In the southern suburbs of Beirut, the air is thick with anxiety and the echoes of recent violence. On Sunday, November 23, 2025, the Israeli military struck a high-profile target, killing Hezbollah's military chief in a dramatic escalation that shattered what little calm remained since the ceasefire agreement was signed a year ago. According to Reuters, this strike marked the boldest move by Israel since the deal was inked, and officials in Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's government have made it clear: unless Lebanon reins in Hezbollah, these strikes will not be the last.
The ceasefire, brokered by the United States and France, was meant to halt 13 months of brutal conflict that left 4,000 Lebanese and 120 Israelis dead. Its terms required Hezbollah to withdraw its fighters and weapons from areas south of the Litani River—roughly 30 kilometers from the Israeli border—while Israel agreed to pull back its troops from southern Lebanon. In theory, the Lebanese Armed Forces (LAF) would then take control of the region, ensuring only the state held arms there. But the reality, as reported by BBC and other outlets, has been far messier.
Israel has continued its bombing campaign in Lebanon throughout the ceasefire, justifying its actions as necessary to prevent Hezbollah from rearming and redeploying forces in the south. The United Nations peacekeeping force in southern Lebanon, known as UNIFIL, has recorded over 10,000 breaches of the ceasefire agreement since it took effect. The Lebanese government and France have both accused Israel of flagrantly violating the deal and threatening Lebanon's already fragile stability. The Lebanese health ministry reports that more than 330 people, including civilians, have been killed in Israeli attacks over the past year.
Hezbollah, for its part, claims to have complied with the ceasefire terms in the south, insisting it has removed its fighters and weapons from the restricted zone. However, Israeli officials allege that the group is quietly rebuilding missile and rocket launch sites, repairing its military infrastructure, and even manufacturing new weapons with materials smuggled from Iran via Syria. Israeli defense minister Israel Katz recently warned, "Hezbollah is playing with fire, and the president of Lebanon is dragging his feet." These comments reflect growing Israeli frustration with what they see as insufficient action by Lebanese authorities.
President Joseph Aoun, who assumed office in January 2025, came to power promising a "state monopoly on arms"—a thinly veiled commitment to disarm Hezbollah. Yet, as the BBC details, Aoun has refused to use force against the group, fearing that doing so could reignite the sectarian violence that once tore Lebanon apart. "If the authorities were not careful, we'll lead Lebanon to ruin," Aoun said in April, underscoring the risks of a heavy-handed approach.
The Lebanese military did propose a plan in September 2025 to disarm all non-state militias, with a clear focus on Hezbollah. However, the plan lacked a timeline, and the LAF admitted it had limited capacity to enforce such a sweeping change. Over the past year, the LAF has removed 10,000 rockets, 400 missiles, and 205,000 unexploded ordnance fragments from the border region. Still, neither Israel nor the US is satisfied, pointing out that Hezbollah's most strategic weapons are stored further north, beyond the reach of current disarmament efforts.
The United States, one of the ceasefire's guarantors, has shown its displeasure as well. Washington canceled a meeting with the LAF commander after he criticized Israel's ongoing attacks and called for international help to stop them. The Trump administration, as reported by BBC, has ramped up pressure on Lebanese authorities, expressing skepticism about the so-called "Lebanese way" of slow, consensus-driven disarmament.
For ordinary Lebanese, the situation is becoming unbearable. In the village of Froun, where an Israeli airstrike killed a man described by Israel as a "Hezbollah terrorist" just days before the Beirut attack, residents are weary and desperate for peace. "We're against all this... I just want to live in peace. I don't want parties," local resident Mohamad Mokdad told the BBC. Many, like him, are careful not to name Hezbollah directly, but their meaning is clear—they want an end to the violence from all sides.
In Beit Lif, a village that once held around 8,000 people but now counts less than a third of that, the exhaustion is palpable. After Israeli warnings of "dozens of terrorist infrastructures" in the area, residents made a public appeal for Lebanese soldiers to be deployed. The army arrived briefly, but avoided inspecting private homes, likely wary of being seen as collaborating with Israel. As one local imam told the BBC, "Hezbollah needs to decide: it either responds to Israel or accepts defeat, disarms and let us move on with our lives. This can't continue." Such open criticism of Hezbollah remains rare, but the fatigue is evident.
Hezbollah, however, shows no sign of backing down. In a televised speech earlier this month, the group's secretary general, Naim Qassem, declared, "We will never surrender our weapons, which are the source of our strength." He added, "The enemy wants to erase our life and our existence, but we'll remain steadfast. We'll either live with dignity or die with dignity." For Hezbollah, its arsenal is not just a means of defense but a symbol of resistance and survival—one it is unlikely to relinquish without Iran's blessing.
UNIFIL, the UN peacekeeping force, says it has not observed any recent Hezbollah military activity or attempts to rebuild infrastructure south of the Litani. The group itself insists it has not fired on Israel since the truce began, except for several mortars launched in December 2024 in response to Israeli actions in disputed territory. Yet, Israeli journalists have been briefed for weeks on the possibility of further escalation, and the Israeli military continues to occupy at least five hilltops in southern Lebanon, enforcing a de facto buffer zone.
The human cost is immense. Tens of thousands of Lebanese remain displaced, their communities in ruins, with little hope of international aid for reconstruction while the impasse over Hezbollah's disarmament persists. In border villages like Yaroun, the constant buzz of Israeli drones overhead serves as a grim reminder of the ever-present threat. "We've got every reason to be afraid," resident Nayef al-Rida told the BBC. "There's no-one here. You'll leave in a bit, and we'll be left alone."
As Lebanon teeters between war and an uneasy peace, its people are caught in the crossfire—yearning for stability, but uncertain where, or when, it might come.