UN Resolution 1701 at the Heart of the Israel-Hezbollah Ceasefire

An empty United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) observation tower on the Israel-Lebanon border, near the southern Lebanese city of Al-Khiam, as seen from northern Israel, 26 November 2024, amid cross-border hostilities between Hezbollah and Israel. (EPA)
An empty United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) observation tower on the Israel-Lebanon border, near the southern Lebanese city of Al-Khiam, as seen from northern Israel, 26 November 2024, amid cross-border hostilities between Hezbollah and Israel. (EPA)
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UN Resolution 1701 at the Heart of the Israel-Hezbollah Ceasefire

An empty United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) observation tower on the Israel-Lebanon border, near the southern Lebanese city of Al-Khiam, as seen from northern Israel, 26 November 2024, amid cross-border hostilities between Hezbollah and Israel. (EPA)
An empty United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) observation tower on the Israel-Lebanon border, near the southern Lebanese city of Al-Khiam, as seen from northern Israel, 26 November 2024, amid cross-border hostilities between Hezbollah and Israel. (EPA)

In 2006, after a bruising monthlong war between Israel and Lebanon’s Hezbollah armed group, the United Nations Security Council unanimously voted for a resolution to end the conflict and pave the way for lasting security along the border.

But while relative calm stood for nearly two decades, Resolution 1701’s terms were never fully enforced.

Now, figuring out how to finally enforce it is key to a US-brokered deal that brought a ceasefire Wednesday.

In late September, after nearly a year of low-level clashes, the conflict between Israel and Hezbollah spiraled into all-out war and an Israeli ground invasion. As Israeli jets pound deep inside Lebanon and Hezbollah fires rockets deeper into northern Israel, UN and diplomatic officials again turned to the 2006 resolution in a bid to end the conflict.

Years of deeply divided politics and regionwide geopolitical hostilities have halted substantial progress on its implementation, yet the international community believes Resolution 1701 is still the brightest prospect for long-term stability between Israel and Lebanon.

Almost two decades after the last war between Israel and Hezbollah, the United States led shuttle diplomacy efforts between Lebanon and Israel to agree on a ceasefire proposal that renewed commitment to the resolution, this time with an implementation plan to try to reinvigorate the document.

What is UNSC Resolution 1701? In 2000, Israel withdrew its forces from most of southern Lebanon along a UN-demarcated “Blue Line” that separated the two countries and the Israeli-occupied Golan Heights in Syria. UN Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) peacekeepers increased their presence along the line of withdrawal.

Resolution 1701 was supposed to complete Israel’s withdrawal from southern Lebanon and ensure Hezbollah would move north of the Litani River, keeping the area exclusively under the Lebanese military and UN peacekeepers.

Up to 15,000 UN peacekeepers would help to maintain calm, return displaced Lebanese and secure the area alongside the Lebanese military.

The goal was long-term security, with land borders eventually demarcated to resolve territorial disputes.

The resolution also reaffirmed previous ones that call for the disarmament of all armed groups in Lebanon — Hezbollah among them.

“It was made for a certain situation and context,” Elias Hanna, a retired Lebanese army general, told The Associated Press. “But as time goes on, the essence of the resolution begins to hollow.”

Has Resolution 1701 been implemented? For years, Lebanon and Israel blamed each other for countless violations along the tense frontier. Israel said Hezbollah’s elite Radwan Force and growing arsenal remained, and accused the group of using a local environmental organization to spy on troops.

Lebanon complained about Israeli military jets and naval ships entering Lebanese territory even when there was no active conflict.

“You had a role of the UNIFIL that slowly eroded like any other peacekeeping with time that has no clear mandate,” said Joseph Bahout, the director of the Issam Fares Institute for Public Policy at the American University of Beirut. “They don’t have permission to inspect the area without coordinating with the Lebanese army.”

UNIFIL for years has urged Israel to withdraw from some territory north of the frontier, but to no avail. In the ongoing war, the peacekeeping mission has accused Israel, as well as Hezbollah, of obstructing and harming its forces and infrastructure.

