.Lebanese Find Destruction Back Home
MARWAHEEN, Lebanon (AP) - Villagers began returning home Monday after Israel's 34-day onslaught that cut a jagged swath through southern Lebanon, leaving behind scenes of near-total destruction. In many border villages, gunmen emerged from collapsed buildings and hugged one another.
In Kafra, about six miles north of the frontier, two Hezbollah soldiers in fatigues and carrying rifles stood beneath a tree watching cars creep past bomb craters. The cease-fire was only hours old when residents in beat up cars and pickup trucks, children packed into the back, came bouncing along the ruined roads.
Smoke still rose from several of the buildings in Kafra. Entire streets lay in ruin. Bombs had smashed storefronts and apartment buildings alike all along the southern border.
The Israeli force had gotten as far as high ground at Beit Yahoun, nine miles north of the frontier after punching past Hezbollah defenses at Bint Jbail in several days of some of the heaviest fighting in the war.
Bint Jbail was a deserted wasteland of smashed homes. Intermittent fighting had continued until shortly before the cease-fire took effect at 8 a.m. (1 a.m. EDT) Monday. The road into the town from Tibnin, also hard hit, was littered with unexploded artillery shells and spent rockets.
Yaroun, a community of Christians and Muslims about a mile from the border, was flattened, too, as residents came back, shocked by what they saw.
Jamila Marina screamed and wailed as she stumbled over rubble that led to her two story home. The back half of the house was collapsed onto the living room. Dazed and shocked, she ran from the living room to a smashed bedroom, screaming and grabbing up bedding.
"I don't know what we did to deserve this. I don't know what we did," she yelled.
Yaroun had been mostly abandoned but there was the sound of small arms fire inside the town. At the Greek Orthodox Church, a confessional had been pushed against the main door for protection. Muslims and Christians both had taken shelter there. The roof was pierced in many places by artillery shells.
Rosetta Ajaka had just renovated her two-story home before she and her family fled four days into the war. Ajaka's husband had been a cook for the Israeli occupation force that controlled southern Lebanon until 2000.
"Hezbollah said we were spies for Israel. We were too afraid. We left. But look at this, everything we had was gone," as she walked over smashed glass and pointed to the holes caused by rockets. A Hezbollah launcher still sat in the front garden.
The tobacco leaves the family grew and had left to dry, were burned - their hope for income up in smoke.
The hardest hit village in the south was Aita al-Shaab, the scene of one of the fiercest battles. Nothing seemed undamaged. Clothing spilled out of shattered shops. Houses and apartment buildings were piles of twisted girders and broken concrete and plaster. Power lines snapped in the wind, wrapping around cars.
Mona Qasim, an elderly woman with a headscarf and a long black coat, held a picture of her brother, killed in the last war with Israel in 1996. By her side were two daughters, one carrying a yellow scarf with the picture of Hezbollah leader Sheik Hassan Nasrallah. She kissed it as she spoke.
A young man with a two-way radio stood nearby and said he was a Hezbollah fighter. A second appeared out of the ruins, carrying a short-stock Kalashnikov with a 30-round magazine. Neither man would give their name.
"From the first day of the bombing we were here. In the last few days we fought Israel street to street," said the young man with the radio.
Pockmarks from small arms fire covered what walls were still standing, an indication of intense house-to-house fighting.
It seemed impossible that non-fighters could still be in the town, but Mohammed Abdul Karim, an old man, appeared from his home, where the upper floor had pancaked onto the ground level.
"When the bomb hit my house we were in a room below ground," he explained.
He crawled out at night to creep through the village to scavenge food.
"This is my village. I knew where I could find some fruit and some tomatoes," he said, hunching in imitation of his posture as he sneaked around in the darkness.
From Aita al-Shaab to Marwaheen, about three miles farther west, Israeli soldiers still held the high ground, keeping guard over the road that paralleled the border, within a few hundred yards at some points.
From their hilltop post at the entrance to Marwaheen, Israelis fired warning shots at two intruding vehicles carrying western journalists. One shot blew out a tire. The firing continued as the two vehicles barreled to a stop in front of an abandoned, unfinished house.
The journalists hid inside. Outside a dozen soldiers in full camouflage and heavily armed crept toward the building, taking careful aim at the building as they tried to determine who was inside.
After 30 minutes, when the soldiers understood they were dealing with reporters, not Hezbollah, they ordered the intruders out and told them to drive back to the east.
Before they left, one soldier said in a soft voice, "Make your message a message of peace."
