When Israel issued sweeping evacuation orders across South Lebanon in the early morning of March 2, 2026, hundreds of thousands of residents were once again forced to leave villages they had only recently returned to after the fragile November 2024 ceasefire agreement. Days later, the Israeli military’s Arabic-language spokesperson expanded these calls repeatedly, issuing broader warnings on March 4 that urged civilians living south of the Litani River to evacuate north immediately. Over the following days, evacuation areas expanded further to include large parts of Tyre and Nabatieh districts, as well as Beirut’s southern suburbs and villages in the Beqaa Valley. On March 17, the Israeli army issued yet another forced evacuation order for the city of Tyre and its surrounding area. The evacuation zone spans much of southern Lebanon, representing one of the largest civilian displacement in the country.
Vehicles carrying families and essential belongings began moving north from border villages as residents attempted to comply with evacuation warnings before hostilities intensified. Parents gathered children and elderly relatives while communities coordinated departure routes and temporary destinations. Within two weeks of the escalation, over one million people—more than 20 percent of the country’s population—were displaced according to Lebanese government and humanitarian estimates. For many of those who have been displaced, however, this was not the first time they had to flee.
Across villages along the southern border, families had spent the previous year attempting to rebuild their lives after the 2024 war. Between September and November 2024 alone, more than 1.2 million people were displaced across Lebanon as cross-border hostilities intensified. Tens of thousands of homes were damaged or destroyed across southern Lebanon, leaving entire villages partially or completely in ruins.
We repaired the roof of the house and planted again. But we never fully unpacked. We knew the situation could change at any moment.
Nabil, a farmer from the outskirts of Bint Jbeil
Even after the November 2024 ceasefire was announced, many residents remained unable to return due to widespread destruction and continued insecurity, while in some areas, Israeli forces prevented civilians from returning for months following the agreement. More than 40,000 buildings across southern Lebanon were heavily damaged or destroyed during the conflict. Much of the destruction occurred not only during the 2024 war, but also in the months following the ceasefire, as near-daily strikes and cross-border attacks continued.
Homes damaged by shelling were repaired as best as possible, small shops reopened, and farmers returned to their land. Yet even as daily routines slowly resumed, the possibility of renewed violence remained ever present. “We came back because we believed things had calmed down,” said Nabil, a farmer from the outskirts of Bint Jbeil who returned to his village with his wife and two children in late 2025. “We repaired the roof of the house and planted again. But we never fully unpacked. We knew the situation could change at any moment.”
The latest evacuations reveal how displacement in South Lebanon has become cyclical rather than temporary. While international narratives welcomed the 2024 ceasefire agreement, residents along the border experienced something very different: a fragile and uncertain peace punctuated by constant drone surveillance, near-daily shelling, and the expectation that war could resume at any moment.
Living under a ceasefire that never felt like peace
For residents attempting to rebuild, everyday life unfolded under a constant awareness that they might be displaced again at any moment. In many villages, families repaired damaged homes themselves. Agricultural work slowly resumed as farmers returned to olive groves and tobacco fields that had been abandoned during previous evacuations. Shops reopened cautiously, and schools attempted to reestablish routines for children who had spent months displaced. “We tried to live normally again,” explained Huda, a schoolteacher from a village outside Maroun al-Ras who returned home with her extended family in mid-2025. “The children went back to school, and we reopened the small grocery shop we run from the front of the house. But every time we heard a drone or a loud sound, everyone would stop what they were doing. We never felt that the war was truly over.”
According to their testimonies, many families prepared for the possibility of renewed evacuation. Emergency bags containing passports, identification papers, and basic clothing remained packed near doorways. Cars were kept fueled whenever possible. Relatives living in larger towns further north maintained constant communication about whether they might be able to host family members if violence resumed. “In our house, we kept a bag ready all the time,” said Ali, a father of three from the Tyre district who had already been displaced in 2024. “Important documents, some clothes for the children, medicines for my parents. We hoped we would never need it again, but no one believed the situation was truly finished.”
According to their testimonies, many families prepared for the possibility of renewed evacuation
For farmers and agricultural workers, this uncertainty was particularly difficult. Returning to land after displacement requires not only labor but time—planting crops that may not be harvested for months. Many residents faced the dilemma of investing in fields that could once again become inaccessible. “We planted again because that is our livelihood,” said Abbas, a tobacco farmer from the outskirts of Bint Jbeil. “But every time we worked the land, we were thinking: will we still be here when it is time to harvest?”
