Bibi-Aisha Wadvalla

On this very spot, nearly 50 years ago—perhaps in 1975—I sat with my mother under the shade of a fig tree at the entrance of this house. I was only four years old. Suddenly, helicopters roared through the sky, and my mother, her voice trembling with fear, said, “Dyab, we need to get inside. It’s dangerous.” At that age, I didn’t understand much, only that something monstrous—something my mother called Israel—was in the sky, firing on people below. A year later, that same monster came into our village. It burned our homes, destroyed everything, and committed a massacre, cleansing us from the land we called home. We escaped death by a miracle. This house, like the rest of the village, was reduced to ashes. All my toys and clothes were left behind, as were my father’s beloved books. We escaped with nothing but our lives. I grew up far away from this house, but Israel kept pushing us, kept destroying what little we rebuilt. In 1982, during its second invasion of Lebanon, Israel burned another home we had made. Once again, we fled with nothing, my father forced to abandon his books yet again. When Lebanon was liberated in 2000, we returned to our village. My parents poured all their savings into rebuilding this house, right here on the same spot where it once stood, under the same sky. They made it beautiful—a three-story home surrounded by gardens. Every summer, we visited. My children played where I had once played as a child. They walked under the same sky that had witnessed both joy and horror. And now, once again, it is gone. Destroyed. By the same monster that first targeted it almost 50 years ago. The same monster that continues to haunt us, relentless in its pursuit. Back then, Hezbollah didn’t exist. Hamas didn’t exist. The resistance was not born out of ideology—it was born because occupation was there. Because the monster was there. We will rebuild this house again. For the third time. Because this home is more than just stones and walls—it is a symbol, a commitment. It stands as a testament to our dignity and our refusal to surrender. It is a house in southern Lebanon, and that makes it sacred, more sacred than any temple. It belongs here, under this sky. No amount of destruction can change that. Even under the rubble, my father’s books remain. A home is not just a physical space—it is a bond, a history, and a statement of defiance. This house was destroyed time and again because we refuse to accept a life without dignity. Because we will not accept occupation. Because we will never break our bond with Palestine. For this cause, we are willing to pay any price—not just in stones or memories, but with everything we have. Without dignity and freedom, life is meaningless. And so, we will continue to rebuild. Over and over again, if that’s what it takes.