Hezbollah’s power, meanwhile, has grown, both in its arsenal and as a political influence in the Lebanese state.

The Iran-backed group was essential in keeping Syrian President Bashar Assad in power when armed opposition groups tried to topple him, and it supports Iran-backed groups in Iraq and Yemen. It has an estimated 150,000 rockets and missiles, including precision-guided missiles pointed at Israel, and has introduced drones into its arsenal.

Hanna says Hezbollah “is something never seen before as a non-state actor” with political and military influence.

How do mediators hope to implement 1701 almost two decades later? Israel's security Cabinet approved the ceasefire agreement late Tuesday, according to Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu's office. The ceasefire began at 4 am local time Wednesday.

Efforts led by the US and France for the ceasefire between Israel and Hezbollah underscored that they still view the resolution as key. For almost a year, Washington has promoted various versions of a deal that would gradually lead to its full implementation.

International mediators hope that by boosting financial support for the Lebanese army — which was not a party in the Israel-Hezbollah war — Lebanon can deploy some 6,000 additional troops south of the Litani River to help enforce the resolution. Under the deal, an international monitoring committee headed by the United States would oversee implementation to ensure that Hezbollah and Israel’s withdrawals take place.

It is not entirely clear how the committee would work or how potential violations would be reported and dealt with.

The circumstances now are far more complicated than in 2006. Some are still skeptical of the resolution's viability given that the political realities and balance of power both regionally and within Lebanon have dramatically changed since then.

“You’re tying 1701 with a hundred things,” Bahout said. “A resolution is the reflection of a balance of power and political context.”

Now with the ceasefire in place, the hope is that Israel and Lebanon can begin negotiations to demarcate their land border and settle disputes over several points along the Blue Line for long-term security after decades of conflict and tension.



Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
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Childhood Cancer Patients in Lebanon Must Battle Disease while Under Fire

Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)
Mohammad Mousawi, 8, a displaced boy from the southern suburb of Beirut who suffers from leukaemia, steps out the entrance of the Children's Cancer Center of Lebanon, in Beirut, Lebanon, Friday, Nov. 15, 2024. (AP Photo/Hussein Malla)

Carol Zeghayer gripped her IV as she hurried down the brightly lit hallway of Beirut’s children’s cancer center. The 9-year-old's face brightened when she spotted her playmates from the oncology ward.

Diagnosed with cancer just months before the conflict between Hezbollah and Israel erupted in October 2023, Carol relies on weekly trips to the center in the Lebanese capital for treatment.

But what used to be a 90-minute drive, now takes up to three hours on a mountainous road to skirt the heavy bombardment in south Lebanon, but still not without danger from Israeli airstrikes. The family is just one among many across Lebanon now grappling with the hardships of both illness and war.

“She’s just a child. When they strike, she asks me, ‘Mama, was that far?’” said her mother, Sindus Hamra, The AP reported.

The family lives in Hasbaya, a province in southeastern Lebanon where the rumble of Israeli airstrikes has become part of daily life. Just 15 minutes away from their home, in the front-line town of Khiam, Israeli troops and Hezbollah fighters clash amidst relentless bombardments.

On the morning of a recent trip to Beirut for her treatment, the family heard a rocket roar and its deafening impact as they left their home. Israeli airstrikes have also hit vehicles along the Damascus-Beirut highway, which Carol and her mother have to cross.

The bombardment hasn’t let up even as hopes grew in recent days that a ceasefire might soon be agreed.

More than war, Hamra fears that Carol will miss chemotherapy.

“Her situation is very tricky — her cancer can spread to her head,” Hamra said, her eyes filling with tears. Her daughter, diagnosed first with cancer of the lymph nodes and later leukemia, has completed a third of her treatment, with many months still ahead.

While Carol's family remains in their home, many in Lebanon have been displaced by an intensified Israeli bombardment that began in late September. Tens of thousands fled their homes in southern and eastern Lebanon, as well as Beirut’s southern suburbs — among them were families with children battling cancer.

