作者： admin

Beneath the quiet, tense night skies of southern Lebanon’s Habboush village, the noise that split the stillness was no air strike. It was the agonized scream of a child crying out for rescue. Local paramedic Hashem quickly traced the sound to a hovering Israeli quadcopter circling above the community.

Speaking with Middle East Eye, Hashem explained that this disturbing event is far from anomalous. For civilians who have chosen to remain in their ancestral southern Lebanese villages despite ongoing Israeli occupation and daily bombardment, such incidents have become a grim, daily reality.

“This is not the first time these drones have flown over our homes and broadcast manipulated sounds,” he explained. “Just yesterday it was children screaming for help. Before that, we heard ambulance sirens. Other times they’ve played recitations from the Quran, or a woman’s desperate cries for assistance. We endure this almost every single day.”

For holdout residents across south Lebanon, Israeli quadcopters are a constant, inescapable presence overhead. Beyond routine surveillance, issuing public warnings, and dropping targeted messages, the unmanned aerial vehicles have been repurposed to turn the cover of night into an active psychological battlefield.

Local residents and first responders confirm that beyond open intimidation, Israeli forces deploy these fake distress sounds to draw civilians out of fortified shelters and homes. The tactic preys on basic human instincts: the urge to help someone in danger, natural curiosity, and raw fear. Hashem described his own automatic reaction to the night screams that matches exactly what Israeli planners anticipate.

“When you hear those cries cut through the silent night, your first instinct is to rush outside and see what’s wrong,” he said. “That’s what I did yesterday. But I quickly realized the sound had to be coming from the drone—there’s no way children would be out in the village at that hour, especially around midnight.”

Hashem outlined two core goals for the tactic. First, it aims to grind down remaining residents psychologically, spread pervasive fear, and force them to abandon their homes. But he also warned of a second, more immediate dangerous objective.

“Most villages here are now empty of civilians, with only resistance fighters remaining in some areas,” he noted. “I believe the tactic is also meant to lure people out into the open so they can be identified and targeted.”

This psychological warfare strategy is not a new innovation in Israel’s recent regional conflicts. Human rights groups, journalists, and residents in the Gaza Strip have long documented Israeli quadcopters fitted with loudspeakers broadcasting similar fake sounds of crying children, screaming women, and distress calls across residential neighborhoods and refugee camps, most often under cover of darkness.

Gaza residents reported that the sounds frequently led them to believe nearby civilians were in crisis, only to discover the cries originated from small drones hovering meters above their communities. In Gaza, quadcopters have served far more purposes than surveillance alone. Throughout the ongoing conflict, doctors, local residents, and rights organizations have recorded their use over streets, family homes, and even hospital campuses, where they monitor civilian movement, issue coercive orders, intimidate populations, and in multiple documented cases, open fire on civilians.

The use of loudspeaker-equipped drones forms part of a broader campaign of psychological manipulation: it confuses civilians, erases the line between real emergency and recorded fake sound, and undermines one of humanity’s most fundamental instincts—the drive to answer a call for help.

Today, south Lebanese residents confirm this exact tactic has been imported to their communities, against the backdrop of a landscape already ravaged by war, where most towns lie partially destroyed or entirely deserted. Families are trapped between permanent displacement and temporary returns, and the conflict has fundamentally reshaped how local people experience daily life, sound, and movement through their own communities.

Tarek Mazaani, a resident from the heavily destroyed southern town of Houla, has experienced this psychological pressure firsthand. His original home was reduced to rubble during the 2024 war. He relocated to Zawtar al-Sharqiya during a brief ceasefire, only to be displaced a second time when fighting resumed in March. In response to the displacement crisis, Mazaani founded the Gathering of the People of the Southern Border Towns, a grassroots organization advocating for residents’ right to return to their destroyed homes and demand the start of reconstruction work.

According to Mazaani, on October 12, 2025, the Israeli military deployed quadcopters across multiple southern Lebanese villages to broadcast public warnings, ordering residents not to communicate with Mazaani and to boycott his organizing work. The broadcasts falsely labeled Mazaani as a Hezbollah member.

Speaking to MEE from his third location of displacement—his refuge in Zawtar al-Sharqiya has also since been destroyed—Mazaani recalled the immediate aftermath of the broadcast. “When the Israeli army released those messages, I had to leave my safe house immediately out of concern for the lives of my neighbors in the residential complex,” he said. “I knew they could target me after those warnings, so I left my family behind and moved to another location to keep them safe.”

The public warnings were eventually scaled back after Mazaani’s case gained international media attention, drew public solidarity from senior regional officials, and became a matter of widespread public concern. But for Mazaani, the damage extended far beyond threats to his own safety. Broadcasting his name and accusations across southern villages was as much a warning to the entire community as it was to him: any person advocating for the right to return, opposing forced displacement, or demanding reconstruction can be targeted, threatened, and socially isolated by Israeli forces.

