Shock comes from every direction, and screams rise from the rubble and the edges of the blast site. People walking by stop, trying to make sense of what happened, but seeing the scene they narrowly survived doesn’t help. Only when they check their phones do flashes of information begin to reveal the truth.

Some of these updates are accurate, while others spread the version of events that those behind the attack want people to believe. This is part of Beirut’s daily tragedy, whether in daylight or at night. Meanwhile, the rest of city life has been turned upside down. For nearly a month, life has been marked by chaos and tension, in ways some compare to what happened more than forty years ago, while modern technology has brought new forms of destruction that never existed before.

“Is something happening?”

After each enemy strike, life seems to return to normal, and the questions and speculation resume—among strangers on the street, colleagues at work, even the soldier standing at the broken traffic light asks you what’s going on. Motorcycles roar past, nearly missing his feet. As you take in these strange yet familiar scenes, a fight between racers pulls your attention elsewhere. In their voices, you hear threats and warnings, promises of harm that might come later, after the conflict. At the same time, another scene plays out in your mind, one that is still uncertain and may never unfold the way the aggressors intend.

Everyone wants to know what will happen, while you try to understand what has already happened. The enemy is everywhere—above and around you—free to kill at will. For them, killing is just a routine act, while blood, bodies, and destruction are mere details. Friends and neighbors may betray you, leaving you vulnerable, trapped among danger, while those responsible drag their targets through crowded streets, poor neighborhoods, and narrow alleys, waiting to unleash their cruelty. Mothers clutch their children, who stare in disbelief at horrors they could never have imagined, not even in a Superman video game.

A displaced girl in one of the camps set up in Beirut (AFP)

The sidewalks that once only held pedestrians’ feet now cradle loved ones, while the tormented, displaced, and homeless rest upon them. Mats and crumpled pillows lie scattered, some shaded by old canopies that resemble tents but are not. Beneath them, rainwater has flowed endlessly since the beginning of March, a rare gift of nature. Yet the grass has burned, the trees have withered in grief over the departure of their people, and the rain, once a blessing, has become a burden.

Beirut, the “city of the world,” is a story too vast for words to fully capture. It has embraced countless experiences, safeguarding its history from being lost. It has preserved landmarks that survived repeated waves of human destruction, blending ideas and cultures, and where fire and pearls coexist in a fragile oasis. The city extracts paradoxical lessons from its life, offering meals to visitors—both familiar and strangers—in darkness, never fleeing when sirens warn of danger without paying its due.

Beirut feels as if it is under the watch of gods who have passed and gods yet to come. The state helps cultivate wisdom, patience, and aid, while the afflicted government reels from an emotional drought that affects those close to the fighters, sometimes as harshly as the enemy itself. Those willing to shed their blood for the causes they believe in often withhold even a single word about the future, as if secrets are more precious than life itself.

The city is sad… the streets are sad… the buildings are sad… the pigeons are sad… the universities are sad… the schools are sad. Emotions are buried, and eyes overflow with tears from the depth of suffering. Beirut does not deserve this torment, and Lebanon bears no guilt in the struggles of nations. Meanwhile, Israel, stumbling through the failures of its expansionist plans and fearing the “dragon” that will one day punish it for the blood of children, unleashes its wrath on the bride of the sea, venting its hatred on the harbor, the melting coastline, and the ruby-red blossom.

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed by the writers are their own and do not necessarily represent the views of Annahar