Up in smoke: Israel's war devastates Lebanon's historic tobacco heartland

For generations, tobacco farming has defined life in southern Lebanon, providing economic stability and a symbol of steadfastness on ancestral land. But following Israel's last year's attack on the country, this centuries-old agricultural tradition faces its most severe crisis, with production plummeting 64% and thousands of farmers unable to access lands now either under Israeli control or contaminated by unexploded ordnance.

The scale of destruction marks an unprecedented reversal for an industry that has sustained southern Lebanese communities since the Ottoman era. Production in the south has collapsed from approximately 5 million kilograms to just 1.8 million kilograms, according to Engineer Abdul Mawla al-Mawla, director of Lebanon's Tobacco Administration, known as the Régie.

"The damage was devastating and will leave its effects on coming seasons," al-Mawla told The New Arab, noting that production quantity declined by approximately 65% while harvest quality deteriorated significantly.

A century-old lifeline severed

Tobacco cultivation in South Lebanon began during the Ottoman era in the early 1900s. The industry significantly expanded during the French Mandate (1920-1943), leading to the establishment of the Tobacco Administration in 1935 to regulate it. The Régie, a semi-autonomous government agency, organised and subsidised tobacco farming, which became concentrated mainly in South Lebanon, serving as both a major employer and an economic force for rural communities.

Unlike most agricultural products, tobacco provides unusual economic security in Lebanon; the state purchases the entire harvest through the Régie, meaning farmers rarely face market uncertainties or losses. This guaranteed income has made tobacco cultivation the primary livelihood for thousands of families in border villages.

But the recent war has severed this lifeline for many.

In Aytaroun village, the south's largest tobacco production centre, with 885 registered farmers, only 840 families out of 1,700 have been able to return. In villages like Yaroun and Marwahin, no one has returned at all.

Fatima Awada, 36, represents thousands of farmers who cannot cultivate this season. Her family owned 10 dunams of land, roughly 2.5 acres, that now sits under Israeli army control. With three brothers who migrated to Canada, her older sister and parents had relied on tobacco farming as their primary income source.

"How can I plant while [Israeli] planes fly over my head daily?" Fatima asked, explaining why she refuses to rent alternative land this season.

Beyond security fears, she said the economics no longer work. "Even aside from the dangers, renting land, repairing it, and purchasing water, pesticides, and fertilisers doesn't guarantee covering costs. Even if we got a good harvest, which is unlikely, we would barely recover our expenses," Fatima added. 

Maryam Khraizat, 38, who lives with her elderly parents and sister, managed to continue farming only by renting land in the neighbouring town of Ainatha after Israel seized the eight dunams, around 2 acres, that constitute their property.

Despite delivering her harvest this week, she described the mounting challenges: abandoned land that's no longer suitable after more than a year of neglect, insufficient water sources requiring transport every three days, damaged agricultural equipment from Israeli targeting of tractors, and the constant threat of unexploded ordnance.

"The return from a 20-dunam (around 4.9 acres) harvest may reach only $13,000 after deducting costs that could range between $6,000 and $7,000," Maryam explained. For a family requiring hired help, she said, annual profits have become meagre despite months of intensive labour. Each 1 dunam (0.24 acres) yields between 80 and 100 kilograms, depending on the quality of the soil and the availability of water for irrigation.

The state-guaranteed purchase price, which rose from $4 per kilogram before the war to between $8.50 and $10 depending on village proximity to the border, encouraged some farmers to persist despite the dangers. The Régie began receiving the 2025 harvest early to reduce the risk of crop damage from ongoing Israeli attacks and to help families meet urgent expenses as the school year started and winter approached.

Unexploded ordnance and contamination

Even farmers who can access their land face lethal hazards. Hassan Faqih, president of the Tobacco Unions Federation, said the number of deaths and injuries among farmers from unexploded ordnance has reached 450 cases since the 2006 war, when Israel dropped thousands of cluster and phosphorus bombs on agricultural areas.

"In the 2006 war, thousands of cluster and phosphorus bombs were dropped on forested areas, making exploitation of agricultural land nearly impossible and exposing residents to danger," Faqih told TNA. The recent conflict has compounded this toxic legacy.

Field inspections confirmed that crops, whether vegetables or fruit, have been affected by toxic materials from phosphorus weapons, according to Faqih. The heavy bombardment also affected groundwater, and rising cancer rates are noticeable in the south, he said, indicating the impact of bombs on both humans and agriculture.

"The Israelis previously indicated a 'scorched earth' policy that damaged crops and burned vast lands," Faqih added.

Some farmers have adapted by cultivating only near their homes to minimise time spent in fields where unexploded ordnance may be hidden.

Hajj Hassan Nasreddine, 70, from the town of Adchit, said residents now harvest tobacco in the morning instead of at dawn as they did for generations, delivering crops immediately to minimise risk exposure.

"The current season is the most difficult in years," said Nasreddine, who has grown tobacco for 50 years with his family of seven. Village displacement and rising costs, with the expense of water tanks alone now exceeding $150, have created unprecedented burdens. However, he credited state support and higher purchase prices with helping farmers survive.

The crisis extends beyond the south. In the Bekaa Valley, tobacco production declined from 1.5 million kilograms to about half that amount due to the absence of Syrian labourers who fled the conflict, according to al-Mawla, Only northern Lebanon maintained its annual production of 1.45 million kilograms, bringing total national production to approximately 4.1 million kilograms—far below normal levels.

The Régie has attempted to sustain farmers through in-kind assistance, including pesticides and supplies like gloves, masks, and boots, as well as school grants for farmers' children who complete secondary education. But al-Mawla acknowledged these measures cannot compensate for lost land access and destroyed infrastructure.

'Like the soul' 

For many southern Lebanese, tobacco cultivation represents far more than economics; it embodies resistance to displacement and connection to ancestral land.

Hajja Umm Mohammed Ismail, 65, from the border town of Ayta al-Shaab, most of which was destroyed during the recent war, works the land alongside her three sons, their wives, and her husband. She could cultivate only 4 dunams (0.9 acres) this season compared to her previous 30 (around 8 acres), yet she described feeling "great psychological relief" at having a single room in her house intact.

"Cultivating the land represents the greatest form of resistance to any displacement project," she said. "There is no alternative to agriculture as a source of livelihood and life for families. For southerners, the tobacco seedling is like the soul—it gives farmers pleasure and security despite fatigue and risks."

Faqih echoed this sentiment in his call for government action.

"Agriculture is the first guarantee for people to remain on their land away from displacement," Faqih said.

He urged authorities to include farmers in Lebanon's National Social Security Fund and develop agriculture across all Lebanese regions, particularly given increasing climate challenges.

As Israeli forces continue to occupy portions of southern Lebanon, bombard villages often, and unexploded ordnance renders other areas too dangerous to farm, the future of tobacco cultivation and the communities it has sustained for over a century remains uncertain.

The collapse in production represents not just economic loss, but the potential unravelling of the social fabric that has kept rural southern Lebanese communities rooted to their land through generations of conflict.

This article is published in collaboration with Egab.