In Lebanon, a Family's Memories are Detonated Along With Their Village

Destroyed buildings lie in ruin on Lebanon’s side of the border with Israel, amid ongoing hostilities between Hezbollah and Israeli forces, as seen from Mount Addir, northern Israel, November 4, 2024. REUTERS/Violeta Santos Moura
Destroyed buildings lie in ruin on Lebanon’s side of the border with Israel, amid ongoing hostilities between Hezbollah and Israeli forces, as seen from Mount Addir, northern Israel, November 4, 2024. REUTERS/Violeta Santos Moura
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In Lebanon, a Family's Memories are Detonated Along With Their Village

Destroyed buildings lie in ruin on Lebanon’s side of the border with Israel, amid ongoing hostilities between Hezbollah and Israeli forces, as seen from Mount Addir, northern Israel, November 4, 2024. REUTERS/Violeta Santos Moura
Destroyed buildings lie in ruin on Lebanon’s side of the border with Israel, amid ongoing hostilities between Hezbollah and Israeli forces, as seen from Mount Addir, northern Israel, November 4, 2024. REUTERS/Violeta Santos Moura

Ayman Jaber’s memories are rooted in every corner of Mhaibib, the village in southern Lebanon he refers to as his “habibti,” the Arabic word for “beloved.” The root of the village’s name means “the lover” or “the beloved.”
Reminiscing about his childhood sweetheart, the 45-year-old avionics technician talks about how the young pair would meet in a courtyard near his uncle's house, The Associated Press said.
“I used to wait for her there to see her,” Jaber recalls with a smile. "Half of the village knew about us.”
The fond memory contrasts sharply with recent images of his hometown.
Mhaibib, perched on a hill close to the Israeli border, was leveled by a series of explosions on Oct. 16. The Israeli army released a video showing blasts ripping through the village in the Marjayoun province, razing dozens of homes to dust.
The scene has been repeated in villages across southern Lebanon since Israel launched its invasion a month ago with the stated goal of pushing Hezbollah militants back from the border. On Oct. 26, massive explosions in and around Odaisseh sparked an earthquake alert in northern Israel.
Israel says it wants to destroy a massive network of Hezbollah tunnels in the border area. But for the people who have been displaced, the attacks are also destroying a lifetime of memories.
Mhaibib had endured sporadic targeting since Hezbollah and Israeli forces began exchanging fire on Oct. 8 last year.
Jaber was living in Aramoun, just south of Beirut, before the war, and the rest of his family evacuated from Mhaibib after the border skirmishes ignited. Some of them left their possessions behind and sought refuge in Syria. Jaber's father and two sisters, Zeinab and Fatima, moved in with him.
In the living room of their temporary home, the siblings sip Arabic coffee while their father chain-smokes.
“My father breaks my heart. He is 70 years old, frail and has been waiting for over a year to return to Mhaibib,” Zeinab said. “He left his five cows there. He keeps asking, ‘Do you think they’re still alive?’”
Mhaibib was a close-knit rural village, with about 70 historic stone homes lining its narrow streets. Families grew tobacco, wheat, mulukhiyah (jute mallow) and olives, planting them each spring and waking before dawn in the summer to harvest the crops.
Hisham Younes, who runs the environmental organization Green Southerners, says generations of southerners admired Mhaibib for its one-or two-story stone homes, some built by Jaber’s grandfather and his friends.
“Detonating an entire village is a form of collective punishment and war crime. What do they gain from destroying shrines, churches and old homes?” Younes asks.
Abdelmoe’m Shucair, the mayor of neighboring Mays el Jabal, told the Associated Press that the last few dozen families living in Mhaibib fled before the Israeli destruction began, as had residents of surrounding villages.
Jaber's sisters attended school in Mays al-Jabal. That school was also destroyed in a series of massive explosions.
After finishing her studies in Beirut, Zeinab worked in a pharmacy in the neighboring village of Blida. That pharmacy, too, is gone after the Israeli military detonated part of that village. Israeli forces even bulldozed their village cemetery where generations of family members are buried.
“I don’t belong to any political group,” Zeinab says. “Why did my home, my life, have to be taken from me?”
She says she can't bring herself to watch the video of her village’s destruction. “When my brother played it, I ran from the room.”
To process what’s happening, Fatima says she closes her eyes and takes herself back to Mhaibib. She sees the sun setting, vividly painting the sky stretching over their family gatherings on the upstairs patio, framed by their mother’s flowers.
The family painstakingly expanded their home over a decade.
“It took us 10 years to add just one room,” Fatima said. “First, my dad laid the flooring, then the walls, the roof and the glass windows. My mom sold a year’s worth of homemade preserves to furnish it.” She paused. “And it was gone in an instant.”
In the midst of war, Zeinab married quietly. Now she’s six months pregnant. She had hoped to be back in Mhaibib in time for the delivery.
Her brother was born when Mhaibib and other villages in southern Lebanon were under Israeli occupation. Jaber remembers traveling from Beirut to Mhaibib, passing through Israeli checkpoints and a final crossing before entering the village.
“There were security checks and interrogations. The process used to take a full or half a day,” he says. And inside the village, they always felt like they were “under surveillance.”
His family also fled the village during the war with Israel in 2006, and when they returned they found their homes vandalized but still standing. An uncle and a grandmother were among those killed in the 34-day conflict, but a loquat tree the matriarch had planted next to their home endured.
This time, there is no home to return to and even the loquat tree is gone.
Jaber worries Israel will again set up a permanent presence in southern Lebanon and that he won't be able to reconstruct the home he built over the last six years for himself, his wife and their two sons.
“When this war ends, we’ll go back,” Ayman says quietly. “We’ll pitch tents if we have to and stay until we rebuild our houses.”



