From Bombing to Bulldozing: How Southern Villages Became Targets for the Erasure of Life On April 20, 2026, the southern town of Beit Lif, located only a few kilometers from the border with Israel, was not on the margins of the war. It was one of the villages subjected to repeated bombardment, especially during the recent period. On that day, Israeli military vehicles advanced toward the outskirts of the village and began what resembled a slow process of erasure. Bulldozers uprooted homes as though the destruction itself were the objective. What southern Lebanon has been experiencing in recent weeks goes beyond the familiar image of bombardment. Border villages, including Beit Lif, are no longer only under attack from shelling, but are subjected to a systematic assault targeting the very foundations of life itself: homes, land, and whatever remains of the possibility of living there. In this context, the destruction of a house becomes as much a political act as a personal tragedy. \u201cNothing Is Left\u2026\u201d \u201cThey sent it to me on WhatsApp. I kept replaying the video\u2026 pausing at every frame, searching for any sign. I couldn\u2019t recognize the house.\u201d He laughs quietly, then sighs and falls silent. Ezzat, known as Abu Ali, left Lebanon during the civil war. He settled in Germany and worked there for many years, like many from his generation. Yet he never severed his connection to Lebanon, nor did he consider exile a permanent substitute. There was always a postponed project in the background: returning home. \u201cI was building the house while I was there. I knew every detail in it, from the tiles to the walls. I used to say: this is my house, my land, and my identity.\u201d The house in Beit Lif was not an investment; it was a life plan. The Return That Never Happened As he approached retirement age, Abu Ali began preparing for his return. The decision was not sudden, but the result of years of waiting. His children all knew the story: a house in the south, land, a village, family, and relatives. \u201cI planted this idea in them. That we are not just expatriates. We have a place to return to. Not once did we skip spending the summer in Lebanon. Even when money was tight, I insisted. I wanted them to know where they came from, what their roots are, and to love this country the way I do.\u201d But the south he had been waiting for had changed. Since late 2025, tensions had returned to the border and gradually escalated into open confrontation. Villages began to empty of their residents, and then of their homes. \u201cPeople started saying there was no safety anymore. I thought we would just wait a little longer. I never imagined the house itself would disappear.\u201d April 20: The Day the House Became a Memory On that day, military vehicles entered Beit Lif. Abu Ali\u2019s house was not a military site or a combat position. It was a closed and empty house, like many others whose owners had left believing they would soon return. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing that justifies this. It\u2019s obvious what they\u2019re doing. They don\u2019t want anything left for us to return to.\u201d The operation was not quick. According to residents of the village, the bulldozing continued for hours. House after house. Walls collapsing, courtyards leveled to the ground. \u201cEven the tree\u2026 the fig tree I planted, it\u2019s gone. That hurt me the most.\u201d Many houses\u2026 the same story. Many Houses\u2026 The Same Story<\/strong><\/p>\n\n While speaking, Abu Ali does not exaggerate his personal loss. He constantly widens the circle. \u201cIt\u2019s not just my story. The whole village is like this. Some people suffered more than I did, some houses were older, some memories were deeper.\u201d Abu Ali\u2019s loss is not an exception in Beit Lif. Throughout the village, the stories resemble one another more than they differ. Houses were locked in haste, and their owners left hoping to return after a few days, only to discover later that what they had left behind no longer existed as it once did. Some could not even see their homes in person, while others relied only on photos or video clips sent from afar. Each time, the same scene repeats itself: sudden news, long silence, and an attempt to process a loss too immense to comprehend all at once. In another part of Beit Lif, a similar loss is told in a different voice. Smiha, known as Umm Hassan, who had been living in Beirut\u2019s southern suburbs, used to return to her house in the village every summer. For her, the house was not a permanent residence, but an extension of a life that had never truly been interrupted. She says: \u201cWe came back every year, even during wartime. We never stopped. The house was always waiting for us.\u201d A few weeks ago, the news reached her the same way it reached so many others: a quick phone call, then a video. She did not try to watch it more than once. From the first viewing, she understood. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing left.\u201d She pauses briefly before adding: \u201cIt\u2019s not just the house. Everything inside it\u2026 the photographs, the belongings, the little details that can never be replaced.\u201d Like Abu Ali, Umm Hassan does not speak only about an individual loss. For her, what happened goes far beyond her own home. \u201cThe whole village has changed. It\u2019s not only that our houses are gone\u2026 it\u2019s the feeling that there is still a place for us to return to that is disappearing.