Marjayoun, Lebanon: Residents along the border with Israel fear another war

Marjayoun, Lebanon
CNN
—

In the town of Marjayoun in southern Lebanon, about eight kilometers north of the Israeli border, the main square seems almost deserted.

A few men play billiards in a shop in a building crowned with life-size statues of the Virgin Mary and Saint Charbel, a revered Lebanese saint.

They do not want to talk about the wars and rumors of war that have plagued this predominantly Christian city near the border for decades.

“Journalists get on your nerves,” you grumble and go back to your game.

On the other side of the square, a woman in her thirties comes out of a grocery store with a small bag.

“Marjayoun is very beautiful, it’s fantastic,” the woman, Claude, tells me. “But the artillery fire scares us.” That’s all she wants to say.

Throughout the day, occasional bangs from approaching and outgoing fires echo through the streets.

Tensions between Israel and Lebanon have risen sharply since the October 7 Hamas attack on Israel and the subsequent Israeli military campaign in the Gaza Strip. The Iranian-backed militant group Hezbollah fires rockets, mortars and drones at Israel, and Israel returns fire.

Tens of thousands of people have fled on both sides of the mountainous border as fears grow about the possible outbreak of another all-out war.

On the Lebanese side, residents of predominantly Shiite towns such as Kafr Kila, Adaisa, Aita Al-Shaab and Aitaroun have almost all fled their homes. Frequent Israeli airstrikes and artillery fire have reduced many of these communities to rubble.

Marjayoun, on the other hand, was largely spared.

The city was the headquarters of the Israeli-armed and funded South Lebanese Army (SLA), a Christian-led proxy militia, during the decades-long Israeli occupation of southern Lebanon, which ended 24 years ago after a protracted guerrilla war with Hezbollah.

When Israel withdrew in 2000, many Marjayoun residents fled across the border south to Israel, fearing being accused of collaborating with Israel by their fellow Lebanese citizens.

Their departure, the collapse of the Lebanese economy, the fear of another protracted conflict, the lack of a functioning state and emigration have robbed Marjayoun of people and prosperity.

But more than two decades later, some residents still cling to their old city and vow not to leave.

“I feel that this area has a geographical curse. There have always been tensions,” Edouard Achy told me. “The threats come from both sides of the border. Tensions are increasing day by day. Everything indicates that something is going to happen.”

“Will he leave?” I ask.

He shrugs. “After more than eight months of this situation, people just want peace and quiet,” he says.

His sister Amal and her family have come to the church to say a special prayer to commemorate the 40th anniversary of their mother’s death. Dressed in black and with a crucifix around her neck, she has brought large loaves of bread and bags of rolls to share with the congregation.

Amal feels very attached to her hometown, but wonders how long it will be safe there as the clouds of war gather in the sky.

“We are staying here and God willing, we will continue to stay here,” she insisted. “The South is the Holy Land. The Messiah set foot here two thousand years ago.”

She paused and sighed. “But if the situation escalates into war and it comes here like before, with some artillery fire of course, like in other places, then we will have to leave,” she said.

Half an hour away, in the predominantly Druze town of Hasbaya, 85-year-old Abu Nabil sweeps the street in front of his shop.

The Druze faith is an offshoot of Islam; there are followers in Lebanon, Syria, Israel and Jordan.

A devout man with a gentle smile and a bushy white moustache, he sees the bright side of life. “The Lord is gracious to us,” he says. “We can sleep in our homes. We eat. We drink. No one has to go hungry.”

Since his birth, Abu Nabil has seen Lebanon gain independence from France in 1943, prosper in the 1960s, become embroiled in civil war, be invaded and partially occupied by Israel for decades, and be partially occupied by Syria for decades.

He has seen the country emerge from civil war, become embroiled in war with Israel again in 2006, be rocked by a series of high-profile assassinations, be rocked by a short-lived revolution in 2019 followed by economic collapse, and now once again be on the brink of all-out war with Israel.

“War is devastating,” he says, reaching for my hand. “In war, everyone loses, even the winner.”

Across the street, young men drink coffee from small paper cups and smoke cigarettes. They say they don’t want any trouble and decline an interview.

There is a fear here and in many parts of Lebanon that there is a price to pay for speaking out against Hezbollah. Some people do that, some politicians do that, but when Hezbollah is nearby, it is better not to take the risk.

“Gaza is not my war and I don’t want to pray in Jerusalem,” one of the men insisted.

Another said that one of the reasons not a single Israeli rocket, bomb or artillery shell has hit Hasbaya is because young men act as a kind of armed vigilante group, making sure that no one, neither Hezbollah nor Hamas, fires anything at Israel. This is not their territory and they are not welcome here, they say.

At the bottom of the mountain, there is a traffic jam on the road leading west from Hasbaya towards Marjayoun. Cars are crawling along at a snail’s pace, drivers poking their heads out to see what is going on.

Watch this interactive content on CNN.com

A large group of men, women and children, dressed in their best clothes, stand around a new white stone building. A gleaming white convertible is parked in front of it, the hood covered in bouquets of flowers and a license plate that reads “Newly Married” in English.

A group of men arrive in traditional Druze clothing – small turbans, vests and low-cut trousers – and carry drums and horns.

As people leave the building, musicians start playing a wild melody with a strong beat and high notes, while others swirl prayer beads above their heads.

The bride Fatin in a long lace dress and the groom Taymour step into the sunlight and everyone cheers.

I decide not to interfere with annoying questions about Israel, Hezbollah, impending war, death, destruction and displacement. Everyone is happy, enjoying the bright June afternoon, the noise, the presence of friends and relatives. “Why spoil such a beautiful day?” I think.

Watching the celebrations, you would never guess that Israeli forces are only about five miles away and that not far from here, deadly missiles are being hurled back and forth across the border.

One man, however, did not miss the irony. He leaned over and giggled: “We are celebrating here, even though war is just around the corner.”