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Hello, I am Laure Delacloche, and I wrote the story about the ceasefire in Lebanon that was announced on April 17, after 46 days of all-out war between Israel and Hezbollah.
On that morning, I was standing on the highway leading to the south, seeing the families going back to their villages. The grandmas, the children, and even the birds in their cages were taking the trip. Emotions were high, with some people brandishing Hezbollah flags and claiming that the ceasefire was a victory against Israel, a narrative that emerges every time, while in other cars, I could feel the tension and the apprehension of passengers.
I was also very torn internally. While nothing can make me happier than people going back to their homes after six weeks of war, regardless of their political affiliations, I was anxious for them. Would these children find their bedrooms entirely destroyed? Would these grandmothers find the kitchens — and perhaps more importantly, the lemon trees — intact? How long would it take for Israel to bomb again was the question on everyone’s mind.
As we visited several villages in the Jezzine District, I realized that the prevailing sentiment of the residents was neither joy nor relief, but an unshakable concern about what the future holds for them and their children. I was talking to people who had not lived six weeks of war, but two-and-a-half years of war, caught between missiles launched by Hezbollah and Israeli bombardments. The last ceasefire, brokered in 2024, had only brought little change to their situation. The roads had certainly been safer, but the residents had spent months enduring relentless bombardments and bracing for an inevitable escalation.
On that day, I, by contrast, felt relieved. The CNEWA team was part of a convoy of humanitarian aid, and we were able to drive through the pine forest without having to be on high alert for billows of smoke or jumping at the sound of airstrikes. This kind of peace of mind is such a luxury.
Realizing that this window of calm would suddenly be very narrow, Raghida Skaff, the photographer, and I rushed to the southern suburbs of Beirut on the following day, witnessing the people going back to their homes, not daring to spend the night, in case Israel would start bombing again. Amidst the devastated landscape of 10-story buildings being reduced to rubble, there were happy scenes of neighbors seeing one another again after six weeks of war.
As the days went by, we witnessed southern villages being razed to the ground, cemeteries and olive groves leveled, the assassination of journalists and rescue workers, and an airstrike on the southern suburbs of Beirut. What many of us had suspected turned out to be true. The word “ceasefire” had been stripped of its meaning. It existed in headlines, official statements and political negotiations, but it did not translate into reality.
Learn more about what families in southern Lebanon are facing in Ms. Delacloche’s article, “Isolated and Afraid,” in the June issue of ONE magazine.