\u201d This is what southern Lebanon looks like today: individual losses accumulating into a collective landscape. According to Lebanon\u2019s National Council for Scientific Research<\/a>, more than 62,000 homes were damaged or destroyed within just a few weeks. The houses being demolished are not merely places of shelter, but anchors tying people to their land. With every house removed, return becomes more difficult and less realistic. He still thinks about returning, without any real hesitation. He says simply: \u201cOf course. Where else would I go?\u201d For him, the question is not even open for debate. The house no longer exists, that is true, but he does not see that as the end. \u201cMaybe there\u2019s no house now, but the land is still there. We\u2019ll return and start again.\u201d His words come out calmly, as if he is trying to hold onto an idea more than convince anyone else. In the south, houses are never just passing details. They are often built over long years of labor and are frequently the result of years spent abroad or daily hardship. They are constructed gradually, piece by piece, with every visit and every season. Even amid constant border tensions, people never stopped building, as though they were clinging to the one thing they still had left: the land. This attachment is not expressed only in words, but in action itself. In the insistence on rebuilding what has been destroyed, on returning whenever possible, and on keeping the house standing, even if only temporarily or incompletely. In the end, the house is not merely a place, but a way of remaining connected and rooted in the land of the south. A Lebanon Economic Monitor report issued by the World Bank points to a sharp rise in prices in Lebanon as a result of the economic crisis that began in 2019, affecting various goods, including construction materials. Rebuilding these homes is therefore far from simple. Construction costs in Lebanon have risen dramatically in recent years due to soaring prices of raw materials. Economic reports indicate that the price of a ton of steel increased from around 500 dollars before the collapse of the Lebanese pound and the surge in import costs to nearly 1,000 dollars, directly increasing construction expenses and making reconstruction a heavy burden on residents. What is destroyed in a single moment may have taken years to build. The loss, therefore, is not merely that of fallen walls, but the collapse of long years of effort and an entire life plan. Between Germany, where he spent most of his life, and Beit Lif, where he lost not only his house but something much larger, Abu Ali remains attached to one idea: that what he lost does not erase what he built. And that return, even now, is still possible. In southern Lebanon, where homes are destroyed and villages emptied, there are still those who insist on holding onto their land, even after losing the house itself. From Bombing to Bulldozing: How Southern Villages Became Targets for the Erasure of Life On April 20, 2026, the southern town of Beit Lif, located only a few kilometers from the border with Israel, was not on the margins of the war. It was one of the villages subjected to repeated bombardment, especially during the recent period. On that day, Israeli military vehicles advanced toward the outskirts of the village and began what resembled a slow process of erasure. Bulldozers uprooted homes as though the destruction itself were the objective. What southern Lebanon has been experiencing in recent weeks goes beyond the familiar image of bombardment. Border villages, including Beit Lif, are no longer only under attack from shelling, but are subjected to a systematic assault targeting the very foundations of life itself: homes, land, and whatever remains of the possibility of living there. In this context, the destruction of a house becomes as much a political act as a personal tragedy. \u201cNothing Is Left\u2026\u201d \u201cThey sent it to me on WhatsApp. I kept replaying the video\u2026 pausing at every frame, searching for any sign. I couldn\u2019t recognize the house.\u201d He laughs quietly, then sighs and falls silent. Ezzat, known as Abu Ali, left Lebanon during the civil war. He settled in Germany and worked there for many years, like many from his generation. Yet he never severed his connection to Lebanon, nor did he consider exile a permanent substitute. There was always a postponed project in the background: returning home. \u201cI was building the house while I was there. I knew every detail in it, from the tiles to the walls. I used to say: this is my house, my land, and my identity.\u201d The house in Beit Lif was not an investment; it was a life plan. The Return That Never Happened As he approached retirement age, Abu Ali began preparing for his return. The decision was not sudden, but the result of years of waiting. His children all knew the story: a house in the south, land, a village, family, and relatives. \u201cI planted this idea in them. That we are not just expatriates. We have a place to return to. Not once did we skip spending the summer in Lebanon. Even when money was tight, I insisted. I wanted them to know where they came from, what their roots are, and to love this country the way I do.\u201d But the south he had been waiting for had changed. Since late 2025, tensions had returned to the border and gradually escalated into open confrontation. Villages began to empty of their residents, and then of their homes. \u201cPeople started saying there was no safety anymore. I thought we would just wait a little longer. I never imagined the house itself would disappear.\u201d April 20: The Day the House Became a Memory – On that day, military vehicles entered Beit Lif. Abu Ali\u2019s house was not a military site or a combat position. It was a closed and empty house, like many others whose owners had left believing they would soon return. