It was, sadly, only a matter of time before Israel’s war on Palestine and Palestinians made its way north from Gaza, and over the imaginary border, across the Blue Line into South Lebanon.
With that inevitably comes some hard truths for hundreds, even thousands of Irish people at home, worried about their loved ones.
Men and women in Irish military uniforms, wearing the blue helmet of the United Nations peacekeeping force UNIFIL, are stationed across four separate locations in Lebanon, the majority of them only a few kilometres from Israel.
A dramatic escalation in hostilities between Hezbollah and the Israel Defence Forces has seen the IDF send ground troops to conduct what it nefariously calls “limited operations”.
Those operations brought Israeli soldiers face-to-face with Irish peacekeepers, until their withdrawal. Last week the IDF demanded that UNIFIL remove Irish peacekeepers from position 6-52 while it continued to conduct operations in the vicinity of the post. Undaunted, and with a mandate to fulfil, the Irish peacekeepers remained where they were.
Given the dichotomy of reaction to every act and counteract of this bloody and unjust war, the Irish troops remaining in position was decried by some as folly — “what the hell are they doing there anyway?” — and celebrated by others as a ballsy act of defiance.
The truth is, to the men and women stationed in South Lebanon it was neither. They were never going to leave, certainly not because they are stupid, but neither because they see themselves as especially brave.
They stayed, and will stay, because it is their job to do so. A directive issued by an invading army would never shift them, nor would a hand on the shoulder from a persuasive Hezbollah.
To describe it in such uncongratulatory terms may seem a tad unkind, but that is the reality of a soldier (and by soldier, I mean all ranks), and the consequence of the duty to which they commit their lives, especially when they deploy overseas.
It’s also what makes it a job unlike any other. There are mothers who should’ve been home last weekend celebrating their kids’ birthdays, but instead were moving in heavy body armour in unforgiving heat between bomb shelters and observation posts. Fathers, too.
In such circumstances, there is very little room nor reason to contemplate the cynics who dismiss your role as peacekeeper, when — in their eyes — there is no peace to keep.
Similarly, there is little bandwidth to process the praise others might throw at you for dutifully standing your ground. There is only room for doing your job. And maybe after, you’ll eat, sleep, talk to home, and play cards.
To understand why Ireland’s contributions to the UN, and peacekeeping in Lebanon in particular, are so valuable, we must acknowledge our roles as outliers in the international community.
In openly hostile environments like those in which our soldiers currently serve, one must quickly accept our uniforms are mostly decorative. That the guns we sling on our shoulders are not weapons, but props. That we are powerless to change any outcome by force. There is, oxymoronically, a certain potency to that powerlessness, an objectivity that the warmongers lack.
A heightened sense of observation. A diplomat’s eye, and an artist’s sensibility. Unable to point to superior firepower, we instead rely upon our innate decency. Why do Irish soldiers always carry a pack of cigarettes, regardless of whether they smoke? Because it is the first thing they’ll offer a protagonist at a contentious checkpoint.
It sounds contrived, but, trust me, it’s not. Lebanese people do not like to be spoken down to by some foreigner in fatigues. More lives have been saved by discerning Donegal men willing to dismount and just talk to the guy, than by arrogant commanders hiding behind a turret of an armoured personnel carrier.
So, the job they do today and tomorrow should not be understated. One of the reasons the IDF has been able to kill at least 41,000 Palestinians in Gaza is because no non-Palestinians were allowed to bear witness and report. No international peacekeepers or observers were deployed, no international media allowed in.
The 380 or so Irish troops based in UN Posts 2-45 and 6-52 are not cowering in bunkers, 24 hours a day, sheltering from airstrikes and small arms fire, they are actively monitoring and reporting, doing so from fortified observation posts and defensive positions within armoured vehicles.
Yes, their ability to do their job has been restricted by this absurd escalation, but never has their reporting been more important. In such a dynamic and volatile environment, objective and verifiable information is imperative to any potential de-escalation, and more crucially, holding hostile actors to account.
Dismissing their role as failing to keep a peace where there’s no peace to be kept is a gross and ignorant over-simplification. Their presence, too, is a totem of intent. Say what you will of the many recent failures of the United Nations, but Irish peacekeepers holding their ground in Lebanon is representative of one of its most fundamental, humane principles — the protection of civilian life.
There is another aspect to all of this that is impossible for those who have not served to understand: the guilt of not being there alongside them. The commander of Post 6-52 is a Lieutenant, probably in his or her mid-20s, likely not long out of university. Under their command will be old soldiers who’ve spent more time in Lebanon than some Lebanese, and first-timers, for whom all of this may well be a terrifying experience.
Retired personnel like myself, serving personnel at home, all of us feel a yearning to be with them. Not because of some narcissistic desire for glory (for there is no glory in being alone and afraid), nor because of some attraction to danger, but because, fundamental to serving — in the Irish Army at least — has always been a desire to do good.
You spend most of your career hurrying up to wait. So, when it happens to your comrades, you do so wish you were there to help them. Be mindful of that when you cynically dismiss what they do. So too, as you congratulate them. To them, they have a job to do. And do it they will.
- Colin Sheridan served with the Defence Forces from 1997 to 2023, including three years in Lebanon
