Grim reality of war grips villages near Lebanon’s southern frontier
▶ From buzzing drones to threats of shelling, life is dire but residents remain determined not to leave their homes
Late in the morning in Deir Mimas, a southern Lebanese town just 3km from the Israeli border, deputy mayor Merhej Shamaa is having a friendly conversation with his neighbours.
It might seem like any other day in this charming village nestled among olive fields, if not for the loud buzzing of drones overhead.
“We’re used to it,” says Mr Shamaa. “Now, if I don’t hear it, or the sound of shelling, I think something must be wrong,” he adds with a smile.
Israeli reconnaissance drones have been flying in southern Lebanon since border clashes erupted with Israel on October 8, when Hezbollah, an Iran-backed Shiite militia allied with Hamas, opened a new front to divert Israel from its war in Gaza.
Since then, Israeli forces and the militant group have exchanged almost daily fire.
Deir Mimas, a Christian town, is only a few kilometres from the fighting. It has been spared from the war so far but shelling has taken place nearby.
Those who chose not to leave their homes – about half of the village’s 500 people – use humour to mask the dire situation.
“These drones remind you that you can die at any moment,” Mr Shamaa, 66, says.
His neighbour Jano Houran, 57, agrees. “We may be laughing now but when the shelling gets too close, it’s terrifying,” he says.
“There’s no real shelter in the village. We used to hide downstairs but let’s be honest – if a missile hits your house, it doesn’t matter where you are. You’re gone.”
The village is quiet, but churches are still holding services on Sunday. Most of the shops are closed.
“I can offer only half of the [usual] products because some companies refuse to deliver for security reasons,” says shop owner Jamile Moussa, 66.
Despite the hardships, residents who spoke to The National say they want to stay here as long as possible.
“I grew up right here on these streets,” says Mr Shamaa, as he strolls among the traditional stone houses. “I used to run through these alleys and sit on these benches. It’s the love for the village that compels us to stay.”
Some say they have no other choice. “Where would I go?” wonders Ramona Al Hajj, 30, who lives in Deir Mimas with her husband and their infant daughter, one of only four children left in the village.
Lebanon has been struggling with a steep economic crisis since 2019, marked by soaring inflation, a sharp devaluation of the local currency and a public sector in ruins. It has even left many of the Lebanese middle class struggling to make ends meet.
Ms Al Hajj works for the municipality but says she has not been paid for months. “Rent is expensive in Beirut,” she says. “I don’t have this kind of money.”
Deir Mimas has encountered instability before, mirroring the challenges faced by the broader southern region of Lebanon, which has endured decades of conflict and Israeli occupation.
In 2006, during the last war between Hezbollah and Israel, the village was evacuated after residents were trapped for nearly a month, surrounded by shelling.
They remember that Israel hit a convoy of civilians on the road, killing one villager.
“If it gets like it did in 2006, of course we will leave but for now I’m staying,” says Sharli Khoury, a police officer.
As the war drags on, living conditions continue to deteriorate in border villages. Many people are left without jobs, with farmers hit particularly hard in a region heavily reliant on agriculture.
“It’s a compounded crisis,” says Joseph Salameh, the mayor of Qlayaa, another Christian town near Deir Mimas.
He says the state is not helping despite shortages of all kinds of essentials, from medicine to education.
NGOs have been conducting weekly distributions of aid, medicine and food since the war started. But it is not enough.
“Farmers have lost two years of harvest because they have not been able to plant for the next season,” Mr Salameh adds.
The situation has made farmers angry.
Dieb Rizk has not been able to access his land in the plain of Marjayoun for months.
The last straw came last week when he went to check on his crops, only to realise that thousands of dollars worth of equipment had been stolen.
“We don’t have to live like this,” he says.
“I think of leaving but I have nowhere else to go.”
We used to hide downstairs, but if a missile hits your house, it doesn’t matter where you are. You’re gone JANO HOURAN
Deir Mimas resident