DEIR BILLA, Lebanon—Christians in this small northern Lebanese village keep a lookout at night for unwanted visitors, asking drivers headed up the hill toward the Shia part of the neighborhood what their purpose is. They have installed cameras and often sit around until 3 a.m. smoking shisha, keeping an eye on the road.
“They know we are watching,” said Farid Sammour, a 31-year-old restaurant owner. “Before we were living together. Now there is no trust.”
Lebanon’s religious fault lines—the patchwork of Christian, Shia and Sunni Muslim, and other faith groups making up this country of some 5.5 million people—are straining as Israel’s war with the Hezbollah militant group grinds on.
Several weeks ago, an Israeli airstrike hit a Shia house in this village 70 miles from the Israeli border, killing two people the Israeli military described as “terrorist assets.” The broadening air campaign has pulled villages and towns such as Deir Billa into the conflict if they house Shia Muslims, from whom Hezbollah draws most of its support.
Christians and Shia Muslims live side-by-side here and were already on edge before the airstrike. In September, days after Israel remotely detonated thousands of sabotaged pagers and walkie-talkies in the hands of Hezbollah members, a group of men arrived seeking shelter. Residents saw the men had injuries on their faces and hands. They persuaded them to leave, fearing that the village could be targeted if they were linked to Hezbollah, the Iran-backed group deemed a terrorist organization by the U.S.
The fear of similar airstrikes is again driving a wedge of suspicion through Lebanese society, which has long suffered from sectarian strife. Civilians forced from their homes near the southern border with Israel or Hezbollah members escaping Israeli attacks are both seeking safety farther north. But as Israeli airstrikes hit deeper into Lebanon, other Lebanese fear being drawn into the fight if they allow them into their villages.
Sectarian conflict has been endemic to Lebanon’s modern history. A 15-year civil war that ended in 1990 killed 150,000 people. Today, the country relies on a delicate power-sharing agreement to balance the interests of Christians, Shias and Sunnis, the country’s largest groups, which represent roughly equal shares of the population.
But with hundreds of thousands of people on the move, that balance is looking increasingly unstable.
Shias have been forced to flee southern Lebanon, where they are a majority, and Israeli bombs have also targeted Hezbollah strongholds in southern Beirut and elsewhere. Some 1.2 million people, nearly a quarter of the population, have been displaced over the past year or so.
Hosting Shias has made villages and towns in Sunni and Christian areas potential targets of Israeli strikes. In cities such as Beirut and Sidon, some landlords are refusing to rent to Shias, citing security concerns. Tensions also stem from financial distress. The mass displacement, primarily from the south, is putting further strain on local communities in a country that has been battered by an economic crisis and political paralysis.
The patriarch of Lebanon’s Maronite Church, Bechara Boutros al-Rahi, has called for the country’s schools to be “freed” from people displaced by the war so that students can return. He warned that people occupying private property and land could stoke internal conflict.
The latest fighting between Israel and Hezbollah, longtime foes, ramped up a little over a year ago when Hezbollah rocket attacks on northern Israel forced tens of thousands of Israelis to evacuate. The rocket attacks followed the Hamas-led attacks on southern Israel on Oct. 7 last year, in which 1,200 people were killed. More than 41,000 people have been killed in Gaza since the war began, according to health authorities there.
Last month, the fighting turned into open warfare as Israeli forces launched an invasion of southern Lebanon and intensified airstrikes. Israel said the move was aimed at eliminating the threat from Hezbollah, which emerged during the civil war. Over the past two decades, the group has become the strongest military and political force in Lebanon.
Hezbollah’s rise stems partly from backing by Iran, a Shia Islamic republic, and from its success in twice forcing Israeli troops to withdraw from Lebanon, in 2000 and 2006. In addition to its military wing, Hezbollah is a political party and operates a far-reaching social safety net focused on its supporters.
The group has lost some of its popular support in Lebanon in recent years, driven by an array of factors, including its crackdowns on protesters and opposition voices; its perceived protection of officials responsible for the massive 2020 Beirut port explosion, and Iran’s growing sway.
