欌�� he says. 鈥淗ezbollah is going door to door every night in Dahiyeh, saying, 鈥榃hat are you doing here? The war is not done.鈥�
Indeed, early this week, a reverse migration began, clogging highways from southern Lebanon north toward Sidon and Beirut, after Israel declared an evacuation zone and stepped up attacks in some southern districts.
鈥淎s you can see, everyone has already left. This is the third round since March 2,鈥� says Shafik Fouani, medical director at the Nabatiyeh Hospital in southern Lebanon, of people who had returned from Beirut, then were gone again.
鈥淧eople act like that because this is their land, and they don鈥檛 want to wait in Sidon or somewhere else for one second longer than they have to,鈥� Mr. Fouani says. As he spoke at the hilltop medical complex, smoke could be seen from Israeli airstrikes to the southwest. The sound of occasional demolition blasts echoed as well.
Returnees had hoped to take advantage of spring weather to plant tomatoes and other vegetables, said Mr. Fouani. The hospital prepared to 鈥渙nly work with war injuries again,鈥� he says.
鈥淚 don鈥檛 understand what is happening 鈥� nobody does,鈥� says Mr. Fouani. 鈥淭his is not a ceasefire, because Israel is not stopping its bombing or airstrikes.鈥� Hezbollah, too, has retaliated and caused Israeli casualties, especially with drones.
鈥淲e can鈥檛 lose hope鈥�
Heeding the call not to return are those living on mattresses on the balcony level of the Lebanese National Theater in Beirut, which was renovated by the TIRO Association for Arts in 2025 and has opened its doors, once again.
The cinema is one of three run by TIRO in Tyre, Beirut, and Tripoli, in northern Lebanon, which housed 150 displaced people at the peak of the conflict. In Beirut, the number has dropped from 40 to 16 or so, but many more come for daily movies at 4 p.m., daily drawing at 1 p.m., and stage performances at night.
Before one recent performance of 鈥淲aiting for Hope,鈥� almost entirely performed by displaced residents, scores of children and adults laughed and played 鈥� temporarily forgetting their worries 鈥� as they waited for the curtain to rise. One recent event attracted 600 displaced children.
鈥溾�榃aiting for Hope鈥� has the message that we can鈥檛 lose hope for the country, for the future,鈥� says TIRO founder Kassem Istanbouli, who led the theater鈥檚 renovations.
鈥淭he cinema has a lot of respect from the displaced,鈥� he says. 鈥淚t is important to support the children, to give joy to them, to give them the stage and movies.鈥�
The Israel-Hezbollah wars since late 2023 have taken the lives of a half-dozen members of TIRO, including Amal al-Khalil, a close friend of Mr. Istanbouli and a well-known Lebanese journalist, who was killed during Israeli strikes last week.
One family left the Beirut theater last week to return to the south, but came back immediately after seeing the state of their house 鈥� and its proximity to the fighting.
Their home 鈥渄oesn鈥檛 exist anymore鈥�
Not even bothering to return south is the 14-member family of Salah Sheet, from the majority-Shiite village of Kfar Kila, which abuts the Israeli border to the south and east. The family has seen videos posted by Israeli soldiers on social media that show wholesale destruction of their village, houses, and olive groves.
鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 exist anymore,鈥� says Mr. Sheet, when asked about his house. 鈥淭hey even bulldozed the cemetery.鈥�
He is sitting in a semi-sturdy shelter made of pallet boards and tarps, with solar panels charging phones, and a makeshift kitchen attached. Family and friends come in and out. They are on a large paved space near the Beirut shore, surrounded by scores of other tents and hundreds of displaced people, including 40 from Kfar Kila.
A cardboard sign hung outside reads, 鈥淜far Kila welcomes you.鈥� Inside, a drawing on the tarp wall includes the shape of a window 鈥� meant to symbolize a window back to their home village.
Israeli officials say they will occupy southern Lebanon 鈥渋ndefinitely鈥� 鈥� similar to Israel Defense Forces鈥� control of a self-declared 鈥渟ecurity zone鈥� in the south from 1982 to 2000 鈥� spurring debate in Israel over whether such a policy is effective.
Looting by Israeli soldiers across the zone is widespread, according to reports in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz. Those reports prompted the IDF鈥檚 chief of staff, Lt. Gen. Eyal Zamir, this week to reject the looting as a 鈥渄isgrace鈥� and a 鈥渕oral stain on the entire military.鈥�
Haaretz also reports that, as a military priority, directly fighting Hezbollah has given way to rendering southern Lebanon uninhabitable.
鈥淭he only mission is to continue the destruction. ... There is no other mission,鈥� one Israeli officer told Haaretz, which added that the IDF 鈥渂elieves this systematic destruction of Shiite villages will prevent villagers from returning home.鈥�
That is the conclusion reached by Mr. Sheet, who says his Lebanese family will, nonetheless, never give up their land. Over the years, his family has lost a dozen members who fought with Hezbollah. Above his left elbow, the word for God is written with a tattoo that he made himself 鈥� with three needles bound together, and a bottle of ink 鈥� more than 30 years ago.
He says the name of his wife, Ikhlas, is 鈥渢attooed on my heart鈥� 鈥� a line delivered with a big laugh, that makes Ikhlas laugh out loud, too.
Everyone smiles as the sea breeze keeps the shelter cool in the hot morning sun. Mr. Sheet鈥檚 daughter Nour says she misses home, and 鈥渢he martyrs, and my toys.鈥� And her school.
鈥淭his is very regretful, to see this destruction. We are not Gaza here,鈥� says Mr. Sheet. 鈥淲e will get every piece of sand and dirt, every piece of our land. We will go back. We will resist to the last.鈥�
