In southern Lebanon, the land has learned to live in fragments.

Morning arrives over olive groves and stone homes with a certain hesitation, as if the light itself is unsure whether it is welcome. In villages near the Litani River, people have grown used to reading the sky—not for rain, but for the hum of drones, the sudden arc of smoke, the low and distant thunder that turns conversation into silence.

A ceasefire, in such places, is not always peace.

It can be a word spoken in distant capitals, signed beneath chandeliers and cameras, while the earth continues to tremble elsewhere. It can be an agreement on paper and a question in the air. In Lebanon this week, that question has lingered heavily over the south, where the line between pause and continuation has blurred almost beyond recognition.

Since the U.S.-brokered ceasefire between Israel and Lebanon began on April 16, at least 15 people have reportedly been killed in Israeli strikes and exchanges of fire across southern Lebanon, according to Lebanese officials and local reports. The truce—announced as a 10-day cessation of hostilities and later extended for another three weeks—was meant to quiet a border that had burned for weeks under escalating violence between Israeli forces and Hezbollah.

Yet the quiet has remained incomplete.

Israeli forces continued airstrikes and artillery attacks in towns including Touline, Yater, and areas near Bint Jbeil. The Israeli military said several Hezbollah fighters had been “eliminated” during exchanges of fire and maintained that operations were defensive, aimed at threats near or within the security zone Israeli troops continue to occupy in southern Lebanon.

Hezbollah, which was not formally a party to the ceasefire negotiations, called the extension “meaningless” in light of what it described as continued assassinations, shelling, and incursions. The group resumed rocket and drone fire toward Israeli troops and positions across the border, saying each strike gave it the “right to retaliate.”

So the cycle resumes in familiar rhythms.

A warning siren in northern Israel. An evacuation notice in a Lebanese village. A drone in the sky. A family gathering what it can carry. A medic running toward smoke. A statement issued in Jerusalem. Another in Beirut. Another in Washington.

And somewhere between these statements, names are added to lists.

The United Nations has expressed concern that both Israeli strikes and Hezbollah’s unguided rocket attacks may violate international humanitarian law. The UN Human Rights Office cited incidents involving residential buildings, journalists, and emergency responders, warning that the principles of distinction and proportionality appear increasingly strained.

In Lebanon, the numbers continue to rise.

Since the broader escalation resumed on March 2, Lebanese authorities say nearly 2,500 people have been killed and thousands more wounded. Entire neighborhoods in the south have been emptied. Roads have been cut. Bridges have collapsed. In Tyre and Nabatieh, in villages where fig trees and market stalls once marked ordinary life, homes now stand open to the wind.

War changes the vocabulary of a place.

Words like “return” become uncertain. “Home” becomes conditional. “Ceasefire” becomes a phrase spoken carefully, with little trust.

And still diplomacy continues.

President Donald Trump announced the extension of the ceasefire after talks in Washington, describing it as a step toward broader peace negotiations. The Lebanese government has called for a full Israeli withdrawal from occupied territory in the south. Israel insists it must retain freedom of action against Hezbollah threats. France has offered to broker further talks. The United States continues to press for a wider regional proposal tied to the war’s shifting fronts.

But the people living beneath the aircraft hear a different language.

It is the language of impact. Of shattered glass. Of radios and ambulances. Of mothers calling children inside before sunset.

In the villages near the border, spring has come quietly. Grass grows between broken stones. Smoke lifts and thins in the evening air. Somewhere, a shop reopens for an hour. Somewhere else, another closes for good.

The ceasefire remains in effect, at least in name.

Yet in southern Lebanon, peace still feels like something seen from a distance—visible for a moment, then lost again in smoke.

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Sources Reuters Al Jazeera United Nations CBS News Agence France-Presse