BEIRUT, Sept. 23 (Xinhua) -- When Jihad al-Abdallah returned to his hometown of Khiam, near the Israeli border in southern Lebanon, he felt as though he had stepped into another world.

The 52-year-old stood in disbelief before what was once his home. The walls were torn apart, the windows blown away, and the streets buried under rubble.

"I couldn't believe my eyes," he said quietly. "Everything was destroyed. The few people who came back were digging through what was left of their homes. Every step we take here feels like walking on the edge of danger."

The danger is never far. Israeli drones still hover constantly over Lebanese border towns, their buzz audible overhead. For al-Abdallah and his neighbors, each flight could mean another sudden attack.

In the town, children search through the ruins for their toys or schoolbooks. Women glance at the sky with anxious eyes. The elderly wander the ruins, caught between memory and loss. "Here, war is not just explosions. It's a daily life trapped between fear and survival," al-Abdallah said.

A year has passed since Israel widened its military operations against Lebanon on September 23, 2024. On that day alone, according to Lebanon's health ministry, more than 490 people were killed and over 1,600 were injured in a series of strikes. Israeli forces then pushed several kilometers into Lebanese territory, sparking more than two months of open war before a U.S. and French-brokered ceasefire came into effect on November 27.

Yet the truce feels fragile and almost meaningless to Lebanese living along the border. The Lebanese army has recorded over 4,500 Israeli violations in the past year, from air raids to artillery fire. Every hum of a drone reminds residents that the war has never truly ended.

In the southern Lebanese city of Nabatieh, Fatima Nasrallah stood before the ruins of her three-story home, a house she had spent years building with her family.

"It was my dream," she said softly. "Now everything is gone. For a year, we have lived in a small apartment, displaced, while our beloved South keeps bleeding." Her voice trembled as she added, "Israel's war is not just taking lives. It is taking away the years we worked for, the homes we built, and the futures we dreamed of."

Lebanese political analyst Nidal Issa noted that Israel has not withdrawn from five occupied border points and has even established new positions while enforcing a de facto buffer zone up to three kilometers deep along 120 kilometers of the frontier. This "unwavering aggression backed by the United States," he said, has barred residents of up to 40 Lebanese villages from returning to their homes.

More than 280 people have been killed in continued strikes in Lebanon since the ceasefire, according to official data.

For families on Lebanon's southern edge, these numbers are not statistics but daily life. Shops remain shuttered, streets lie abandoned, and rubble is piled high in once-vibrant neighborhoods. All that breaks the eerie silence are conversations between neighbors and the unceasing hum of Israeli drones above.

Standing in the ruins of his hometown, al-Abdallah summed up the mood of many who live along the border. "Everything here screams war," he said. "Even in silence, we are never free of it." E