Some Defiant South Lebanese Stay Put in Face of Israeli Fire

Health ministry figures reveal at least 1,829 people have been killed inside Lebanon since Israel's full scare war started - AFP
Health ministry figures reveal at least 1,829 people have been killed inside Lebanon since Israel's full scare war started - AFP
TT

Some Defiant South Lebanese Stay Put in Face of Israeli Fire

Health ministry figures reveal at least 1,829 people have been killed inside Lebanon since Israel's full scare war started - AFP
Health ministry figures reveal at least 1,829 people have been killed inside Lebanon since Israel's full scare war started - AFP

Cattle farmer Khairallah Yaacoub refused to leave south Lebanon despite a year of Hezbollah-Israel clashes. When full-scale war erupted, he and four others were stranded in their ruined border village.

Yaacoub is among a handful of villagers in the war-battered south who have tried to stay put despite the Israeli onslaught.

He finally fled Hula village only after being wounded by shrapnel and losing half of his 16-strong herd to Israeli strikes.

They had been marooned by constant bombardment and with rubble-strewn access roads all but unpassable.

The two of the five remaining had no mobile phones and could not be located.

"I wanted to stay with the cows, my livelihood. But in the end I had to leave them too because I was injured," Yaacoub, 55, told AFP.

With no immediate access to a hospital, he had to remove the shrapnel himself using a knife to cauterise his wound and then apply herbal medicine to it.

"It was difficult for me to leave my house because warplanes were constantly circling above our heads and bombing around us," he said, describing weeks of sleepless nights amid intense strikes.

Now north of Beirut, Yaacoub said he dreams of returning home.

"When I arrived in Beirut, I wished I'd died in Hula and never left," he said.

"If there's a ceasefire, I will return to Hula that very night. I'm very attached to the village."

- 'Smoke shisha' -

On September 23, Israel began an air campaign mainly targeting Hezbollah strongholds and later launched ground incursions.

According to an AFP tally of health ministry figures, at least 1,829 people have been killed inside Lebanon since then.

The war has displaced at least 1.3 million people, more than 800,000 of them inside the country, the United Nations migration agency says.

Scarred by memories of Israel's occupation of south Lebanon, a few villagers have refused to leave, fearing they might never see their hometowns again.

On October 22, UN peacekeepers evacuated two elderly sisters, the last residents of the border village of Qawzah, to the nearby Christian village of Rmeish.

Christian and Druze-majority areas have remained relatively safe, with Israel mostly targeting Shiite-majority areas where Hezbollah holds sway.

AFP contacted half a dozen mayors, from the coastal town of Naqura near the border to Qana, about 20 kilometres (12 miles) away, who said villages and towns had been emptied.

But just a few kilometres north of Qana, Abu Fadi, 80, said he is refusing to leave Tayr Debba, a village Israel has repeatedly attacked.

"Since 1978, every time there's an invasion I come back to the village," said the retired south Beirut policeman who now runs a coffee stall in the shade of an olive tree.

"I smoke my shisha and stay put. I'm not scared."

- 'No torture' -

About 5,000 people used to live in Tayr Debba near the main southern city of Tyre, but now only a handful remain, he said.

"About 10 houses in our neighbourhood alone were damaged, with most completely levelled," Fadi said.

"I have long been attached to this house and land."

But he "felt relieved" his nine children and 60 grandchildren -- who repeatedly beg him to leave -- were safe.

Bombs are not the only danger southern Lebanese face.

Israeli soldiers detained a man and a nun in two border villages before releasing them, a Lebanese security official told AFP.

Ihab Serhan, in his sixties, lived with his cat and two dogs in Kfar Kila until soldiers stormed the village and took him to Israel for questioning.

"It was a pain, but at least there was no torture," he told AFP.

He was released about 10 days later and questioned again by the Lebanese army before being freed, he said.

A strike destroyed his car, stranding him without power, water or communications as his village became a battlefield.

"I was stubborn. I didn't want to leave my home," Serhan said.

His late father dreamt of growing old in the village, but died before Israel ended its occupation of the south in 2000, and did not return.

Now the family home has been destroyed.

"I don't know what happened to my animals. Not a single house was left standing in Kfar Kila," Serhan said.