The backlash to Hezbollah’s influence—and by extension that of the Shia community—is creating new sources of tension.
Israel has also tried to weaken Hezbollah’s ties to the wider Shia community. The military launched airstrikes last month on a bank linked to Hezbollah that has branches across Lebanon—strikes an Israeli official said were aimed at undermining trust between the group and Shia community.
Israeli airstrikes in parts of the country that aren’t Hezbollah strongholds could also be an attempt by Israel to prompt other Lebanese reasons to shun Hezbollah, and potentially Shias more broadly, said Heiko Wimmen, a Lebanon expert with the International Crisis Group. He said the message from Israel appears to be, “If you stay with these guys, you die with these guys. So distance yourself.”
The Israeli military declined to respond to a request for comment on its strategy.
The continuing strikes, including in areas that had taken in displaced people from the south, are adding to the unease.
Last week, an Israeli airstrike on Ain Yaaqoub, a Sunni Muslim village 100 miles north of the Israeli border, killed at least 14 displaced people, according to the Lebanese Red Cross. The municipality said the dead included women, children and four Syrians. The Israeli military said the strike targeted “terrorist infrastructure,” but declined to elaborate.
One afternoon last month, a man the Israelis suspected of being a Hezbollah member pulled up outside a house in Aitou, a Christian village in northern Lebanon, where several displaced families who had fled the fighting elsewhere in the country were having lunch in the garden.
About 15 minutes later, the Israeli military launched a strike on the building that killed 24 people, including 12 women and two children. Weeks after the strike, the site was still littered with children’s clothes and drawings, schoolbooks and a burned pair of roller blades. A broken toy drum balanced on pieces of concrete.
“I don’t think anyone who owns a house here would welcome more displaced people,” said Sarkis Alwan, whose brother owns the property.
It is unclear what the man’s business was in Aitou. Some residents questioned why Israel targeted the man after he had sat down with civilians, rather than hit him on the road, and interpreted the airstrike as a warning not to host Shias.
“They want the Christians to reject the Shias,” said Father Bernard Ibrahim, the town’s priest. “But this is not going to happen,” he said. “We are all people of one country.”
The Israeli military said the strike targeted Hezbollah. It said the claim that civilians were killed was under review.
Meanwhile some Lebanese are working to prevent any tension from spilling over into sectarian strife.
When Israel escalated its attacks on southern Lebanon in September, Yara Bou Monsef, a 28-year-old social-media content creator, used her 1.6 million followers on Instagram to fundraise $120,000 for displaced Lebanese—in collaboration with a fellow influencer—to buy water, clothes, heaters and other necessities.
“We have a platform, so we have a responsibility,” she said. “There are a lot of things that unite us as Lebanese. Why look for things that separate us?”
One of the displaced, Ali Abou Taam, a 54-year-old floor fitter from a Shia family, fled his village in the eastern Bekaa Valley last year, and said the residents of Araya, outside of Beirut, treated his family well, but that he understood their concerns.
“They have the right to be scared,” he said. “Everyone wants to protect their family.”
Assistance to the displaced often comes down to the will of individual community leaders.
Kahaleh, a Christian village near Beirut, has refused to host displaced Shias after the nearby highway was hit five times by Israeli airstrikes. On the opposite side of the highway, in Araya, the mayor, Pierre Bejjadin, insists on hosting 400 displaced people—among a population of 3,500.
“Residents are scared. A majority of them don’t want Shias here,” he said.
In September, Verena El Amil, a 28-year-old lawyer, helped clear out tables and desks from classrooms at the school in the mountain town of Broummana where her mother is a principal, before inviting hundreds of displaced people to stay there.
She hoped to bridge religious divides.
“We can see it as a chance for us to rebuild our country, to make our first and most important identity the national identity, and not the sectarian one,” she said.
Write to Sune Engel Rasmussen at sune.rasmussen@wsj.com