They refused to be photographed, and the same soldier said, "Maybe it will be different in the next generation."
MyWay
They call this victory, what the fuck would a defeat look like. Damn fools.
In Kafra, about six miles north of the frontier, two Hezbollah soldiers in fatigues and carrying rifles stood beneath a tree watching cars creep past bomb craters. The cease-fire was only hours old when residents in beat up cars and pickup trucks, children packed into the back, came bouncing along the ruined roads.
Smoke still rose from several of the buildings in Kafra. Entire streets lay in ruin. Bombs had smashed storefronts and apartment buildings alike all along the southern border.
The Israeli force had gotten as far as high ground at Beit Yahoun, nine miles north of the frontier after punching past Hezbollah defenses at Bint Jbail in several days of some of the heaviest fighting in the war.
Bint Jbail was a deserted wasteland of smashed homes. Intermittent fighting had continued until shortly before the cease-fire took effect at 8 a.m. (1 a.m. EDT) Monday. The road into the town from Tibnin, also hard hit, was littered with unexploded artillery shells and spent rockets.
Yaroun, a community of Christians and Muslims about a mile from the border, was flattened, too, as residents came back, shocked by what they saw.
Jamila Marina screamed and wailed as she stumbled over rubble that led to her two story home. The back half of the house was collapsed onto the living room. Dazed and shocked, she ran from the living room to a smashed bedroom, screaming and grabbing up bedding.
"I don't know what we did to deserve this. I don't know what we did," she yelled.
Yaroun had been mostly abandoned but there was the sound of small arms fire inside the town. At the Greek Orthodox Church, a confessional had been pushed against the main door for protection. Muslims and Christians both had taken shelter there. The roof was pierced in many places by artillery shells.
Rosetta Ajaka had just renovated her two-story home before she and her family fled four days into the war. Ajaka's husband had been a cook for the Israeli occupation force that controlled southern Lebanon until 2000.
"Hezbollah said we were spies for Israel. We were too afraid. We left. But look at this, everything we had was gone," as she walked over smashed glass and pointed to the holes caused by rockets. A Hezbollah launcher still sat in the front garden.
The tobacco leaves the family grew and had left to dry, were burned - their hope for income up in smoke.
The hardest hit village in the south was Aita al-Shaab, the scene of one of the fiercest battles. Nothing seemed undamaged. Clothing spilled out of shattered shops. Houses and apartment buildings were piles of twisted girders and broken concrete and plaster. Power lines snapped in the wind, wrapping around cars.
Mona Qasim, an elderly woman with a headscarf and a long black coat, held a picture of her brother, killed in the last war with Israel in 1996. By her side were two daughters, one carrying a yellow scarf with the picture of Hezbollah leader Sheik Hassan Nasrallah. She kissed it as she spoke.
A young man with a two-way radio stood nearby and said he was a Hezbollah fighter. A second appeared out of the ruins, carrying a short-stock Kalashnikov with a 30-round magazine. Neither man would give their name.
"From the first day of the bombing we were here. In the last few days we fought Israel street to street," said the young man with the radio.
Pockmarks from small arms fire covered what walls were still standing, an indication of intense house-to-house fighting.
It seemed impossible that non-fighters could still be in the town, but Mohammed Abdul Karim, an old man, appeared from his home, where the upper floor had pancaked onto the ground level.
"When the bomb hit my house we were in a room below ground," he explained.
He crawled out at night to creep through the village to scavenge food.
"This is my village. I knew where I could find some fruit and some tomatoes," he said, hunching in imitation of his posture as he sneaked around in the darkness.
From Aita al-Shaab to Marwaheen, about three miles farther west, Israeli soldiers still held the high ground, keeping guard over the road that paralleled the border, within a few hundred yards at some points.
From their hilltop post at the entrance to Marwaheen, Israelis fired warning shots at two intruding vehicles carrying western journalists. One shot blew out a tire. The firing continued as the two vehicles barreled to a stop in front of an abandoned, unfinished house.
The journalists hid inside. Outside a dozen soldiers in full camouflage and heavily armed crept toward the building, taking careful aim at the building as they tried to determine who was inside.
After 30 minutes, when the soldiers understood they were dealing with reporters, not Hezbollah, they ordered the intruders out and told them to drive back to the east.
Before they left, one soldier said in a soft voice, "Make your message a message of peace."
They refused to be photographed, and the same soldier said, "Maybe it will be different in the next generation."
MyWay
They call this victory, what the fuck would a defeat look like. Damn fools.
posted by madtom at 11:16 PM
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