Palestinians Build New Lives in Cairo's 'Little Gaza'

The Hay al-Rimal restaurant in Cairo's 'Little Gaza' is named for the owner's former Gaza City neighborhood, now devastated by Israeli bombing. Khaled DESOUKI / AFP
The Hay al-Rimal restaurant in Cairo's 'Little Gaza' is named for the owner's former Gaza City neighborhood, now devastated by Israeli bombing. Khaled DESOUKI / AFP
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Palestinians Build New Lives in Cairo's 'Little Gaza'

The Hay al-Rimal restaurant in Cairo's 'Little Gaza' is named for the owner's former Gaza City neighborhood, now devastated by Israeli bombing. Khaled DESOUKI / AFP
The Hay al-Rimal restaurant in Cairo's 'Little Gaza' is named for the owner's former Gaza City neighborhood, now devastated by Israeli bombing. Khaled DESOUKI / AFP

Palestinian Bassem Abu Aoun serves Gaza-style turkey shawarma at his restaurant in an eastern Cairo neighborhood, where a growing number of businesses opened by those fleeing war have many dubbing the area "Little Gaza".
"It was a big gamble," said the 56-year-old about opening his restaurant, Hay al-Rimal, named after his neighborhood in Gaza City, now devastated by Israeli bombardment.
"I could live for a year on the money I had, or open a business and leave the rest to fate," he said.
So less than four months after fleeing with his family to neighboring Egypt from the besieged Palestinian territory, he opened his eatery in Cairo's Nasr City neighborhood, AFP said.
The establishment is one of the many cafes, falafel joints, shawarma spots and sweets shops being started by newly arriving Palestinian entrepreneurs in the area -- despite only being granted temporary stays by Egypt.
These spaces have become a refuge for the traumatized Gazan community in Cairo, offering a livelihood to business owners, many of whom lost everything in the war.
"Even if the war stops now in Gaza, it would take me at least two or three years to get my life back on track," Abu Aoun said.
'Wiped out'
"Everything has been wiped out there," he continued.
His patrons are mainly fellow Palestinians, chatting in their distinct Gazan dialect as they devour sandwiches that remind them of home.
On a wall next to his shop was a mural of intertwining Egyptian and Palestinian flags.
"I have a responsibility to my family and children who are in university," said the restaurateur, whose two eateries in Gaza have now been completely destroyed.
Abu Aoun and his family are among more than 120,000 Palestinians who arrived in Egypt between November last year and May, according to Palestinian officials in Egypt.
They crossed through the Rafah border crossing, Gaza's only exit point to the outside world until Israeli forces seized the Palestinian side in early May and closed it ever since.
Although Egypt insists it won't do Israel's bidding by allowing permanent refugee camps on its territory, it had allowed in medical evacuees, dual passport holders and others who managed to escape.
Many drained their life savings to escape, paying thousands of dollars a head to the private Egyptian travel agency Hala, the only company coordinating Gaza evacuations.
War broke out in Gaza on October 7, 2023, after Hamas's surprise attack resulted in the deaths of 1,206 people, mostly civilians, according to an AFP tally of Israeli official figures.
Israel's retaliatory military campaign has killed 43,374 people in Gaza, most of them civilians, according to figures from the Hamas-run territory's health ministry which the UN considers reliable.
'Gaza's spirit'
Opening the restaurant was not an easy decision for Abu Aoun, but he says he's glad he did it.
"I'll open a second branch and expand," he said with a smile, while watching a family from Central Asia being served a traditional Gazan salad.
Nearby is Kazem, a branch of a decades-old, much-loved Gaza establishment serving iced dessert drinks.
Its Palestinian owner, Kanaan Kazem, opened the branch in September after settling in Cairo.
The shop offers ice cream on top of a drink sprinkled with pistachios, a Gazan-style treat known as "bouza w barad", which has become a fast favorite among the Egyptian patrons filling the shop.
"There's a certain fear and hesitation about opening a business in a place where people don't know you," said Kazem, 66.
But "if we're destined never to return, we must adapt to this new reality and start a new life", he said, standing alongside his sons.
Kazem hopes to return to Gaza, but his son Nader, who manages the shop, has decided to stay in Egypt.
"There are more opportunities, safety and stability here, and it's a large market," said Nader, a father of two.
Gazan patron Bashar Mohammed, 25, takes comfort in the flourishing Palestinian businesses.
"Little Gaza reminds me of Gaza's spirit and beauty and makes me feel like I'm really in Gaza," he said.
After more than a year of war, Gaza has become uninhabitable due to extensive destruction and damage to infrastructure, according to the United Nations.
"It'd be hard to go back to Gaza. There's no life left there," he said, taking a deep breath.
"I have to build a new life here."