In southern Lebanon, the olive trees stand in dust and sunlight, their silver leaves trembling in the warm wind.

The roads between villages curve through hills marked by stone walls, mosques, and fields where spring should bring only the quiet rituals of harvest and prayer. In places like Majdal Zoun, life has long learned to move cautiously beneath the sound of distant aircraft. People pause when the sky changes. They listen for the difference between silence and warning.

This week, warning came twice.

The first strike hit a building in the town shortly after midday, sending smoke into the bright afternoon air and scattering rubble across the road. Neighbors ran toward the site. Civil defense crews arrived. Soldiers moved in with bulldozers and emergency vehicles, searching for survivors beneath broken concrete.

Then the second strike came.

In the same place.

In the same hour.

And among the dead were the people who had come to help.

Three Lebanese civil defense rescue workers were killed in what Lebanese officials described as a “double-tap” strike in Majdal Zoun, in southern Lebanon, after they responded to an earlier Israeli attack on the same area. Lebanon’s Health Ministry said at least five people were killed in the attack, while the Lebanese army reported that two of its soldiers were also wounded while escorting rescue teams and civilian bulldozers.

The dead were not carrying weapons, officials said.

They were carrying stretchers.

Prime Minister Nawaf Salam condemned the attack as “a new and blatant war crime,” accusing Israel of deliberately targeting humanitarian workers carrying out rescue operations. President Joseph Aoun echoed the accusation, saying the strike was part of a wider pattern of attacks on civilians, paramedics, and first responders, in violation of international law.

Their words arrived into a conflict already crowded with grief.

Despite a U.S.-brokered ceasefire announced only days ago, violence has continued across southern and eastern Lebanon. Israeli forces have carried out near-daily strikes, often citing Hezbollah positions, weapons depots, or militant movements. Hezbollah, in turn, has continued to launch rockets and drones toward northern Israel and contested border areas.

Ceasefire, in this landscape, has become a fragile word.

One spoken more often in meeting rooms than in villages.

Tuesday’s strike was not the only one.

Lebanon’s Health Ministry said at least eight people were killed across the country that day in separate Israeli attacks, including strikes in Jebchit and Jwaya that wounded women and children. Earlier this month, the killing of Lebanese journalist Amal Khalil in another reported “double-tap” strike drew international condemnation and renewed scrutiny over attacks on civilians and rescue personnel.

The United Nations Human Rights Office has previously warned that Israeli attacks targeting civilians and healthcare workers in Lebanon may constitute war crimes. Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International have also raised alarms over repeated strikes on medical infrastructure and emergency teams.

Israel has not immediately commented on the Majdal Zoun strike.

In previous incidents, Israeli officials have said operations target Hezbollah militants or infrastructure embedded in civilian areas. Israel has repeatedly accused Hezbollah of operating among residential neighborhoods, using civilian structures and emergency corridors to shield military activity.

But for families in Majdal Zoun, the arguments of governments feel far away.

There is only the dust.

The broken walls.

The ambulance lights flashing against stone houses.

The names added to lists.

In the villages of southern Lebanon, rescue workers are becoming symbols of a different kind of courage—arriving after the first blast, knowing there may be another. Drivers start engines with one eye on the sky. Medics run toward smoke while others run away. Every mission now carries the weight of what has already happened.

And still, they go.

As evening fell over the hills, the smoke thinned into the dark.

The roads quieted.

Somewhere in the distance, another aircraft moved across the sky.

And in homes lit by candles and generators, families waited again for morning—hoping the next silence might last longer than the last.

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Sources Reuters Al Jazeera Associated Press Amnesty International United Nations Human Rights Office