In Aitaroun, a village in southern Lebanon near the border with Israel, Kamal Ismail Abbas walks between the stumps of trees that once shaded his family’s house. “The entire area behind the house that you see used to be covered with olive trees, but it’s all gone, wiped out by bombings and bulldozers,” says the 70-year-old father, pointing toward the land around his house, now bare earth. “I also had an orchard up in the village — it was leveled.”
Since the war started on Oct. 8, 2023, southern Lebanon has endured near-daily bombardments. By late 2024, the clashes had killed more than 4,000 people, displaced 1.2 million, and reduced swaths of farmland to dust.
Residents accuse the Israeli army of pursuing a “scorched-earth” strategy — destroying not only military targets but also water systems, crops, and civilian property. According to the Lebanese Agricultural Research Institute (LARI), more than 60,000 olive trees have been wiped out since the fighting began — 814 hectares of olive groves according to the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO). Damages to the agricultural sector amount to more than $118 million, with losses estimated at around $586 million.
Even after the ceasefire a year ago in November 2024, many municipalities urged residents to stay away. Israeli forces had blocked the access roads, and the Israeli army still has positions in at least six points along the border. According to the Lebanese authorities, by August 2025, the occupying forces had violated the ceasefire more than 3,000 times.
Every autumn in southern Lebanon, villages usually come alive with the olive harvest — a season of reunion, celebration, and hard work. This year, the harvest unfolds under fire. “Before the war, I used to produce around 50 gallons of oil a year — about 5,000 liters of olive oil — from 110 trees. But because of the war, very few are left; many were destroyed, either uprooted or burned,” explains Kamal Abbas. He says most of his olive trees were either bombed or ripped from the ground by Israeli bulldozers.
Here, like in other border villages, farmers had to request UNIFIL and Israeli army coordination just to reach their land. “We only had a few days to harvest — from 7 am to 6 pm, for four or five days at most,” he says. “It’s not enough. People need more time to work.”
Around him, the village bears the marks of war. Streets are littered with twisted metal, drones hum above, and about 800 houses are destroyed, according to Najib Kawsa, the deputy head of the municipality. Yet families have returned, rebuilding among the ruins. “The people of Aitaroun love their land and want to go back despite the risks,” says Kawsa. “The Israeli occupation is still near our fields. But agriculture is our life — we can’t abandon it.”
Further up the slope, Hussein Mourad works quickly, shaking olives from branches rapidly before it gets too hot. His land lies just beyond the restricted zone, sparing him the need for Israeli permission — at least for now. But he still feels the weight of living in what most of the inhabitants call “an occupied zone.”
A few hours after Hussein finished his day’s work, the Israeli army killed Ibrahim Salameh, a municipal worker, in his sleep in the nearby village of Blida.
East of Aitaroun, past the shattered roads and burned hillsides, lies Deir Mimas, another village famed for its ancient groves. In this majority-Christian village, the Lebanese Army could not re-enter until January. The Israeli army had set up roadblocks on the main road.
Here, amid the same war-torn landscape, Rose Bechara began her harvest in late September. The founder of Darmmess, a small olive-oil company named after her hometown, moves between her trees under the sharp early autumn sun. “This year, the harvest has been disappointing,” she says.
“When the war started [in 2023], we were already in the fields. We had to flee to Beirut after the bombing began. We pressed what we could and ran.”
Last year, she moved her warehouse away from the border, hoping for safety. “But just as we settled in, an Israeli airstrike destroyed everything,” she says quietly. “It all burned.”
These trees are our roots — they link us to our history and identity.
Ghaith Maalouf
On Bechara’s land, Abdallah Al Hamidi, a Syrian worker, rakes olives from the branches with an electric comb. “Even the elders say they’ve never seen anything like this,” he says. The father of several children worries he can’t afford their school fees, which reach $3,000 a year. “Before the war, I was working regularly. Now, there’s barely any work.”
Because of the fighting, last year’s harvest never happened. The trees went unpruned. Bechara points to shriveled black olives still clinging to a branch. “Some trees are full of old fruit. They took all the nutrients, and that’s why there’s nothing this year.”
Later, she meets her longtime business partner, Anwar Nakfour, an organic farmer. He gestures to his grove. “This plot usually gives 30 containers of oil,” he says. “This year, one.”
Nearby, sisters Atlal and Mariam Aboura, both from Hama in Syria, sort olives by hand. “Our livelihood depends on this season,” says Atlal, 40 years old. “Because of the conflict, we couldn’t come earlier to work. We lost everything.”
Milad El Riachy, who heads LARI’s Olive and Olive Oil Department, confirms that 2024’s harvest was disastrous. “After November 27, only about 8% of the olive production was collected,” he says. “The insecurity, fires, and displacement made it nearly impossible — and the late harvest reduced the oil’s quality.”
In the afternoon, Bechara drives toward Rachaya al-Foukhar, 20 kilometers from Deir Mimas. The road winds through vineyards, fig trees, and olive groves. “The south of Lebanon is such a beautiful region,” she sighs. “But the Israeli army is destroying it.”
In Rachaya, agricultural engineer Ghaith Maalouf tends to his 600 olive trees. “Because of the lack of rainfall, we had to irrigate this year,” he explains. “That’s expensive.”
He stands beside one of his oldest trees, hollowed with age. “I used to climb this one as a kid,” he says, running his hand along the bark. “These trees are our roots — they link us to our history and identity. I studied abroad, but coming back to this land means everything.”
As dusk falls, the hum of olive presses fills the air in Deir Mimas. Dozens of farmers arrive with sacks of green fruit, their faces weary but proud. Among them is Asaad Abo Abbas, from Khiam, a village five kilometers from the Israeli border. Khiam has been almost entirely destroyed by shelling and bulldozing. Abo Abbas lost his home and an estimated $5,000 in equipment.
Abo Abbas completed the pressing of the final batch of green treasure. “This is my life,” he says quietly, watching the oil flow from the press. “From my grandfather to my father — olives are my life. I’ll die beneath an olive tree if I have to. I came back because this land is mine.”
The 67-year-old, eyes red with exhaustion, takes the winding road back home — a road lined with ancient olive trees, their roots deep, their branches twisted by the wind. For the time being, they are maintaining their position – firmly rooted in the soil, anchored in memory, and focused on survival.
