We will not be intimidated by their continuing campaigns
In the scarred streets of southern Beirut, tens of thousands gathered this week for the largest Ashura procession in years — a sacred Shiite commemoration of Imam Hussein's death that Hezbollah transformed into a deliberate demonstration of endurance. The ceremony arrived at a hinge moment: months of devastating war with Israel had killed more than four thousand people, displaced over a million, and invited intense international pressure on the group to disarm. As ceasefire talks remained fragile and Lebanon's future uncertain, the procession became a way of answering that pressure not with words, but with bodies filling the streets — grief and defiance woven into the same ancient ritual.
- A ceasefire announced just days earlier has barely steadied a situation still crackling with tension, as Hezbollah refuses to treat the pause as a prelude to disarmament.
- International partners — including the United States — are pressing hard for Hezbollah to surrender its weapons, arguing the group was weakened by Israeli strikes that killed commanders and destroyed military infrastructure.
- Hezbollah's leader Naim Qassem publicly rejected all disarmament demands, insisting the weapons are Lebanon's only real defense and that Israel must withdraw from Lebanese territory unconditionally before any other discussion begins.
- Israel maintains its military presence in southern Lebanon and has conducted only limited, conditional withdrawals, framing full pullback as contingent on disarmament — a standoff with no clear exit.
- Amid broader US-Iran ceasefire negotiations, the fighting in Lebanon threatens to unravel a fragile regional peace, with Iran insisting any deal must cover all active fronts, including Hezbollah's.
The streets of southern Beirut filled with black-clad mourners this week as Hezbollah organized the largest Ashura procession the Lebanese capital had seen in years. The sacred ceremony marking the death of Imam Hussein had taken on a second meaning: a show of organizational strength at the moment the group faced its most serious pressure yet to lay down its weapons.
The procession had to be relocated from its traditional site in Dahieh — a Hezbollah stronghold so thoroughly bombed during months of war with Israel that organizers feared for the safety of returning crowds. Still, the turnout was massive. Mourners waved Hezbollah and Iranian flags, carried photographs of fallen fighters, and chanted slogans against the United States and Israel. For many, the gathering was inseparable from personal loss. A twenty-two-year-old medical student whose family business had been destroyed told the ABC that showing up was itself an act of resistance. A mother from Khiam, a town now inside an Israeli security zone, had come to mourn her twenty-seven-year-old son, a Hezbollah fighter whose body had never been recovered.
The political stakes surrounding the procession were considerable. Lebanon's government, the United States, and other international partners had all called on Hezbollah to disarm, arguing the group had been weakened by Israeli strikes and that now was the moment to bring its weapons under state control. Hezbollah's leader Naim Qassem rejected this entirely in a televised Ashura address, insisting the weapons were necessary for Lebanon's defense and that Israel must first withdraw from Lebanese territory without conditions.
The conflict had drawn Lebanon into a broader regional war that began in February when Iran's Supreme Leader was killed in an Israeli air strike. Hezbollah entered the fighting in March, triggering Israeli air strikes and a ground invasion that killed more than four thousand two hundred people in Lebanon and forced over a million from their homes. Thousands of Israelis in northern border communities were also displaced by months of rocket and drone fire.
A ceasefire announced the week before the procession had largely held, but the situation remained precarious. Broader US-Iran peace talks were complicated by the ongoing fighting in Lebanon, and Israel had announced only limited withdrawals from two southern areas it described as pilot zones. Whether the ceasefire would hold, whether disarmament would follow, remained unresolved. But Hezbollah had used the ancient rhythms of Ashura to send a message that required no translation: the organization was still here, still capable of filling streets, still unwilling to yield.
The streets of southern Beirut turned black in early summer as tens of thousands of Shiite Muslims gathered for the largest Ashura procession the Lebanese capital had seen in years. The sacred ceremony, which marks the death of Imam Hussein more than thirteen centuries ago, had become something else entirely: a show of force by Hezbollah, the Iranian-backed militant group that organized it, at a moment when the organization faced its most intense pressure yet to surrender its weapons.
The timing was deliberate. Months of war with Israel had left the city scarred. Israeli strikes had reduced entire neighborhoods to rubble, killed more than four thousand two hundred people according to Lebanon's Health Ministry, and displaced over a million residents. The procession itself had to be moved from its traditional location in Dahieh, a Hezbollah stronghold in the southern suburbs, because the area had been so thoroughly bombed that organizers feared for the safety of returning crowds. Yet despite the devastation, or perhaps because of it, the turnout was massive. Mourners dressed in black waved Hezbollah and Iranian flags. Some carried photographs of fighters killed in the conflict. The chants echoed through the streets: "America, America, you are the Great Satan." "Death to America, death to Israel."
For many in the crowd, the procession carried a weight beyond ritual. Hadi, a twenty-two-year-old medical student, had watched his family business in Arab Salim destroyed by bombardment. He told the ABC that the ceremony had become a way to assert something that felt increasingly fragile. "With all the destruction that's happened from the Israelis in Lebanon, it's really important today to show we are not afraid of their tactics," he said. "We will not be intimidated by their continuing campaigns to take the spirit out of our people and out of our resistance." Many in the crowd were overcome with emotion, holding their heads in their hands, sobbing as they remembered both the ancient death of Imam Hussein and the fresh losses of their own time.
