BEIRUT — The Israel-Hezbollah ceasefire is becoming increasingly fragile as casualties mount and the Lebanese government struggles to deliver on its pledge to disarm Hezbollah. What was presented as a critical step toward restoring Lebanon’s sovereignty now risks becoming little more than a mirage.
I sat by the plane’s window as Beirut’s Mediterranean coastline came into view. As we landed, the cabin erupted in applause — a familiar Lebanese tradition celebrating a safe arrival. I joined in, but I wasn’t clapping for the pilot. I was applauding the resilience of passengers returning home despite the constant news of war, destruction and the rising death toll in southern Lebanon.
My first question to the cab driver, as he sped toward my hotel along the virtually empty corniche on a weekend afternoon, with the Mediterranean stretching out beside us, was simple: “How is tourism these days?”
“The corniche is usually bumper-to-bumper on a Saturday. Look at it now — it’s almost empty,” he said. “Westerners are afraid to come, and Gulf countries have warned their citizens against travelling here. We rely heavily on Lebanese living abroad for summer visits and the dollars they bring. It’s all because of the war — it could resume at any moment.”
While more than 800,000 displaced Lebanese people have returned to their homes in the south since the June ceasefire, my driver and his family remain among the hundreds of thousands still internally displaced. They are living in temporary housing, collective shelters or with host families, unable to return to their villages. Tensions there peaked in March after Hezbollah fired missiles at Israel, days after the United States and Israel began attacking Iran.
“Do you think the Lebanese army will be able to disarm Hezbollah, as agreed under the U.S.-brokered deal between Israel and the Lebanese government?” I asked.
“It will never happen. The military does not recruit members based on political affiliation, but more than half of the army is Shiite Muslim. Many of sons serving in the army remain loyal to or sympathize with Hezbollah,” he said.
“The Israelis are demanding what they call verified disarmament of Hezbollah before they withdraw from my village in the south. I’m telling you now — it will never happen. I am a Shiite Muslim myself, and in our religion, we don’t forget blood. We must avenge the deaths of our people in the south, our martyrs will not be forgotten. It stops there.”
Hezbollah was founded in 1982 by Lebanese Shiite clerics, including Hassan Nasrallah, who led the group until his death in an Israeli airstrike in September 2024. His successor, Naim Qassem, has rejected the U.S.-mediated framework, calling it “humiliating.”
Under the terms of the June ceasefire, Hezbollah operatives were required to withdraw entirely from the buffer zone between the Israeli border and the Litani River, while Lebanese security forces were to assume control of designated “pilot zones” in the south that were previously occupied by Israeli forces.
In the southern village of Zawtar al-Gharbiya , where three-quarters of the buildings have been destroyed and there is still no running water or electricity, Lebanese army units have been clearing unexploded ordnance and rubble, working with residents to recover bodies and ensuring that no Hezbollah military presence remains in the area.
The U.S. State Department has maintained that the pilot-zone model is the only viable path toward lasting security for Lebanon, Israel and the wider region. Yet on the ground, skepticism among the locals remains high.
On paper, the agreement signed in Washington by Israel and Lebanon on June 26 marked a historic shift — the first direct agreement between the two countries since 1983. A road map rather than a peace treaty, it recognizes Israel’s sovereignty and the two countries’ right to live in peace. Yet Hezbollah, the central actor in the conflict, was not a signatory, underscoring the gap between the agreement’s diplomatic ambitions and the reality on the ground.
I worked in Lebanon for a year with the International Committee of the Red Cross, visiting refugee camps, conflict zones and prisons. I came to see a troubling pattern: Hezbollah-affiliated suspects rarely faced prolonged detention through Lebanon’s formal justice system. The few Hezbollah prisoners I interviewed were often quickly released on bail or discharged.
Hezbollah is a Shiite Islamist political and paramilitary organization designated as a terrorist group by the United States, Canada and others. Over decades, it has become a state within the state, challenging Lebanon’s sovereignty and its institutions.
Sitting in my hotel room on Aug. 5, I watched news coverage of the three-day peace talks between Lebanese and Israeli diplomats in Rome, where they were negotiating the broader terms of the U.S.-brokered agreement. Then, suddenly, a breaking-news banner flashed across the screen: two Israeli soldiers had been killed and four wounded by an explosive device in southern Lebanon. The Israeli military described the incident as a “blatant violation” by Hezbollah. Israeli airstrikes followed, along with evacuation warnings for villages across southern Lebanon — a stark reminder of just how fragile the ceasefire remained.
On Aug. 15, weeks before the next round of peace talks, Israeli airstrikes in southern Lebanon killed 11 people and wounded 19, marking one of the deadliest escalations since the fragile truce took hold. In a statement posted on X, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu accused Hezbollah of violating the ceasefire by attacking Israeli soldiers.
Having a morning coffee with friends on a high-rise terrace overlooking northern Beirut, I could see at a distance the new U.S. Embassy — the second-largest U.S. embassy compound in the world. Spanning 17 hectares, nearly two-and-a-half times the size of the White House grounds, its sheer scale and fortifications are striking.
The reason is rooted in Lebanon’s history. In 1983, a Hezbollah-linked suicide bomber attacked the U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut, killing 241 American service members. The imposing embassy is, in part, a reminder of a lesson Washington learned the hard way: Hezbollah cannot be taken lightly.
Around noon, I heard the unmistakable buzz of a drone overhead. My friends barely flinched. After years of war, the sound had become almost routine to them. What unsettled us was that they had not heard it over the city in weeks — a chilling reminder of how quickly the sounds of war can return.
Walking through Beirut’s backstreets, one encounters chic restaurants and crowded bars blasting techno, house and hip-hop music, just meters from buildings scarred by past wars. It is a striking contrast — a city determined to move forward while, just an hour south, communities remain caught between daily life and the threat of renewed violence.
Since taking office in 2025, Lebanese President Joseph Aoun, a former army commander, has been caught between two camps: those who see a settlement with Israel as a betrayal, and those, exhausted by decades of war and economic collapse, who see peace as Lebanon’s only way forward.
A phrase I repeatedly heard from Lebanese people who favour peace with Israel was, “Let’s have a beer in Tel Aviv.” It comes from a viral clip of Lebanese activist Majd Harb, who, when asked if he would drink a beer in Tel Aviv, simply replied, “Why not?” The comment sparked a polarized debate across Lebanese and regional media.
Many were open to the idea — but not one elegantly dressed woman who captured the political reality in a single sentence: “As long as Hezbollah exists, no one will be able to have a beer in Tel Aviv.”
For many Lebanese, peace has become less a lasting reality than a temporary pause between conflicts.
National Post
Mohamed Fahmy is an award-winning journalist who has covered the Middle East for numerous outlets, including CNN, Al-Jazeera, the Los Angeles Times and Foreign Policy.
