Caught in Israel's net: How Lebanon's fishermen are struggling to survive

Hussein turns the lock and opens the glass door to the shop, located on the hills of Tyre in Maaroub.

“It is not mine,” he says, as if explaining the mess. The fishing shop, equipped with all the necessary gear, from rods to bait, belongs to his brother, Ali, a 34-year-old fisherman who was abducted at sea on 4 June by the Israeli army.

“He was around Naqoura with other fishermen, his boat was the closest one to the shore, about 300 meters away, when it happened,” Hussein tells The New Arab.

Ali, originally from Naqoura, the last town before reaching the Israeli border, went out to sea every day. He had moved to Tyre during Israel’s war last year. The night of his arrest, he was working with another fisherman, who Israeli forces told to swim back to shore before detaining Ali and taking him away.

Since then, the family has not had any news. “All we want is to know whether he is alive or not,” sobs his mother. She is now taking care of his children with her daughter-in-law.

“We told them that their father was travelling, that he went abroad to buy them clothes, they are still young, they don’t need to know.” Ali Fneish has five children, the youngest of whom is two years old.

Since the ceasefire agreement signed on 27 November 2024, Israel has violated Lebanese sovereignty almost daily - from targeted drone attacks to abductions at sea.

“Additionally, the Israeli army is still occupying five points in Lebanon, but the Lebanese State cannot be held accountable, as Lebanon is not a party to the Rome Statute,” explains Ramzi Kaiss, Lebanon researcher at Human Rights Watch.

“Therefore, the ICC does not have the jurisdiction to investigate war crimes on Lebanese soil.”

Wissam is sitting at the port of Tyre, sipping coffee in the shade with the other fishermen. He doesn’t want to give his family name. The father of three was wounded in Israel’s pager attacks, losing two fingers on one hand. His two eldest sons, Ali, 28, and Jawad, 23, now help him on the boat.

“We used to have a little coffee shop on the Tyre corniche, but the army took it away because we did not have the necessary permits, and since my father cannot work alone anymore, we came to help him. But I do not like the sea,” Ali, the eldest son, said.

He was a soldier in the Lebanese army, “but during the war, when I saw what happened and the army didn’t do anything to stop the Israeli army, I left”.

Wissam lost all of his relatives in the bombing of their building in late September 2024. “All I have left is my nuclear family… But we thank God,” he says, his voice shaking from emotion. Now it is only him, his two sons, and the sea.

It is 6pm, and time to leave the shore. “We need to be out in the sea by sunset; this is when the fish come out,” he says. That day, Wissam and his sons will go around two kilometres from the shore, one kilometre south of Tyre.

“We don’t go much further, because the Israeli enemy harasses us. They think that they own the Lebanese sea and skies, but this is our land,” says Wissam.

The 50-year-old has been fishing since 2000, after the withdrawal of Israeli forces from South Lebanon. His father was a captain who would go back and forth to Cyprus. “My father taught me how to swim in this port; he learned from his father, who learned from his father. All our lives are here, and I come from a long line of fishermen.”

Wissam remembers the days before the last war.

“Between 2000 and 2006, we could go beyond Lebanese territorial waters, but since the 2006 war, the Israelis imposed a blockade on Lebanese fishermen, and we cannot go past six nautical miles off the coast, around 11 kilometres, into international waters, and cannot go closer than three kilometres from the Israeli coast.”

Yet, even within these borders, fishermen are still harassed. “We are scared, of course, but we have to go out fishing, what else can we do to feed our families?”

Next to him, Ali Ghanem nods. The 50-year-old remembers 21 July like it was yesterday.

“It was around 8.30pm, I was almost done picking up my nets around Ras al-Abyad, around three kilometres from the blue line (border with Israel), and in the darkness, I saw a Zodiac [small Israeli military boat] rush towards me. I started yelling, ‘It’s the Israelis, hurry up!’ to my colleague, and then we turned the boat around. They yelled through the megaphone for us to stop the boat. It was a man talking, with a Druze accent.”

The Israeli vessel positioned itself next to Ali’s boat and launched a sound bomb. “It made a strong sound, and then they came with their light right by me and asked me who I was. I was angry and told them I was a civilian fisherman, on my sea, and within my rights.”

Ali Ghanem was lucky that day, an Israeli drone came, took photos of him, and then the soldiers left. But to this day, he is afraid to go back into the sea. “I do not go as far as I was that day; I stay closer to the shore.”

After the incident, Ali Ghanem went to see the Lebanese army, which is stationed at each port and witnessed what happened. “They simply told me not to go there anymore. I laughed and asked them, ‘If you have a thief and the owner of the house, who will you be angry at? The owner?’ I was disappointed; they did not do anything to help.”

Ali Fneish was abducted around 300 metres from the army. “They saw everything that happened, but didn’t do anything to help,” sighs his younger brother, Hussein. “In the South, we are not protected; we do not have any security. We cannot count on anyone.”

The southern coast of Lebanon, from Saida to Naqoura, has around 1,500 fishermen, according to their syndicate.

“In Tyre, there are 180 registered boats, around 350 fishermen, none have received any help during or after the war,” explains Reda Bawwab, head of the syndicate.

A few organisations came after the ceasefire to ask what was needed, but only a handful received help. “We want equal help for everyone. We need new nets, new boats, paint, and equipment. We do not want money, simply for the state to stand by our side.” Wissam agrees; he, too, feels abandoned by the Lebanese state.

That evening, he did not catch many fish. “Around 5 kg, which means I will earn around $30. I have ten dollars of fuel, 12 dollars to fix my nets, which I have to do every time, that leaves me what? Barely ten dollars to feed my family. Tomorrow, I will go again, I have no other choice.”

Clotilde Bigot is a freelance journalist based in Lebanon who covers conflicts, diplomacy, and human rights 

Follow her on Twitter: @clo_bigot