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing that justifies this. It\u2019s obvious what they\u2019re doing. They don\u2019t want anything left for us to return to.\u201d The operation was not quick. According to residents of the village, the bulldozing continued for hours. House after house. Walls collapsing, courtyards leveled to the ground. \u201cEven the tree\u2026 the fig tree I planted, it\u2019s gone. That hurt me the most.\u201d Many houses\u2026 the same story. Many Houses\u2026 The Same Story While speaking, Abu Ali does not exaggerate his personal loss. He constantly widens the circle. \u201cIt\u2019s not just my story. The whole village is like this. Some people suffered more than I did, some houses were older, some memories were deeper.\u201d Abu Ali\u2019s loss is not an exception in Beit Lif. Throughout the village, the stories resemble one another more than they differ. Houses were locked in haste, and their owners left hoping to return after a few days, only to discover later that what they had left behind no longer existed as it once did. Some could not even see their homes in person, while others relied only on photos or video clips sent from afar. Each time, the same scene repeats itself: sudden news, long silence, and an attempt to process a loss too immense to comprehend all at once. In another part of Beit Lif, a similar loss is told in a different voice. Smiha, known as Umm Hassan, who had been living in Beirut\u2019s southern suburbs, used to return to her house in the village every summer. For her, the house was not a permanent residence, but an extension of a life that had never truly been interrupted. She says: \u201cWe came back every year, even during wartime. We never stopped. The house was always waiting for us.\u201d A few weeks ago, the news reached her the same way it reached so many others: a quick phone call, then a video. She did not try to watch it more than once. From the first viewing, she understood. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing left.\u201d \u201cWe came back every year, even during wartime. We never stopped. The house was always waiting for us.\u201d She pauses briefly before adding: \u201cIt\u2019s not just the house. Everything inside it\u2026 the photographs, the belongings, the little details that can never be replaced.\u201d Like Abu Ali, Umm Hassan does not speak only about an individual loss. For her, what happened goes far beyond her own home. \u201cThe whole village has changed. It\u2019s not only that our houses are gone\u2026 it\u2019s the feeling that there is still a place for us to return to that is disappearing.\u201d This is what southern Lebanon looks like today: individual losses accumulating into a collective landscape. According to Lebanon\u2019s National Council for Scientific Research, more than 62,000 homes were damaged or destroyed within just a few weeks. The houses being demolished are not merely places of shelter, but anchors tying people to their land. With<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":17,"featured_media":16479,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"elementor_theme","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[522,340,409],"tags":[710,708,347,709,363,357,376],"class_list":["post-16480","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-the-people-of-the-south-speak","category-blog","category-sillat-wassel-selections","tag-beit-lif","tag-destruction","tag-lebanon-en","tag-memory","tag-south","tag-war-en","tag-youth-en-2"],"blocksy_meta":[],"acf":[],"rttpg_featured_image_url":{"full":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54.jpg",2048,900,false],"landscape":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54.jpg",2048,900,false],"portraits":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54.jpg",2048,900,false],"thumbnail":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54-150x150.jpg",150,150,true],"medium":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54-300x132.jpg",300,132,true],"large":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54-1024x450.jpg",1024,450,true],"1536x1536":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54-1536x675.jpg",1536,675,true],"2048x2048":["https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/9-54.jpg",2048,900,false]},"rttpg_author":{"display_name":"\u0625\u0633\u0631\u0627\u0621 \u0647\u0627\u062f\u064a","author_link":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/author\/esraa-hady\/"},"rttpg_comment":0,"rttpg_category":"The People of the South Speak<\/a> Blog<\/a> Sillat Wassel Selections<\/a>","rttpg_excerpt":"From Bombing to Bulldozing: How Southern Villages Became Targets for the Erasure of Life On April 20, 2026, the southern town of Beit Lif, located only a few kilometers from the border with Israel, was not on the margins of the war. It was one of the villages subjected to repeated bombardment, especially during the…","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16480","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/17"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16480"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16480\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16483,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16480\/revisions\/16483"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16479"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16480"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16480"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/silatwassel.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16480"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}\u201cWe came back every year, even during wartime. We never stopped. The house was always waiting for us.\u201d