The firsthand testimonies of Hashem and Mazaani expose a little-documented layer of the ongoing conflict in south Lebanon. This is not only a war of air strikes, physical destruction, and mass displacement—it is also a deliberate campaign to control the psychological and sonic landscape of daily civilian life.

This weaponization of sound puts ordinary civilians in an impossible, no-win position. Choosing to respond to a cry for help can mean walking directly into an Israeli trap. Choosing to ignore it can mean turning away from a real person in genuine danger. Trapped between these two terrible outcomes, fear builds steadily, community trust erodes, and simply staying in one’s home becomes a daily battle of nerves.

In south Lebanon, where collective memory of decades of Israeli occupation intersects with new waves of displacement, these quadcopters are viewed as more than just advanced military hardware. For residents, they are a tangible extension of Israeli occupation control: perpetually hovering overhead, watching, disembodying false voices into communities, and forcing civilians to second-guess every sound and every movement in their own homes.

Deep in the jungle-covered mountains of Myanmar, hidden in a rebel encampment, four young men between 19 and 25 years old share a harrowing story none ever imagined they would live. None of them wanted any part of the country’s brutal civil war – and none ever volunteered to fight for the ruling military junta. Each was snatched from ordinary life in a campaign of state-sponsored forced conscription that has upended the trajectory of the conflict.

One, a chef by trade, was abducted from a city street just as he headed home after a shift. He carried no official identification, and that minor oversight was all the junta forces needed to detain him and coerce him into enlistment. A second was seized on his way back from a late-night karaoke outing with friends. A third was arrested while carrying out his routine duties for the state forestry department. The fourth describes being framed: plainclothes junta agents slipped illegal drugs into his shoe during his arrest, leaving him no choice but to enlist to avoid harsher punishment.

“Before we even understood what was happening to us, we were shipped straight to the front lines,” one of the men told a BBC reporting team that entered Myanmar without junta permission to document conditions in rebel-held territory. The BBC has agreed to keep the men’s identities secret to protect their families from retaliation back in territory controlled by the military.

The young men describe relentless exploitation during their time in junta ranks. “They made us do all kinds of things we didn’t want to do,” another added. “We never got any real rest – not in the morning, not during the day, not even at night. All the hard, dangerous work fell to us conscripts, while regular soldiers barely had to lift a finger.”

After four months of brutal basic training, the four were deployed to the front lines in Myanmar’s Karen State. One night, as they walked to a nearby stream to wash, they seized their chance: they slipped away into the jungle, running for their lives. Their escape led them straight into a patrol of the People’s Defence Force (PDF), the main armed wing of Myanmar’s anti-junta resistance, who detained them. But unlike their experience with the junta, the four say they have been welcomed with open arms.

“We are treated like brothers here, not strangers,” one explained. They plan to remain with the PDF for the time being, before eventually being moved to safety across the border with Thailand. “If we tried to go home now, the military would still hunt us down,” one said.

The accounts of these four unwilling deserters underscore a stark shift in Myanmar’s civil war, which erupted after the junta seized power from the country’s democratically elected government in 2021, arresting civilian leader Aung San Suu Kyi. After the coup, widespread opposition coalesced into an armed resistance movement that made sweeping territorial gains across the country over the first two years of conflict. Today, that tide has turned, largely thanks to the junta’s 2024 enforcement of a mandatory conscription law requiring all eligible men to serve a minimum of two years in the military.

That policy has flooded junta ranks with new manpower, reversing the resistance’s earlier momentum and pushing anti-junta forces onto the defensive across most of the country. While the junta still maintains full control over less than half of Myanmar’s territory, it has notched key gains in recent months, retaking critical population centers and reopening a vital strategic highway connecting the central city of Mandalay to Myitkyina in the northern state of Kachin. Thousands of junta troops are currently advancing to reassert control over contested border regions in Kachin, Chin, and Karen States.

Ko Kaung, a PDF battalion commander operating in Karen State, says forced conscription has become the single biggest challenge resistance fighters face on the battlefield. “Military forced conscription became the main challenging factor for us on the battlefield as it enabled the military with limitless manpower,” he explained during a patrol through the sweltering jungle. Two years ago, Ko Kaung’s fighters seized the town of Hpapun and a large junta base outside the town. Today, the area bears deep scars of war: the welcome sign at the town entrance has been destroyed by bombing, along with the local school, a Buddhist monastery, and most of the homes in now-abandoned neighborhoods. Now, Ko Kaung says he is bracing for an all-out attack: as many as 2,000 junta soldiers are advancing on Hpapun, with junta drones already circling overhead.

Unlike the junta, which draws on an endless stream of conscripted manpower, the resistance faces crippling resource constraints. “For us, despite having technology and intellectual advantages, our resources are very constrained,” Ko Kaung said. “With limited funds, we cannot source required components as much as we want and cannot recruit new soldiers as easily as the military.”

Da Wa, a PDF commander and former political activist who spent four and a half years in junta prisons, echoes that assessment. Deep in his mountain-based command, he agrees that while most of the junta’s new conscripts are unwilling recruits, their addition to the force has still improved the junta’s battlefield performance. “They are getting better at following orders,” he noted.

