War on pause in one of the oldest cities in the Mediterranean

ShotThe fisherman mends the nets in the Phoenician port of Tyre while children jump into the water from the pier. A few meters away, the terraces reopen and some Lebanese visitors have returned to the beaches. At first glance, it seems that summer has returned to one of the oldest inhabited cities in the Mediterranean.

But a few minutes walk to the east is enough to find another reality. The columns and sarcophagi of the Roman necropolis of Al-Bass mark an invisible border. Just on the other side, several buildings are still reduced to rubble by Israeli bombings. The shock wave reached the gates of the historic district, but stopped before reaching the old Christian quarters of the old town, a small labyrinth of cobbled alleys and stone houses that for months was considered an exception in the war.

In Tyre, many believed there was a line no one would cross, but that line has just disappeared. For the first time since the start of the conflict, the Israeli army also included the Christian quarters in an evacuation order, alleging the presence of Hezbollah fighters in the area. In the end, there were no attacks in the old town, but the warning was enough to shatter one of the last certainties of its inhabitants. It seems that no place is protected anymore.

"Before there was a certain respect for Christians. Not anymore," says Tanus Abed, the mukhtar or neighborhood representative of the old city, as he walks through the narrow streets next to the port. Every morning he reopens his small shop. Inside, an image of Saint Charbel and a few candles recall the deep Christian identity of an ever-shrinking community. Many of the residents have left the city during the war.

"We didn't come back because we feel safe. We came back because it's our home. We are trying to get our lives back and return to normal, although no one knows what tomorrow holds." Uncertainty is felt in every corner of the old town. Some doors remain closed, and the apartments that housed displaced families during the war months are beginning to empty. The conversations always end the same way. No one knows how long the calm will last. For months, thousands of families from the south found refuge in these Christian neighborhoods. Many came from border villages like Marjaayoun, Rmeish, or Ain Ebel, convinced that Tyre was one of the few places where they could still feel protected.

Among them was Wafa Al Darwish. Her home in Dahira was destroyed by bombings, and today she lives in a rented room in the old city. On her mobile phone, she keeps photos of the house where she grew up and which is now a pile of rubble. "I just want to live in peace. I want peace for the Lebanese and for the Israelis. God is love and taught us to live together, whether we are Christians, Muslims, or Jews." The possibility of having to flee for a second time terrifies her.

"When we returned after the truce, we thought the worst was over," explains Tina, a displaced person who returned to Tyre just a week ago. "This time it was harder because we had already returned home and thought everything was over." The fear is not just about losing a home. For many Christians in southern Lebanon, the fear is of a new wave of permanent displacement that will end up emptying communities that have lived in the region for almost two thousand years.

"People are afraid to come"

The sensation is particularly intense in Tyre, where heritage and daily life blend in just a few hundred meters. The war reached the very doorstep of one of the most important archaeological sites in the Mediterranean. Two buildings located next to the Al-Bass necropolis were destroyed by bombing, and the marks of the explosions can still be seen from nearby rooftops.

The Greek Orthodox Archbishop of Tyre, Elias Kfoury, states that the destruction suffered by the south of the country is unprecedented. "This is the toughest round. It has spared neither people, nor stones, nor places of worship."

From the terrace of the Al-Fanar café, next to the historic lighthouse of Tyre, the Mediterranean seems calm. The tables, however, are almost empty. "Every summer, this place was full of visitors," recalls its owner, Walid Salha. "Tourists, diplomats, journalists. The city lived off this. Now people are afraid to come."

Another lost season could be devastating for many businesses in this city that lives from the sea, fishing, and tourism. The fragile calm also coincides with a decisive political moment. The direct negotiations between Lebanon and Israel in Washington have revived hopes for a more stable de-escalation mechanism and a lasting ceasefire.

But in the narrow streets of the old town, optimism is scarce. The inhabitants of southern Lebanon have seen too many truces broken. Last Saturday's ceasefire is already the sixth since the war began, and few dare to think that this time it will be different.

As evening falls, fishermen head out to sea again from the ancient Phoenician port. The old city of Tyre has survived empires, invasions, and earthquakes. Today it breathes again under a new ceasefire. But in its narrow streets, no one knows how long the calm will last.