The Children’s Cancer Center of Lebanon quickly identified each patient’s location to ensure treatments remained uninterrupted, sometimes facilitating them at hospitals closer to the families' new locations, said Zeina El Chami, the center’s fundraising and events executive.

During the first days of the escalation, the center admitted some patients for emergency care and kept them there as it was unsafe to send them home, said Dolly Noun, a pediatric hematologist and oncologist.

“They had no place to go,” she added. "We’ve had patients getting admitted for panic attacks. It has not been easy.”

The war has not only deepened the struggles of young patients.

“Many physicians have had to relocate,” Noun said. “I know physicians, who work here, who haven’t seen their parents in like six weeks because the roads are very dangerous.”

Since 2019, Lebanon has been battered by cascading crises — economic collapse, the devastating Beirut port explosion in 2020, and now a relentless war — leaving institutions like the cancer center struggling to secure the funds needed to save lives.

“Cancer waits for no one,” Chami said. The crises have affected the center’s ability to hold fundraising events in recent years, leaving it in urgent need of donations, she added.

The facility is currently treating more than 400 patients aged from few days to 18 years old, Chami said. It treats around 60% of children with cancer in Lebanon.

For Carol, the war is sometimes a topic of conversation with her friends at the cancer center. Her mother hears her recount hearing the booms and how the house shook.

For others, the moments with their friends in the center's playroom provide a brief escape from the grim reality outside.

Eight-year-old Mohammad Mousawi darts around the playroom, giggling as he hides objects and books for his playmate to find. Too absorbed by the game, he barely answers questions, before the nurse calls him for his weekly chemotherapy treatment.

His family lived in Ghobeiry, a neighborhood in Beirut’s southern suburbs. Their house was marked for destruction in an Israeli evacuation warning weeks ago, his mother said.

“But till now, they haven’t struck it,” said his mother, Suzan Mousawi. “They have hit (buildings) around it — two behind it and two in front of it.”

The family has relocated three times. They first moved to the mountains, but the bitter cold weakened Mohammad’s already fragile immune system.

Now they’ve settled in Ain el-Rummaneh, not far from their home in the southern Beirut suburbs known as Dahiyeh, which has come under significant bombardment. As the Israeli military widened the radius of its bombardment, some buildings hit were less than 500 meters (yards) from their current home.

The Mousawis have lived their entire lives in Dahiyeh, Suzan Mousawi said, until the war uprooted them. Her parents’ home was bombed. “All our memories are gone,” she said.

Mohammad has 15 weeks of treatment left, and his family is praying it will be successful. But the war has stolen some of their dreams.

“When Mohammad fell ill, we bought a house,” she said. “It wasn’t big, but it was something. I bought him an electric scooter and set up a pool, telling myself we’d take him there once he finishes treatment.”

She fears the house, bought with every penny she had saved, could be lost at any moment.

For some families, this kind of conflict is not new. Asinat Al Lahham, a 9-year-old patient of the cancer center, is a refugee whose family fled Syria.

“We escaped one war to another,” Asinat’s mother, Fatima, added.

As her father, Aouni, drove home from her chemotherapy treatment weeks ago, an airstrike happened. He cranked up the music in the car, trying to drown out the deafening sound of the attack.

Asinat sat in the back seat, clutching her favorite toy. “I wanted to distract her, to make her hear less of it,” he said.

In the medical ward on a recent day, Asinat sat in a chair hooked to an IV drip, negotiating with her doctor. “Just two or three small pinches,” she pleaded, asking for flavoring for her instant noodles that she is not supposed to have.

“I don’t feel safe ... nowhere is safe ... not Lebanon, not Syria, not Palestine,” Asinat said. “The sonic booms are scary, but the noodles make it better,” she added with a mischievous grin.

The family has no choice but to stay in Lebanon. Returning to Syria, where their home is gone, would mean giving up Asinat’s treatment.

“We can’t leave here,” her mother said. “This war, her illness ... it’s like there’s no escape.”