Sabah Al Abdallah came from Khiam, a town now inside an Israeli security zone along the Lebanon border. Her twenty-seven-year-old son Mohamad had been killed fighting for Hezbollah earlier that year. His body had not been recovered. "He became a martyr for the sake of God," she told the ABC. "He was part of the resistance." The destruction surrounding her—the ruined buildings, the empty streets—compounded her grief. "The destruction has left us with nothing," she said. Hassan, a thirty-five-year-old businessman, framed the gathering differently. "We are in the midst of a battle, we are living Ashura," he said. "Despite the anger we feel, the challenges and the danger, we have come from every region to renew our pledge to Imam Hussein."
But the procession was also a political statement, and Hezbollah's leadership knew it. The organization faced mounting calls to disarm—from Lebanon's government, which argued that only the state should control armed forces; from the United States and other international partners, who insisted that Hezbollah's weapons must come under state control to prevent another war with Israel. The argument from the West was straightforward: the group had been weakened during the fighting, having lost senior commanders and military infrastructure to Israeli strikes. Now was the moment to lay down arms. Hezbollah rejected this entirely. In a televised speech marking Ashura, the group's leader Naim Qassem made the organization's position clear: Israel must withdraw completely from Lebanese territory unconditionally. The weapons, Hezbollah insisted, were necessary for Lebanon's defense.
The conflict itself had begun in February when Iran's Supreme Leader, eighty-six-year-old Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, was killed in an Israeli air strike on the first day of a broader regional war between the United States, Israel, and Iran. In early March, Hezbollah fired on Israel in response, dragging Lebanon into the larger conflict. Israel responded with air strikes and a ground invasion. Thousands of Israelis from border communities in the north had also been forced to flee as Hezbollah's rockets and drones continued their assault for months.
A ceasefire had been announced the week before the procession and had largely held since Sunday. But the situation remained fragile. A new sixty-day ceasefire deal between the United States and Iran aimed at bringing lasting peace to the region had been repeatedly threatened by the ongoing fighting in Lebanon. President Donald Trump had urged Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to show restraint, particularly in strikes on Beirut, knowing that escalation could jeopardize the broader peace talks with Iran. Iran had insisted that any deal must include an end to fighting on all fronts, including Lebanon. Lebanon and Israel had held their fifth round of talks in Washington that week, and Netanyahu announced that Israel would conduct a limited withdrawal from two areas in southern Lebanon, transferring control to the Lebanese military. These were what he called "pilot zones"—areas the Israeli military deemed unnecessary to hold.
For Hezbollah, the Ashura procession served a clear purpose: to demonstrate that despite months of bombardment, despite the loss of commanders and infrastructure, despite international pressure and a ceasefire that threatened to constrain its actions, the organization remained capable of mobilizing massive crowds and maintaining the loyalty of its base. The gathering was both a religious observance and a political rally, a way of saying to the world, and to its own supporters, that the resistance would continue. What came next remained uncertain—whether the ceasefire would hold, whether disarmament would be imposed, whether the weapons would remain. But on that day in Beirut, with the streets filled with mourners in black, Hezbollah had made its answer clear.
Citas Notables
With all the destruction that's happened from the Israelis in Lebanon, it's really important today to show we are not afraid of their tactics and we will not be intimidated by their continuing campaigns to take the spirit out of our people.— Hadi, 22-year-old medical student whose family business was destroyed
Israel has no option but to withdraw completely from every inch of our Lebanese land. Israel must leave unconditionally.— Naim Qassem, Hezbollah leader, in televised Ashura speech
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did Hezbollah choose Ashura specifically to make this show of strength? Why not just hold a rally?
Ashura is already sacred ground for Shiite Muslims—it's about sacrifice and standing against injustice. By holding the procession at this moment, Hezbollah was saying: this isn't politics, this is faith. The religious framework gives the gathering legitimacy that a political rally wouldn't have. It also draws people who might not come to a purely political event.
The source mentions the procession had to be moved because of bombing damage. That seems like it would weaken the message, not strengthen it.
You'd think so, but it actually reinforced it. The fact that they could still organize something this massive, in a city that's been heavily struck, in a neighborhood that's been devastated—that itself becomes the message. It says: we're still here, we're still functioning, we're not broken.
What about the people in the crowd? Were they there for Hezbollah, or were they there for Ashura?
Both, probably, but not equally. The displaced people from the south—they came because they'd lost homes, lost family members. For them, the procession was a way to process grief and assert that their lives still matter. For Hezbollah, those same people were proof of popular support. The organization benefited from genuine suffering.
The mother who lost her son—did she seem to be endorsing Hezbollah's position on keeping weapons?
She didn't frame it that way. She talked about her son as a martyr, about the destruction around her. She was grieving. But by being there, by speaking to the ABC, she was participating in Hezbollah's narrative, whether intentionally or not. That's the complexity of it.
So what happens now? Does this procession change anything about the pressure to disarm?
Probably not in the way Hezbollah hopes. The international pressure—from the US, from Lebanon's government—that's structural. It's not going to be swayed by a large crowd. But what the procession does is signal to Hezbollah's own base that the organization is still strong, still relevant. That matters for internal cohesion, especially if negotiations drag on or if the ceasefire breaks down.