Divided Border Village at Heart of Israel-Lebanon Tensions 

This picture taken on August 9, 2023, shows a sign in Arabic, Hebrew and English in the village of Ghajar. (AFP)
This picture taken on August 9, 2023, shows a sign in Arabic, Hebrew and English in the village of Ghajar. (AFP)
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Divided Border Village at Heart of Israel-Lebanon Tensions 

This picture taken on August 9, 2023, shows a sign in Arabic, Hebrew and English in the village of Ghajar. (AFP)
This picture taken on August 9, 2023, shows a sign in Arabic, Hebrew and English in the village of Ghajar. (AFP)

Straddling the frontier between Lebanon and the Israeli-annexed Golan Heights, the picturesque village of Ghajar has become a lightning rod for tensions between the hostile forces on either side.

The latest tit-for-tat exchange saw Israeli Defense Minister Yoav Gallant and the chief of Lebanon's powerful Hezbollah movement, Hassan Nasrallah, vow to send the other's country "back to the Stone Age" if the other escalates violence.

On the sleepy streets of Ghajar, home to manicured flower beds and ice cream trucks, an invisible boundary is intended to keep the two sides apart.

"The Blue Line is in the air," resident Abu Youssef Hussein Tawfiq Khatib told AFP, referring to the United Nations demarcation line drawn when Israeli troops withdrew from south Lebanon in 2000.

"You see that the town is open, there are no borders or anything," added the 79-year-old, wearing a traditional white headdress near the village mosque.

But weeks earlier, Israelis erected a controversial fence topped with barbed wire on the Lebanese side of the Blue Line.

The move followed cross-border fire in April that was the heaviest since a devastating war between Israel and Hezbollah in 2006. That and other incidents have sparked fears of renewed conflict.

Any miscalculation could have devastating consequences. The month-long 2006 war killed 1,200 people in Lebanon -- mostly civilians -- and 160 Israelis, mostly soldiers.

With the neighboring countries still technically at war, Lebanon condemned the Ghajar fence as a unilateral Israeli "annexation" of the northern part of the village.

On July 6, an anti-tank missile was launched from Lebanese territory towards the new barrier, prompting retaliatory strikes by Israeli forces.

'Atmosphere of alert'

Despite the cross-border exchanges, Ghajar resident Nahlah Saeed insisted that right now "here's safe -- Israel's safe".

"In the future, I don't know. I know that I live well, happily," said Saeed, 63, sitting in the shade outside a house.

According to municipal figures, the village is home to around 3,000 people, who took Israeli citizenship after Israel seized the Golan Heights from Syria in the Six-Day War of 1967 and then annexed it in 1981 in a move never recognized by the international community.

Village spokesman Bilal Khatib said residents had the "right to build a fence around our own homes".

"The council built the barrier and stopped the soil being swept away, protecting these homes. A second reason was that we had, more than once, wild animals entering the village," he told AFP in his office.

Under the scorching sun, UN peacekeepers patrol the northern side of the new fence, which is meters high and looks over Lebanese homes in the village of Wazzani.

On both sides of the Blue Line, local officials told AFP about title deeds and pointed to maps which they said prove their ownership of the disputed land.

Wazzani mayor Ahmad al-Mohammed said he has "adapted to the atmosphere of alert".

"In recent years, there was Israeli bombardment, which took a human, material and livestock toll. But people don't leave the village, because they must be tied to their source of livelihood," he told an AFP journalist in south Lebanon.

Lebanese authorities consider the expansion of Ghajar, with its pastel-colored homes spreading to the north in recent decades, as an infringement on their land.

On the outskirts of Wazzani, shepherd Imad al-Mohammed rode a horse as he took his flock out to pasture.

"When the Lebanese lands in the vicinity of Ghajar are recovered, the pasture lands will increase and I'll take the sheep there," he told the AFP correspondent, pointing across to homes now behind the Israeli fence.

'Peace before everything'

The UN is mediating the fence affair and acts as an intermediary in talks over the Blue Line, at which refreshments must be served separately to the opposing sides by the Italian contingent.

"Despite all the tensions in the area, there is still a commitment from the parties, or no appetite for a conflict," said Andrea Tenenti, spokesman for the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL).

Under international agreements backed by the two governments, "Israel is obliged to withdraw from the northern part of the village of Ghajar," Tenenti said.

Lebanon, meanwhile, is obliged to remove a tent that was erected across the Blue Line northeast of Ghajar earlier this year.

