Israeli military forces have unleashed a wave of mass remote detonations, demolishing entire villages across south Lebanon. Videos reviewed by The Guardian show explosions ripping through Taybeh, Naqoura, and Deir Seryan along the border. Lebanese media reports additional blasts in other villages, though satellite verification remains pending.
This scorched-earth campaign follows a stark declaration from Israel’s Defence Minister Israel Katz. He called for the destruction of “all houses” in border villages, citing the model used in Gaza’s Rafah and Beit Hanoun. In Rafah, Israeli operations previously obliterated 90% of homes.
Academics label this systematic eradication of civilian housing “domicide.” The strategy aims to render areas permanently uninhabitable. Israel claims it targets Hezbollah infrastructure—tunnels and military facilities hidden within civilian homes. The military plans to occupy vast swathes of south Lebanon up to the Litani River, establishing a “security zone.” Displaced residents will not be allowed back until safety for Israel’s northern cities is guaranteed, raising fears of long-term displacement.
Human rights organizations sound the alarm. These mass detonations could amount to wanton destruction—a potential war crime. International law prohibits deliberate home demolition unless absolutely necessary for military operations.
“The possibility that Hezbollah may use some civilian structures in Lebanon’s border villages for military purposes does not justify the wide-scale destruction of entire villages along the border,” asserts Ramzi Kaiss, Lebanon researcher for Human Rights Watch.
For villagers watching their homes explode on screen, the blasts erase more than bricks and mortar. Generations of memories vanish in an instant.
“The first thing we saw was the town square being blown up. I have a shop there. A person’s whole life is in that place, their work, their memories, everything. Suddenly you see it exploding in front of you,” says Ahmad Abu Taam, a 56-year-old construction supply shop owner from Taybeh. “From that moment, I felt that I had become a refugee. I feel like I have no home.”
Abu Taam faced displacement before during the 2024 Hezbollah-Israel war. Much of his village was damaged then, but his return brought joy. He rebuilt his shop from scratch, fueled by a sense of rediscovery. “When you arrive, it feels like you’ve found something you lost. But this time, everything is gone. Everything has been wiped out,” he explains.
Ahmad Ibrahim, a 50-year-old farmer from Deir Seryan, fled on March 2 with only a few pictures of his house. He left everything else behind, expecting to retrieve it later. “My whole life is there, I’ve never really left beyond 10-13km. It’s a beautiful, typical village – at least it was before the war. Its people are kind and generous,” Ibrahim recalls.
Spring now transforms Lebanon’s landscape, with Deir Seryan’s flowers blooming after winter rains. Ibrahim mourns his children missing this season at home. “The children remember the good times – spring and summer evenings, going out to the fields, collecting flowers and herbs, having dinner outdoors, making tea over a fire,” he says. “For the children, it was a beautiful place to grow up.”
Mohammed Hashem, a 65-year-old doctor, invested 15 years of 18-hour days to build the Luna motel in Naqoura in 2012. The multi-storey hotel attracted foreign travelers, Lebanese vacationers, and UN peacekeepers to the seaside town famed for Lebanon’s most beautiful beaches. “In summer, occupancy would reach 100%. We received good ratings and awards. Overall, we were happy – living peacefully, with good productivity,” Hashem notes. “It really was a family business.”
News of the hotel’s destruction triggered an outpouring of support from former guests. “We received thousands of likes and comments. People expressed how much they loved the place. Our guests were always happy – good prices, good service,” he adds.
South Lebanon’s villages have endured Israeli invasion and occupation since the late 1970s, a chronicle of displacement. Families from border areas now scatter globally—to Australia, Africa, Europe—seeking stability abroad. These villages served as anchors for diasporas, with summer and spring returns swelling populations.
“People would build houses worth a million dollars just to stay for a week or 10 days a year. The village becomes the centre of the family,” Abu Taam observes. “Because no matter where you go, you always long for your home. The place where you grew up, where you first felt at ease.”
That anchor is now shattered. “You feel a deep sense of frustration. Like someone has the power to erase you,” Abu Taam concludes.
