DEBEL, Lebanon, Dec. 25 (Xinhua) -- In the border village of Debel, the facade of George Awad's small grocery shop is still cross-hatched with shrapnel scars. But this week, Awad, 50, climbed a ladder to hang a string of Christmas lights over the damage.
Behind him, the village is a graveyard of architecture: shattered roofs and pancaked walls, the gray debris of months of shelling.
"These lights won't rebuild our homes," Awad said, surveying his work. "But they say that we are still here. We want our children to know that Christmas was not canceled and that there is still a space for hope."
A year of ceasefire has passed between Israel and Hezbollah. Along the jagged terrain of Lebanon's southern border, villages are finally emerging from the wreckage. The recovery is quiet, but resilient. In frontline towns such as Rmeish, Khiam, and Qouzah, hundreds of families have slowly returned. Many homes are little more than hollowed-out shells, unfit for winter, but they are filled with the scent of pine and incense during the holiday.
However, the festive atmosphere barely conceals a grim humanitarian reality. In many villages, schools and clinics remain shuttered, and basic utilities such as electricity and water are intermittent at best. Layered challenges, driven by a protracted economic crisis, the aftermath of a devastating conflict, and the looming threat of renewed conflict, have drained the holiday of its usual luster.
Carol Haddad, a boutique owner, noted that this year's "shopping season" is a misnomer. "People are asking only for essentials," Haddad said. "Gifts have become a luxury. Most of what you see -- the trees, the lights -- was funded by municipalities. We are decorating on borrowed means."
For others, the return is haunted by the fear that the peace is merely a pause. Edouard Daher, 60, described the current influx of residents as a "cautious, anxious return." Without security guarantees or a formal reconstruction plan, many families are surviving on dwindling savings. "People are trying to start again," he said, "but we need real support. What we are depending on now is fragile."
Despite the uncertainty, the act of celebrating has become its own form of protest. In Khiam, the municipality raised a tree in the courtyard of a church destroyed during the 14-month conflict. There, under the shadow of the rubble, a midnight Mass drew a crowd of both Christian and Muslim families, a display of communal solidarity.
"People here are desperate for any psychological reprieve from the fear," said Rita Kasrouani, a university student. "Even a small gift for a child is an act of consolation."
For mothers like Sarah Jaber, however, the focus is on preserving a sense of normalcy for their children. Having returned to a damaged house in Debel, she has confined family life to the single room deemed structurally sound. "We bought a small tree and put it in the only room we can live in," Jaber said. "What matters is that our children see the holiday still exists, even if the house is broken."
In the town of Marjayoun, a "Christmas Village" of simple games and food stalls has become a brief sanctuary. Jinan Abla, walking through the stalls with her daughter, spoke of the celebrations as a form of cultural survival.
"We are a people who love life," she said. "We came to affirm that we are staying."
For Samih Mourad, who spent the weeks before December patching the holes in his walls, the holiday has transcended its religious origins. "Christmas is more than just lighting a tree," Mourad said. "This year, it is about the bonds of unity and love that keep us together. It isn't just a holiday anymore -- it is our way of claiming this land as our home." ■
