BEIRUT, June 16 (Xinhua) -- The road ended in rubble.
Joumana Fahs stepped out of her car and continued on foot through the debris-strewn lanes of her hometown Jibchit in southern Lebanon, a place she had fled months ago, hoping the fighting would spare it. She had returned to ask a simple question: Can I come home now?
The answer lay in a pile of blackened stones and twisted metal where her house once stood. The garden that had bloomed around it was ash. The trees that had shaded her summers were gone.
"The shock is overwhelming," Fahs said, standing amid the ruins. "We lost everything."
"I will go back to where I have been staying and wait for help to rebuild," she said. "Without assistance, I cannot return."
Fahs was not alone. Across southern Lebanon, hundreds of families made the journey back to towns and villages north of the Litani River for the first time in months on Monday, cautiously encouraged by the recently-finalized U.S.-Iran memorandum of understanding (MoU) aiming to end conflict on all fronts, including Lebanon.
Some came to stay. Others came only to see what remained before deciding.
Yet within hours of that fragile hope, the ground shifted again. On Tuesday, Israeli military activity resumed across Lebanon: artillery shelling, a drone strike, and reconnaissance flights, according to Lebanese media. The MoU had raised hopes; the bombs are now bringing them back down.
Among those who returned was 50-year-old Norma Fayad, who loaded a few belongings into her car before sunrise on Monday, and drove from Beiteddine to her hometown of Nabatieh.
"We came back mainly to check on the house and the town," she said. "Whether we stay depends on what happens in the coming days."
The MoU had encouraged many, she said, but "the fears have not disappeared. Everything still feels uncertain."
That uncertainty traced every road leading south. Along the coastal highway, family cars and pickup trucks carried mattresses, blankets, bags of clothing, and household supplies. Some appeared packed for a permanent move, others just enough for a brief visit.
Jamal Salameh, who works with a local relief organization, described the journeys as exploratory rather than definitive.
"What we are seeing is not a full return," he said. "People want to inspect their homes, check their land, and evaluate conditions before deciding whether they can come back permanently."
Many families spent only a few hours, assessed the damage, collected whatever remained usable, and headed back to temporary shelters, he added.
The political landscape remains deeply uncertain. The full text of the MoU has not been published, and Tehran and Washington offer conflicting accounts. Iranian officials insist that ending the war in Lebanon is an "inseparable" part of the agreement, while U.S. officials say Israeli withdrawal from Lebanon was not a condition of the pact, and Israel would have the right to respond to Hezbollah's attacks. Israeli Defense Minister Israel Katz said Monday Israel would not withdraw its forces from Lebanese territory.
For many displaced Lebanese, security is only one part of the challenge. According to Lebanon's Ministry of Social Affairs, around 780,000 people were officially registered as displaced during the conflict. Aid workers and local observers say the actual number was likely much higher.
Standing amid the ruins of her home, Fahs said reconstruction would be as vital as security. "We cannot return if there is nothing left to return to," she said.
For Ghassan Hamadeh, who returned to the town of Zefta, the sight of families revisiting damaged homes before returning to shelters reflects both hope and hesitation.
"The desire to return is strong," Hamadeh said. "But so is the fear of having to leave again."
By late afternoon on Monday, some families had begun unpacking. Others locked their doors and headed back, choosing to wait a little longer.
For Fahs, the trip to Jibchit answered a question she had carried for months. She could return to her hometown, but not yet to her life.
Across southern Lebanon, thousands of others are wrestling with the same uncertainty. The road home has reopened for many. But whether it will remain open long enough for them to stay is still a question written in rubble, ash, and the quiet hope of those who dare to return.
"People want to come back," said 20-year-old Wafaa Taleb. "But they are still waiting for a clear indication that the ceasefire will hold." ■
