BEIRUT, July 24 (Xinhua) -- The morning birdsong has vanished from southern Lebanon's villages, replaced by the intrusive, unceasing hum of Israeli drones.

In Mays El Jabal, lifelong resident Hassan Nasser stood on the balcony of his stone house, tobacco fields stretching below as a drone's shadow glided overhead. "We sleep and wake to the sound of drones. It feels like the sky no longer belongs to us," he told Xinhua, eyes tracking the machine.

"My children are particularly affected. When drones fly low above our home, it's like we're under a spotlight," he said.

From Houla's fig-lined paths to Majidiyeh's wheat plains, this mechanical buzz has rewired daily rhythms: Farmers till soil with necks craned upward; Children pause their play at the whirring crescendo. Even the calls to prayer from village mosques are drowned out by the drones.

Some machines broadcast audio messages through speakers, urging residents not to obstruct rooftops or to keep windows uncovered; Others drop leaflets containing warnings or criticisms of Hezbollah.

Lebanese security sources reported a more than 40-percent surge in Israeli drone flights over the southern and eastern regions since January -- some reaching Beirut, far beyond the conflict-prone border zone.

The drones break a ceasefire agreement between Israel and Hezbollah reached in November 2024, and violate UN Resolution 1701. Yet for villagers, the breach is more visceral than diplomatic.

"This daily hovering creates tension for everyone," said Sawsan Hijazi, a 22-year-old university student from Houla, pausing beneath a fig tree as a black speck crossed the sky. "We feel powerless. You can't hide from them."

"It's not just about fear ... It's the feeling of being watched -- like even your thoughts aren't private," she said.

In Majidiyeh, 60-year-old farmer Jihad Shehadeh leaned on his hoe, sweat beading beneath a drone circling for over an hour. "The noise itself creates stress and discomfort ... It's hard to concentrate. Some workers even leave early."

Further inland in Nabatieh, Hanadi Nasrallah said she has to invent stories for her five children.

"They hear the buzzing and get scared. They think something is about to happen," she told Xinhua in her kitchen, her youngest daughter clinging to her leg. "I tell them it's just a big toy in the sky. But they're not convinced."

Psychologist Juliette Al-Qadi, based in Tyre, warned of the hidden scars from the drones: "Children exposed to prolonged surveillance noise often show symptoms of anxiety, sleeplessness, and hypervigilance ... It's a form of trauma where the threat is invisible but constant."

As dusk gilded the hills of Mays El Jabal, Nasser went outside to water his plants beneath the thickening drone thrum.

"We've learned to carry on," he said quietly, brushing dust off a potted geranium. "But it's not the same sky anymore."