Colin Sheridan: The end of Unifil is the end of Ireland’s innocence in peacekeeping
Irish peacekeepers at Camp Shamrock. For Ireland, Unifil became the Defence Forces’ longest-running overseas mission. File picture: Hannah McCarthy
In 1978, when the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (Unifil) was first established, the word “interim” suggested something short-lived, a temporary sticking plaster to allow the blood of conflict in southern Lebanon to clot.
Forty-six years later, the bandage and the wound have become one.
Now, with the news that the long-standing mission will be stood down by the end of 2026, it is worth pausing to consider what this end will mean - not only for Lebanon and the region, but also for Ireland, whose soldiers have been a fixture in the mission almost since its inception.
Unifil was created by UN Security Council Resolutions 425 and 426 following Israel’s invasion of southern Lebanon in March 1978.
Its mandate was deceptively simple: confirm Israeli withdrawal, restore international peace and security, and assist the Lebanese government in regaining authority over its southern territory. In reality, it was a Sisyphean task.
Successive conflicts - particularly the 1982 Lebanon War and the devastating 2006 conflict between Israel and Hezbollah - complicated its role.
Yet Unifil endured, its blue-helmeted soldiers patrolling a volatile border where calm often felt temporary, and where the next explosion was never more than a misstep away. For Ireland, Unifil became the Defence Forces’ longest-running overseas mission.
More than 30,000 Irish personnel have served there, and 47 have lost their lives in Lebanon’s hills and valleys.
For many Irish families, the words “the Leb” carried both a quiet dread and a mystical pride: that our small country could contribute to international peace in a region beset by nefarious interference.
The implications of Unifil's demise will be significant.
First, for Lebanon itself.
The country is in the grip of economic collapse, political dysfunction, and social fracture - most of it sponsored by Israel, and its duplicitous benefactor, America.
The Lebanese Armed Forces - under-resourced and overstretched - will struggle to maintain stability in the south without the visible deterrent that Unifil provides.
Israel - who have long undermined Unifil's mandate - will not ignore an increased Hezbollah presence across the Blue Line, thereby granting themselves permission to begin another bloody war if it so chooses.
For the broader Middle East, the end of Unifil would mark a retreat of multilateral peacekeeping in favour of regional self-help - or, more realistically, self-harm.
It would embolden non-state actors, who might view the departure as a vacuum to be filled.
And for Ireland?
The implications are equally profound. The Defence Forces’ relationship with UN peacekeeping has been a cornerstone of our foreign policy for decades.
Losing Unifil will be to lose not just a mission, but an identity. The most likely replacement for Unifil is… nothing. That is the uncomfortable truth.
Few countries are eager to commit troops to southern Lebanon given the risks, and the UN itself has shown signs of peacekeeping fatigue. Where once there was optimism about the power of blue helmets, now there is scepticism, even resignation.
If a successor exists, it might be a pared-down observer mission, offering monitoring and reporting without the robust troop presence. Such a change would leave the Lebanese Armed Forces with more responsibility than they could realistically manage.
Another possibility is a shift from UN to EU or NATO-led frameworks. Already, the EU has a naval mission off Lebanon’s coast (Unifil's Maritime Task Force, led at times by European powers).
A greater European role could emerge, but it would mark a subtle if decisive shift - from impartial peacekeeping to security-driven, geopolitical engagement.
As Unifil withdraws, Ireland faces a crossroads. Do we continue to anchor ourselves in UN peacekeeping, or do we drift toward EU-led and NATO-adjacent missions?
There is no question that Ireland’s tradition of UN peacekeeping has burnished its global reputation. It allowed a small, militarily modest state to project values of neutrality, humanitarianism, and multilateralism. It has been our soft power writ large.
But the UN’s appetite - and capacity - for such missions appears diminished. Large-scale, decades-long deployments of the Unifil variety are becoming rare.
Instead, we see short-term, limited-mandate missions in Africa or the Middle East, often with fewer troops and tighter rules of engagement.
Meanwhile, the EU is stepping up. Its Common Security and Defence Policy (CSDP) has birthed missions in Mali, Somalia, and the Mediterranean.
These are more technical, often focused on training or capacity-building rather than interposition between warring parties. But they align more closely with European strategic political priorities - and, by extension, Nato’s.
This raises difficult questions for Ireland. If we commit more fully to EU missions, do we dilute our neutrality? Already, participation in EU Battlegroups has been a source of domestic controversy.
Aligning with Nato frameworks risks eroding the carefully cultivated image of independence that has served Irish diplomacy well.
Behind the acronyms and strategies, too, lie the soldiers themselves.
Ask any veteran of Unifil and you will hear stories of danger, yes, but also of camaraderie, of bonds forged with Lebanese locals, of the quiet dignity of peacekeeping work.
The loss of Unifil would be felt in the Defence Forces’ culture - a rupture in the living memory of generations of Irish troops.
For communities in south Lebanon, too, the Irish flag has come to symbolise not just soldiers, but friends. The departure would leave absences not only on patrol routes, but in hearts.
So where might Irish troops deploy next?
Possibilities include continued UN commitments in Mali, the Democratic Republic of Congo, or the Golan Heights. But each of these theatres is fraught, and the UN is itself reconsidering its footprint.
Alternatively, EU missions in Africa or the Mediterranean may beckon, particularly those focused on migration control and training.
Closer to home, cyber-defence initiatives and hybrid threat responses could become new frontiers for Irish participation. Ultimately, the decision should be as much about identity as strategy, but likely won’t.
Ireland must ask itself: do we remain the UN’s faithful peacekeeper, even as that model wanes? Or do we embrace a European destiny, with all the moral compromises it entails?
The answer will shape not only the Defence Forces, but the story we tell the world about who we are.
The end of Unifil is more than the conclusion of a mission. It is a tipping point in Ireland’s foreign policy, a test of our values and pragmatism.
In Lebanon, the absence of blue helmets would be keenly felt, risking instability in a fragile land. For Ireland, it would mean the end of a chapter written in sacrifice and solidarity.
What replaces it- whether UN, EU, or some hybrid - will not just determine where our soldiers march, but why.
And perhaps that is the real legacy of Unifil for Ireland: not simply the years counted, or the casualties mourned, but the way it forced us to define ourselves in the world.
Neutral, yes.
Small, certainly.
But present. Visible. Willing.
In a world where multilateralism falters and alliances harden, those choices will only become harder.
And when the last Irish soldier leaves southern Lebanon, carrying memories of Marjayoun, Naqoura and Bint Jbeil, we may find ourselves wondering: was this as good as it got for us as a little country trying to do a lot of good in a tortured world?
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