This fragile return created what many residents described as a life lived between rebuilding and preparing to leave again. That uneasy balance collapsed within hours when the war “started again.”
The latest wave of displacement
When evacuation orders were issued in early March, many families were able to stay with relatives or friends further north. Many others sought refuge in public shelters set up in schools and municipal buildings. Others spent nights in cars or temporary roadside encampments as housing options quickly filled. Local authorities and humanitarian groups reported severe shortages of available shelter space within days of the evacuation orders. Finding rental housing has also become increasingly difficult, as demand surged in already strained markets across Tyre, Sidon, and Beirut’s outskirts.
Cars filled highways and roads leading north. Local authorities and humanitarian organizations reported a rapid rise in displacement registrations within days, and evacuation orders have also been particularly difficult for marginalized groups. Elderly residents, people with disabilities, and low-income households often face greater challenges during sudden displacement, including limited mobility, difficulty accessing shelters, and fewer financial resources to secure temporary housing. For migrants and refugees, these challenges are also compounded through blind spots within the humanitarian response, as many were not able to access public shelters. Aid organizations have warned that these vulnerabilities are likely to deepen as displacement continues.
In some areas, residents waited until the last possible moment before leaving, hoping the warnings might not be followed by immediate bombardment. “We heard the evacuation announcement and everyone started calling each other,” said Samer, a mechanic from a village near Bint Jbeil who fled with his parents and younger sister. “Some people left immediately, others were still debating whether it would really happen. But within an hour the roads were full.”
Families move, return, rebuild, and are forced to leave again—sometimes multiple times within the same conflict, gradually reshaping how residents think about home itself
In many cases, displacement unfolded in stages. Some families moved first to nearby towns, hoping the situation might stabilize quickly enough for them to return within days. Others stayed with relatives in Beirut or Mount Lebanon while waiting to see how events would unfold. In several instances during the first week of the escalation, areas hosting displaced families were themselves struck, forcing people to move multiple times within a matter of days. “We left our village and drove to my uncle’s house in Tyre,” explained Mahmoud, a construction worker who fled with his wife and three children. “But the next day the bombing intensified and people were saying the area might not be safe either. So we kept moving north again.”
These layered movements show how displacement in South Lebanon is no longer experienced as a singular rupture but as a recurring condition. Families move, return, rebuild, and are forced to leave again—sometimes multiple times within the same conflict, gradually reshaping how residents think about home itself. “When we came back the first time, we tried to live normally again,” said Leila, a nurse from a border village near Maroun al-Ras. “But now when we leave, some things just stay packed.”
Return without stability?
For communities across South Lebanon, evacuations raise a deeper and more unsettling question: whether returning home will remain possible at all in the years ahead. Each escalation interrupts attempts to rebuild homes, restore livelihoods, and restart ordinary routines. “Every time we return, we start again from the beginning,” said Hassan, a farmer from the outskirts of Aita al-Shaab. “But each time it feels harder to believe that we will stay.”
For many residents, the question is no longer simply when they will go back, but whether lasting return will be possible at all
The cumulative effects extend beyond physical destruction. Families become scattered across towns and cities, and younger residents increasingly consider leaving permanently in search of stability elsewhere. Israeli officials have also suggested that displacement may, in fact, not be temporary. On March 16, Israeli Defense Minister Israel Katz stated that residents would not be allowed to return south of the Litani River unless Hezbollah was removed from the area. For those who remain, uncertainty begins to shape how people imagine the future of their villages. “My parents always said we would rebuild no matter what,” explained Leila, a nurse from a border village near Maroun al-Ras. “But now people ask whether rebuilding still makes sense if we might have to leave again.”
Evacuations therefore expose more than a renewed humanitarian emergency. They raise doubts about the long-term viability of return itself. Repeated cycles of rebuilding and flight gradually erode the conditions that allow communities to remain rooted in their villages. For many residents, the question is no longer simply when they will go back, but whether lasting return will be possible at all. “We all want to go home,” said Samer, who fled his village near Bint Jbeil with his family during the latest evacuation. “But each time we leave, it becomes harder to imagine that one day we will come back and stay.”
Dr. Jasmin Lilian Diab is a Senior Inclusive Economies Associate at TIMEP, focusing on migration. She is the director of the Institute for Migration Studies at the Lebanese American University (LAU).