The road to the village of Qantara is a graveyard of concrete and rust. Bulldozers have pushed homes into piles of rubble, their twisted rebar reaching for the sky like skeletal fingers. A water tanker, part of a humanitarian convoy, kicks up dust as it passes what used to be a school. The only sound is the crunch of tires on broken asphalt. This is southern Lebanon, under Israeli occupation — and I'm one of the few journalists to see it.
Ghost towns and a humanitarian crisis
The villages of Qantara, Marjayoun, and Al-Khiam are no longer places where people live. They are military zones. Israeli flags fly over empty municipal buildings. Soldiers patrol streets where children once played. The UN estimates that 35,000 Lebanese civilians have been displaced since the occupation began six months ago. Aid groups warn of a looming health crisis — water systems destroyed, hospitals stripped of equipment, and only a trickle of supplies getting through.
I travelled with a convoy organized by the Lebanese Red Cross, one of the few humanitarian operations allowed to move in this area. The Israeli military grants access sporadically, and only under strict conditions. No cameras on certain roads. No interviews with locals. We were told we could observe the delivery of water and food to the remaining residents — mostly elderly, too stubborn or too frail to flee.
“They come at night. They take the young men. We hear gunshots. In the morning, there is a new checkpoint.” — A woman in Al-Khiam, who asked not to be named
The occupation, up close
This isn't a temporary military incursion. Israel has set up checkpoints, installed administrative offices, and — according to Lebanese officials — begun surveying land for potential settlements. The Israeli government calls it a “security zone,” a buffer against Hezbollah. But what I saw looked like annexation.
In Marjayoun, a town that once had 10,000 residents, fewer than 500 remain. The main square is now an Israeli military compound, ringed by concrete barriers and razor wire. A soldier waved us through with a bored flick of his wrist. “Don't stop,” our driver muttered. “They shoot first, ask later.”
The destruction is not limited to buildings. The economy has collapsed. Farmers cannot reach their fields, which lie on the other side of a new fence. The local market is closed. Even the gas station — a vital lifeline — was demolished after a dispute over fuel supplies. The Lebanese Red Cross says they are running on reserves, and those won't last another month.
The politics of silence
The international community has been muted. The UN Security Council has issued statements — words, always words — but no action. The United States, Israel's closest ally, has called for “restraint” while continuing to provide military aid. Arab nations have condemned the occupation, but offer little beyond rhetoric. Hezbollah, meanwhile, has threatened retaliation but so far refrained from full-scale conflict. The result is a frozen war, with civilians paying the price.
During a brief stop in Qantara, I met a man named Abbas who refused to leave his home, even as the walls around him crumbled. “This is my land. My grandfather planted these olive trees,” he said, pointing to a grove now scarred by tank tracks. “They want us to run. I will not give them that satisfaction.” He lives on canned food and rainwater. His only company is a stray dog that showed up after the last bombing.
What comes next?
The Israeli military says the occupation is temporary, but no timeline has been given. Lebanese officials fear it could become permanent, like the Golan Heights. The humanitarian situation deteriorates by the day. Winter is coming, and without fuel for heating or clean water, the death toll from exposure and disease may soon exceed the combat deaths.
I left with the convoy as dusk fell. The last image I saw was a child — maybe seven years old — standing alone on a pile of rubble, waving at the truck. Not at us, but at the truck itself, as if hoping it might be carrying something other than water. Maybe hope. Maybe escape.
The occupation of southern Lebanon is not a headline. It's a slow, grinding reality for thousands of people who wake up every day to find another piece of their lives erased. And the world? The world is looking the other way.