Kamala or Harris? How to Thread the Needle on Politics, Gender and Race

Democratic presidential nominee, US Vice President Kamala Harris speaks during a campaign rally at the Alliant Energy Center on October 30, 2024 in Madison, Wisconsin. Harris and her opponent, Republican presidential nominee former President Donald Trump, are currently in a dead heat in the swing state.   Scott Olson/Getty Images/AFP (Photo by SCOTT OLSON / GETTY IMAGES NORTH AMERICA / Getty Images via AFP)
Democratic presidential nominee, US Vice President Kamala Harris speaks during a campaign rally at the Alliant Energy Center on October 30, 2024 in Madison, Wisconsin. Harris and her opponent, Republican presidential nominee former President Donald Trump, are currently in a dead heat in the swing state. Scott Olson/Getty Images/AFP (Photo by SCOTT OLSON / GETTY IMAGES NORTH AMERICA / Getty Images via AFP)
TT

Kamala or Harris? How to Thread the Needle on Politics, Gender and Race

Democratic presidential nominee, US Vice President Kamala Harris speaks during a campaign rally at the Alliant Energy Center on October 30, 2024 in Madison, Wisconsin. Harris and her opponent, Republican presidential nominee former President Donald Trump, are currently in a dead heat in the swing state.   Scott Olson/Getty Images/AFP (Photo by SCOTT OLSON / GETTY IMAGES NORTH AMERICA / Getty Images via AFP)
Democratic presidential nominee, US Vice President Kamala Harris speaks during a campaign rally at the Alliant Energy Center on October 30, 2024 in Madison, Wisconsin. Harris and her opponent, Republican presidential nominee former President Donald Trump, are currently in a dead heat in the swing state. Scott Olson/Getty Images/AFP (Photo by SCOTT OLSON / GETTY IMAGES NORTH AMERICA / Getty Images via AFP)

What's in a name? For Kamala Harris, it's a way to assert her own authority, implicitly celebrate her identity -- and blunt attacks by her White House rival, Donald Trump.
The former Republican president persists in calling Harris by her first name at his rallies -- a contrast to how he referred to the former Democratic presidential candidate, Joe Biden, either as "Biden" or sometimes "Sleepy Joe."
The 78-year-old billionaire also makes a point of mispronouncing "Kamala," telling a rally at the end of July that there were "numerous ways of saying her name."
"I said, don't worry about it. It doesn't matter what I say. I couldn't care less if I mispronounce it," he continued.
On the surface, it's just another attack by a politician famous for his belittling nicknames.
But when it comes to a woman and a person of color, Trump's insistence on referring to Harris by her first name -- and mangling it -- takes on a more insidious tone.
"Calling women leaders by their first name is often done to undercut their authority," explains Karrin Vasby Anderson, a professor of communications at Colorado State University.
As for the pronunciation, some believe Trump is attempting to "other" Harris -- and remind his supporters that her father was from Jamaica and her mother emigrated from India.
That impression becomes more pointed when created by a presidential candidate who often deploys racist and violent rhetoric against migrants, especially during an election with a growing gender divide, said AFP.
"It's noteworthy that Trump often mispronounces her name for humorous effect, tacitly implying that the notion of a Black woman with South Asian heritage running for president is worthy of ridicule," Anderson says.
"But it's also interesting that he not only mispronounces it, but he makes the claim that she doesn't know how to pronounce her own name. It's the ultimate mansplain."
'La-la-la-la-la'
Harris has turned Trump's attacks around, however -- making a point of both celebrating her first name and emphasizing how to pronounce it.
When Biden withdrew from the race in July, endorsing Harris, the campaign team's account on X swiftly changed from "Biden HQ" to "Kamala HQ."
At rallies, "Kamala" signs are waved side by side with "Harris Walz" posters, referring to her running mate Tim Walz.
In Washington on Tuesday evening, tens of thousands of people chanted the name as Harris delivered a major address with the White House lit up in the background -- creating a contrast between the solemnity of the moment and an almost affectionate note.
As for the pronunciation, the 60-year-old vice president's two great-nieces took to the stage at the Democratic National Convention in August to explain how it's done with the help of Emmy-winning actress Kerry Washington.
The trio divided the crowd up, with one side chanting "Kama" -- "like a comma in a sentence," and the other responding "la" -- "like la-la-la-la-la."
Some Harris campaign signs even read ",LA" -- a cheeky reference to the pronunciation.
Harris's first name has another version: "Momala" -- the nickname given to Harris by her stepchildren, Ella and Cole Emhoff.
'Madam President'
After Biden's dramatic decision to drop out of the race, Harris entered late and with a lack of notoriety. Making herself known by her first name is one strategy among others to bridge the gap.
It's a trick that has been used often by American politicians to create their public persona.
Progressive US Senator Bernie Sanders is often referred to by his first name, and Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg is widely known as "Mayor Pete" in reference to his former title in South Bend, Indiana.
Going by Kamala also allows Harris to sow hints of her unusual background -- and the potentially historic nature of her presidency.
"She does not need to explicitly remind people that she's a woman or that she's a Black and South Asian woman," says Kelly Dittmar, professor of political science at Rutgers University.
"She represents a kind of approach to identity in political campaigning that ... just doesn't need to be explicit."
As for the mansplaining, Harris's husband Doug Emhoff, who hopes to become the first ever First Gentleman, had a pithy comeback.
"Mr. Trump, I know you have so much trouble pronouncing her name," Emhoff said during a campaign event in August.
"Here's the good news. After the election, you can just call her Madam President."