by Xinhua writer Xie Hao

BEIRUT, Dec. 31 (Xinhua) -- Streets ablaze with light, Beirut is glowing with unexpected vigor in observance of Christmas, one month after guns fell silent in the 14-month conflicts between Israel and Hezbollah.

The festival season brings life to downtown malls and parks, with residents adorning their homes with festive decorations and colorful lights. Beirut, bruised but unbroken, breathes again.

From my balcony, I watched an apartment building that, until recently, had sheltered those displaced from southern Lebanon when fighting escalated in late September. Children would play football in its courtyard, and its rooms buzzed with displaced families.

Jamal, a nodding acquaintance of mine, lived with his family and two other families in a small room in the apartment. Like many of the refugees I encountered who had fled the South, the middle-aged man was invariably neat in appearance, his clothes always clean and tidy. Whenever encountering anyone in the street, he would offer a polite nod and smile.

Now, with the ceasefire in place for nearly a month, the families have gone, returning -- one can only hope -- to their homes, their hearths, and to sort of peace.

As the building's dark, void windows stared at me, memories of the past few harrowing months flooded back. I particularly remembered the night the ceasefire was announced, which turned out to be one of the most violent nights Beirut had seen in the conflict.

On Nov. 26, rumors and reports of a potential peace agreement between Israel and Lebanon spread across the city. This flicker of hope, after nearly 14 months of devastating conflict, was quickly overwhelmed by a surge of violence.

Throughout the night, Israel's military issued evacuation orders for over 20 locations across Beirut, including the city center, which had largely been untouched by the war until then.

The acrid stench filled the air, coupled with the piercing wail of sirens. Traffic grounded to a standstill as Israeli drones soared overhead, cramming fear into the residents like never before.

The Hamra district, a Sunni-dominated area that had become a temporary sanctuary for thousands of refugees from the southern regions, was suddenly ordered by Israel to evacuate. Panic erupted: the streets became gridlocked with vehicles as people flocked to escape. Some drove, while others rushed on foot, carrying whatever belongings they could grab.

In downtown Beirut, the city's major thoroughfare was jammed with thousands of cars. Overlooking this scene of chaos, a massive poster bearing a quote from Monty Python, "Everything is gonna be alright," stood in mute and sardonic irony.

For many Lebanese, this pattern of escalated attacks before a ceasefire was familiar. In 2006, Israel conducted intense strikes against Hezbollah positions across Lebanon just before declaring a truce, a show of force to catch the war's last impression.

The violence crescendoed in the early hours of Nov. 27. From my apartment, I watched explosions illuminating the northeastern sky, each blast being a reminder of the human cost of this conflict. According to a later report from Lebanese authorities, 42 people lost their lives in those final 24 hours.

Around 4:30 a.m. on Nov. 27, I awoke not to the fury of bombs but to the sharp bursts of celebratory gunfire -- both triumphant and surreal -- in a country where gunfires are more common than fireworks.

By sunrise, the homecoming had begun. Caravans of vehicles loaded with furniture, mattresses, and personal belongings clogged the highways heading south. Among these travelers were my temporary neighbors from a nearby school shelter. Their faces wore expressions of a mixture of hope and trepidation. United by a common resolve to return to homes that had been reduced to rubble, they set off into the unknown. Amidst the departing vehicles, I noticed Jamal, who was putting luggage into his small sedan.

Although he fears that his house in the south might have been destroyed or left without electricity and water, Jamal, like many others, said it is better to pitch tents atop the rubble than to crowd into shelters. "There's no decency or privacy in living this way. We're tired of it," he said.

After our farewell, he started the engine. His wife and children sat beside him, surrounded by piles of possessions they had managed to salvage from the south. Then, he drove off, heading toward home.

One month later, most refugees from the south have returned home. The city inches toward normalcy. Schools, once makeshift shelters for the displaced, now welcome students again. The streets, previously crowded with cars and motorcycles, have grown quieter.

Yet the war's scars remain stark. Commuters would drive by high-rise buildings with entire floors destroyed by Israeli drones. In Dahieh, Beirut's Shiite-dominated southern suburb and Hezbollah stronghold, destroyed buildings and cars line the streets like scenes from a post-apocalyptic film.

In the southern areas, though the ceasefire still in place, the situation remains volatile. Israel continues to shell areas along the border, blaming Hezbollah violations. The Lebanese government has reported more than 300 ceasefire violations since Nov. 27. Along the border, people continue to clear rubble, search for the remains of the war victim, and rebuild their lives piece by piece in towns and villages.

With fragile peace, this year's holiday season embodies the Lebanese way of defying hardship and pressing ahead. Only those, who have endured numerous conflicts in recent decades, fully understand how precious this peaceful moment is. Enditem

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