An Israeli security official, speaking on condition of anonymity as he was not authorized to speak publicly, said the "rogue terrorist army" Hezbollah was behind the tent and UN mediation on the matter was underway.

"Nobody wants this to escalate, right, so he (Nasrallah) is also trying to keep it under the threshold. We're keeping it under the threshold," the official said.

He cited Israeli forces using non-lethal weapons to push back Hezbollah members who approached the border around 40 kilometers (25 miles) southwest of Ghajar, wounding three militants.

Standing within view of the valley, Khatib, the elderly Ghajar resident, underlined the importance of "peace before everything".

"That's it, and everyone has the rights that belong to them. I take the land that belongs to me, and he takes the land that belongs to him," he said.



War Piles Yet More Trauma on Lebanon's Exhausted People

'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
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War Piles Yet More Trauma on Lebanon's Exhausted People

'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP
'People just can't anymore,' said Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital - AFP

Ask a Lebanese person how they are, and you're likely to be met with a heavy pause or a pained smile. Years of crisis have drained them, and now Israeli air strikes are pushing many to breaking point.

Cartoonist Bernard Hage, who draws under the name Art of Boo, summed it up a few weeks ago with a layer cake.

These layers are "Financial Collapse", "Pandemic", the 2020 "Beirut Port Explosion", "Political Deadlock" and "Mass Depression".

"War" is now the cherry on top.

Carine Nakhle, a supervisor at suicide helpline Embrace, says the trauma is never-ending.

"The Lebanese population is not OK," she said, AFP reported.

The hotline's some 120 operators take shifts around the clock all week to field calls from people in distress.

Calls have increased to some 50 a day since Israel increased its airstrikes against Lebanon on September 23.

The callers are "people who are in shock, people who are panicking", Nakhle said.

"Many of them have been calling us from areas where they are being bombed or from shelters."

Israel's bombardment of Lebanon, mostly in the south and in Beirut's southern suburbs, has killed more than 1,100 people and displaced upwards of a million in less than two weeks.

Tens of thousands have found refuge in central Beirut, whose streets now throng with homeless people and where the traffic is even more swollen than usual.

- 'Huge injustice' -

Every night, airstrikes on the southern suburbs force people to flee their homes, as huge blasts rattle windows and spew clouds of debris skywards.

Ringing out across Beirut, the explosions awaken terrible memories: of the massive 2020 Beirut port blast that decimated large parts of the city; of the last war between Israel and Hezbollah in 2006; and of the 1975-1990 civil war.

This latest affliction comes on the back of years of the worst financial crisis in Lebanon's history that has plunged much of its middle class into poverty.

Rita Barotta, 45, lives near the relatively quiet Christian-majority town of Jounieh north of Beirut.

She says she cannot hear the airstrikes, but also that she no longer has the words "to describe what is happening" to Lebanon.

"I no longer know what being me 15 days ago looked like," said the university lecturer in communications, who has thrown herself into helping the displaced.

"Eating, sleeping, looking after my plants -- none of that's left. I'm another me. The only thing that exists now for me is how I can help."

Networking on her phone, Barotta spends her days trying to find shelter or medicine for those in need.

"If I stop for even five minutes, I feel totally empty," she said.

Barotta almost lost her mother in the Beirut port explosion, and says that keeping busy is the only way for her not to feel "overwhelmed and petrified".

"What is happening today is not just a new trauma, it's a sense of huge injustice. Why are we being put through all this?"

- 'Just can't anymore' -

A 2022 study before the war by Lebanese non-governmental organization IDRAAC found that at least a third of Lebanese battled with mental health problems.

Rami Bou Khalil, head of psychiatry at Beirut's Hotel Dieu hospital, said all Lebanese were struggling in one way or another.

"Lebanese have a great capacity for resilience," he said, citing support from family, community and religion.

"But there is this accumulation of stress that is making the glass overflow."

"For years, we have been drawing on our physical, psychological and financial resources. People just can't anymore," he said.

He said he worries because some people who should be hospitalized cannot afford it, and others are relapsing "because they can no longer take a hit".

Many more people were relying on sleeping pills.

"People want to sleep," he said, and swallowing pills is easier when you have neither the time nor the money to be treated.

Nakhle, from Embrace, said many people sought help from non-governmental organizations as they could not afford the $100 consultation fee for a therapist at a private clinic.

At the charity's health centre, the waiting list for an appointment is four to five months long.