By Elsie Kamsiyochi
Israel’s latest military campaign in Lebanon has rapidly evolved into a sweeping attempt to reshape the southern part of the country, severing entire communities from the rest of the nation and intensifying fears of a long-term occupation.
What began as a series of targeted strikes has widened into a strategy aimed at controlling territory up to the Litani River — a stretch that reaches roughly 30 kilometers north of the border and encompasses nearly a tenth of Lebanon’s land.
The announcement on March 24 that Israel intends to hold this area as a “defensive security zone” marked the most significant escalation since fighting erupted early in March.
The declaration effectively revived memories of the two-decade Israeli occupation that ended in 2000, an era still deeply etched into the collective memory of southern Lebanese families. For many, the idea that another era of separation and military control could be taking shape is both unthinkable and frighteningly familiar.
Over the past month, Israeli ground forces and aerial bombardments have cut off major transport arteries, struck public infrastructure, and forced mass displacement across dozens of towns and villages.
Entire communities that once relied on bridges, hospitals, roadside clinics, and the coastal highway to remain connected to the rest of Lebanon now find themselves isolated. Satellite imagery and on-the-ground reporting show that strikes on the Litani River’s bridges have been especially devastating.
At least seven bridges have been destroyed or rendered unusable, six of them directly spanning the river. Israel has asserted these routes were being used by Hezbollah to move weapons toward the frontlines; Hezbollah denies using civilian roads or public facilities for military purposes.
For local residents, the effect has been immediate and deeply personal. The destruction of key crossings has created pockets of southern Lebanon that humanitarian convoys can no longer enter safely.
The United Nations has warned that tens of thousands of civilians are now trapped in isolated zones with limited access to medical care, fuel, water, and basic food supplies.
Human Rights Watch has cautioned that international law prohibits attacks on infrastructure where civilian harm would be excessive in relation to any possible military advantage, raising alarm about what may soon become a full-scale humanitarian disaster.
The war’s toll on health services has been no less severe. Four hospitals in the south have sustained significant damage, and two have shut down completely.
A particularly deadly strike on a primary healthcare center in Borj Qalaouiya killed twelve medical workers, including doctors, nurses, and paramedics—people who were attempting to keep vital services running despite repeated warnings of danger. Lebanon’s Health Ministry says more than 40 healthcare workers have been killed throughout the conflict.
The loss of these workers, combined with the shutdown of clinics and hospitals, has left communities without the ability to treat even basic injuries, let alone the influx of casualties.
Energy infrastructure has also suffered, leaving large parts of southern Lebanon in varying degrees of blackout. Two major power stations have gone offline — one due to direct strikes and another made unreachable by Israeli ground operations. Water supply systems have been crippled, with at least two stations no longer functioning. International legal experts have stressed that destroying civilian water and electricity infrastructure can violate the laws of war when the consequences for civilian life are foreseeable and disproportionate.
Some analysts argue that the pattern of attacks suggests an intent to degrade southern Lebanon’s ability to sustain itself, potentially as part of a broader strategy to depopulate or control the area.
For Lebanese civilians, the war has created an atmosphere of fear, dislocation, and helplessness. Israel’s sweeping evacuation order for the entire southern region — an area home to hundreds of thousands — triggered a massive movement of people toward the north.
Across Lebanon, airstrikes have killed more than 1,100 people and displaced well over a million. Many residents fled with little more than a change of clothes and essential documents, uncertain if they would ever see their homes again. Among them is 50-year-old Samar Jawlani, who escaped from the ancient port city of Tyre.
She fears that if the Litani River becomes a hardened boundary between southern Lebanon and Beirut, returning home may become impossible. “Once they separate the Litani from Beirut, that’s it — how will the people go back?” she asked, her words reflecting the dread shared by thousands.
Even for those determined to return, the journey has become treacherous. Journalists, aid workers, and local officials describe the landscape now as a patchwork of destroyed bridges, cratered roads, and abandoned towns. In some regions, entire neighborhoods have emptied as families rush to secure shelter in safer parts of the country.
The “simple feeling that there is always a way back,” as Lebanese journalist Diana Moukalled wrote after the Qasmiyeh Bridge she used for years was destroyed, has been shattered.
As smoke and dust continue to rise from repeated airstrikes, the long-term implications of the campaign are becoming clearer. The World Health Organization has warned that the sustained damage to civilian infrastructure marks one of the most serious escalations since the conflict began.
Lebanon was already struggling under the weight of an economic collapse, decades of mismanagement, and a fragile public services sector. Rebuilding what is now being destroyed could take decades, and for some communities may never be fully possible.
Yet despite the displacement and devastation, the connection many southern Lebanese feel to their land remains unbroken. Ammar Mazeh, a local official from Barish, now sheltering in eastern Lebanon, expressed a determination echoed by many others uprooted from their villages.
No matter how many roads are bombed or bridges fall, he insists he will return — even if it means crossing fields, forests, or waterways by hand. “There are a lot of ways into the village,” he said. “We’ll swim there if we have to.”
The conflict is still unfolding, and the scope of Israel’s planned “buffer zone” remains uncertain. What is clear is that the war has already reshaped southern Lebanon physically, socially, and emotionally.
A region that once served as a crossroads of culture, agriculture, and community has been carved into disconnected fragments, its future tied to decisions made far from the fields and homes now burning. Whether residents will be able to return — and what they will find if they do — has become one of the defining questions of this rapidly changing chapter in Middle Eastern history.
Source Reuters
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