The Infrastructure of The Resistance

We would recognize the neighborhood by the eucalyptus junction. We had always been captivated by the eucalyptus trees, or “kina” trees as the villagers call them, with their massive trunks and strong roots that tore through the earth around them. At one point, some of these ancient trees had to be uprooted after their roots began titling the walls of nearby houses. We were sad to see them cut down, even if the reason made sense.

These trees are woven into our memories: the mischief of trying to climb them; the carvings we etched into their trunks, which remained for years before peeling away (I still keep a piece of bark with my name carved into it); the birdsong at dawn and dusk; the shade they offered on sweltering summer days; and the way raindrops scattered when the wind shook their leaves. On stormy days, the violent rustling of their leaves sounded like roaring applause.

Their resilience mirrored the strength of their roots — that even uprooted trees sprouted new branches from their shattered bases. These eucalyptus trees became a map to the Project neighborhood.

One day, during a casual conversation that felt like a therapy session, a psychotherapist friend asked me about my safe place — the image that comes to mind when I close my eyes and think of calm, comfort, and safety. Without hesitation, I answered: Markaba.

My first memories of the village are tied to the occupation: the crossings and permits; the idea of “collaborators,” their cruel faces and foul reputations; the sound of artillery pounding villages beyond the occupied areas, sonic booms, and Umm Kamel; the military combing through the valleys; the fear that we could be dragged to detention camps, where even a 10-year-old boy could be treated as a threat: forced to collaborate, risk arrest, or be expelled; the improvised explosive devices, the storming of outposts, and the liberation of prisoners and land. Above all, these memories are bound to a return to the soil every time, even if it is turned into a desert.

Our connection to the village is spiritual, not merely geographic. It lives in the house, the walls, the trees, the soil, the weeds. If neighbors leave, others will take their place. Returning to the land is life itself. Liberating it is life. That a thorn or a rose might grow among the ruins of its homes — that, too, is life.  

To defy those who mourn and lament it, and to return it; to dwell in it and find peace within it, even if it has been reduced to sand — that is life.

February 18, 2025, marked the third return. The first came on May 25, 2000. The second followed the July 2006 war. Each time, our house was still standing, along with the neighborhood and most of the village’s landmarks. But on this third return, the enemy had bulldozed the village’s main road, our street, the school and the square. Still, our home and the neighborhood remained.

For those who lost their homes, there was comfort in knowing a neighbor’s or a friend’s home still stood. Even the cemetery offered solace. It seems the cemeteries, too, had been bulldozed by the aggression, erasing every trace of life. The Project neighborhood was no exception.

The first thing I thought when the ceasefire began was that I needed to find the nearest vantage point from which I could photograph the village. My friend Hasan and I set off toward the villages of Bint Jbeil, choosing roads we believed carried the least risk. We stopped on the side of the road in Khirbet Selm after quickly passing by Tebnin and the outskirts of Beit Yahoun. I quickly took a few pictures before reviewing them and examining their details. It was a little foggy; the images needed some editing and sharpening.

I smiled, but there was a lump in my throat. “Not now,” I told myself. There was no time for sadness. But scenes from my childhood, my life in the village, and all of our shared moments have replayed in my mind every day since. Throughout this war, and the one before it, I dreamt constantly of the village. Every morning, I would say to myself: “If I dreamt the house was still standing, it must still be there.” But after taking this photo, the village no longer appears in my dreams. Instead, it haunts my every waking moment.

This is a war against memory, against names, against everything the land, the air, and the water carry of our voices, our laughter and our grief. It is a war against even the graves. The newest mosque in our villages is older than their entity. The olive trees are older than history itself. Tyrants far more brutal than they are have vanished. Their illusions, too, will shatter. We will return, as we always have. But this time, we will return for good, and their dreams will be buried beneath the rubble of our memories, from which the future of this land — nourished by blood, love, and memory — will grow.

This is the reality of nearly every village along the border with Palestine. It is not only the systematic destruction of infrastructure, nor merely the loss of homes as stone and furniture. Markaba, Houla, Odaisseh, Bint Jbeil — the list goes on from Naqoura to Chebaa: the “border strip,” the “security belt,” the “yellow line”; our villages and hometowns. In every era, the enemy has sought to redraw the border to suit its ambitions, disguising them behind appellations that obscure the reality of occupation: “protecting the north” at one moment, “securing troops” at another, or “eliminating the resistance’s infrastructure” at present. 

The enemy understands that the true infrastructure of the resistance is us: the villagers who return; reclaim the names of their villages, rebuild the neighborhoods, plant the trees, and reject every occupation project, no matter how carefully it is repackaged to appeal to Western governments, international institutions, self-proclaimed civilized societies, and defenders of nature — all nature, except that of the people of the land.

No security belt has ever lasted. No border strip has ever stood the test of time. No yellow line will remain. The blood and might of the fighters will erase it. The land will grow greener than before, and the village alleys will come back to life more vibrant than ever. Sooner or later, the occupier will once again seek an escape from the quagmire of the South.

We will mourn the land as we mourn the departed. Wild poppies and eucalyptus trees will grow from it.

We will consecrate our blood, our memories, and our ruins, and we will continue this path.