During a patrol along narrow jungle trails, Da Wa’s group was forced to take cover when a junta drone passed overhead. Reaching a hilltop outpost, his fighters speak in hushed tones: a junta sniper is dug in on the adjacent hill. The outpost itself was captured by the resistance in April, but overwhelming junta artillery and airstrikes forced fighters to abandon it after just two days. “We’ll take it back,” Da Wa says firmly. Like Ko Kaung, he faces overwhelming odds: some 400 junta soldiers are advancing on his position.

Beyond the flood of conscripts, Da Wa says the junta has benefited from a major shift in military support since signing a security pact with Russia. The agreement has boosted the junta’s air power: “We see pairs of aircraft now, before it would be a single fixed wing,” he explained. The junta also now holds the edge in both quantity and quality of drone technology, a disadvantage the resistance struggles to counter. “The drone danger is definitely increasing. It would be easier for us if we also had jammers… It depends on how effectively we can counter their drone attacks and how well we can defend ourselves against them.”

Compounding these challenges is the role of China, which has poured billions of dollars of investment into Myanmar and operates large rare earth mineral mining projects in Karen and Kachin States. China has brokered multiple ceasefire agreements between the junta and several ethnic rebel groups, while simultaneously cutting off the flow of weapons and ammunition to the broader anti-junta resistance.

That ammunition shortage is a daily crisis for frontline fighters, says Kyar Soe, a rebel platoon commander recovering from a landmine injury at a hidden jungle field hospital. Showing a video of a recent battle, Kyar Soe can be heard shouting to an overeager fighter firing into junta positions: “save your bullets, easy, easy!”

“Everyone is willing to fight so far,” Kyar Soe says from his hospital bed, his right leg heavily bandaged after a second reconstructive surgery. He stepped on a landmine in contested territory, and most of his right heel had to be removed. Myanmar is one of the most heavily mined countries on Earth, with 745 people killed or injured by landmines in 2025 alone, a quarter of them children. Even with his leg throbbing, Kyar Soe says he has no intention of abandoning the fight. “I’ll return to the fight,” he says. “One way or another I’ll fight until the very end as turning back home is no longer an option for me any more.”

The field hospital where Kyar Soe recovers is a makeshift facility, built from bamboo and wood huts tucked deep into the jungle. Its operating room runs on solar power, with a backup generator for outages, and operates on a tiny shoestring budget. The facility lacks sufficient funding, critical medical supplies, and even an ambulance to evacuate severely wounded patients. Yet its director, Dr Saung, a 19-year veteran of the former military who graduated from a junta military academy, remains committed to supporting the resistance.

He tells every wounded fighter who passes through his doors why the fight matters: “First, we are fighting this revolution now because the generations before us failed to fulfil that responsibility. Second, if young people choose not to oppose the dictatorship now, then one day, when they grow older like us and can no longer tolerate the oppression, they may also find themselves having to take up arms or join another resistance movement.”

During an interview, cries from a recovery ward interrupted the conversation, and Dr Saung rushed off to attend: the wife of a rebel fighter was in labor. In a sweltering hut, 29-year-old May Kyut Mon braced through increasingly intense contractions, while her 24-year-old husband Yine Chit stood beside her, fanning her in the oppressive heat and playing Buddhist mantras on his phone – he could not remember the words to chant them himself. After hours of labor, Dr Saung lifted a healthy baby girl into the air, smiling. The new parents named her Sue Paye, which translates roughly to “fulfilled wish.”

When asked what he hopes for his daughter’s future, Yine Chit did not hesitate: “A free and democratic Myanmar.” The couple cannot visit Yine Chit’s parents, who live in junta-held territory – neighbors in his village know he joined the resistance, and many support the military. “Once the revolution is over and peaceful times come, we’ll take the baby and visit both sides of the family,” Yine Chit says, his smile holding fast to that hope.

Myanmar’s long-simmering civil conflict has drawn renewed international attention following an unauthorized on-the-ground reporting trip by veteran BBC correspondent Quentin Sommerville, who gained rare access to rebel forces operating along active frontlines that the ruling military government has sought to seal off from outside observers.

Against a backdrop of escalating clashes between the ruling junta and opposition armed groups that have roiled the Southeast Asian nation since the 2021 military coup, Sommerville entered the country outside official channels, a move that breaks the strict media controls imposed by the current government. This unapproved access allowed him to meet directly with rebel fighters who have been leading sustained offensives against junta positions across multiple border and inland regions, offering a first-hand look at a conflict that has largely been hidden from global media scrutiny.

Most independent reporting inside Myanmar has been severely restricted since the military seized power, with international journalists barred from entering officially and local reporters facing severe crackdowns, including arrest and violence for documenting the conflict. Sommerville’s trip fills a critical gap in global understanding of the conflict, shedding light on the conditions, motivations, and capabilities of rebel groups that now control large swathes of territory outside the junta’s central control.