Beirut, the threat of Israeli war, and the memory of August 4

This week felt like a whirlwind. The looming threat of war in Beirut and across various regions of Lebanon consumed me. The disturbing news from Gaza and South Lebanon kept me on edge and I found myself immersed in drafting a survival plan. What should I do if a full-scale war breaks out in Lebanon? What if I lose my job? Where will we go? My mind raced with endless questions.

Amid all this chaos, a reminder on TV brought me back to reality. It reminded me that we are only hours away from the anniversary of August 4 once again. Memories and emotions from that day started resurfacing. How could I forget?

This week felt like a whirlwind. The looming threat of war in Beirut and across various regions of Lebanon consumed me. The disturbing news from Gaza and South Lebanon kept me on edge and I found myself immersed in drafting a survival plan. What should I do if a full-scale war breaks out in Lebanon? What if I lose my job? Where will we go?

“Where were you on the day of the explosion?”

“Where were you on the day of the explosion?”: A question that has haunted every conversation since August 4, 2020. We ask this question because understanding what happened is important. When I talk about this incident, this massive event that has continued to shape my entire existence, I wonder: will the person on the receiving end understand what I am talking about? How do you describe the sound? What about the smell of blood? How do you convey the image in a way that does not diminish its magnitude?

I was at work, immersed in the monotony of the day when the world around me split in two. In the deafening shock in the aftermath of the explosion, time split into "before" and "after." This moment of confusion and uncertainty clings to us like dust, settling into the cracks of our lives, and we cannot shake it off.

I was at work, immersed in the monotony of the day when the world around me split in two. In the deafening shock in the aftermath of the explosion, time split into "before" and "after." This moment of confusion and uncertainty clings to us like dust, settling into the cracks of our lives, and we cannot shake it off.

In 2020, I was commuting daily from North Lebanon to Beirut for work. Now, I reside in streets that were completely destroyed in August 2020. Today, four years later, I have my own Beirut ritual: I wander the streets of this city with friends, savoring its unique charm. We take photos like tourists visiting the city for the first time, capturing the essence of a city they may never see again.

Yesterday, as usual, I went out with my best friend. Our conversation was the inspiration for this article.

Beirut: A blend of memories

When I walk through the streets of Beirut, it feels like the city is a tapestry of memories, woven together with threads of joy, sorrow, and resilience. Every step I take beats the heartbeat of a city that has known both the ecstasy of life and the agony of destruction.

I left my home in Gemmayzeh, where nightlife once thrived. The narrow streets, filled with old buildings, tell stories of a bygone era. An eerie silence has replaced the once vibrant music that used to echo here. The scars of the blast are still visible, like open wounds that refuse to heal. Each shattered window and crumbling wall reminds me of life's fragility and how quickly it can be torn apart.

We talk about our longing for simplicity, for a life devoid of the need for constant courage and heroism. We wrestle with the question: Is it better to remember or to forget?

I continued walking toward Mar Mikhael, where I planned to meet my friend. On my way, I saw the grain silos. My heartbeat quickened. I saw the building of Electricité du Liban, a stark reminder of the power of destruction. I could almost hear the deafening roar of the explosion, feel the ground shaking beneath my feet, and smell the acrid smoke that filled the air. The memories always flood back. They are uninvited, but still they come and overwhelm my mind.

I arrived, and our conversations began. In front of us were four cups of coffee, even though there were only two of us, surrounded by notebooks, pens, laptops, books, and an ashtray full of cigarettes on the table. We sat under a Beiruti tree with yellow blossoms. Half of them have fallen, yet the tree continues to bloom. Our discussions flowed, each inevitably revolving around Beirut and the explosion. We recounted where we were. After four years, new emotions have surfaced. We shared and talked about the journey of healing that never ends and may never truly end.

“Where were you on the day of the explosion?” This time, my answer is clear and resolute: “I was here, and I am still here. I rebuild myself, and then I fall apart. At times, I feel happy. At others, I am consumed by frustration and the overwhelming despair that seeps into every corner of this city. But despite it all, I am still here. I am the city, and I love Beirut. I am learning to love myself.”

We delved into our feelings and emotions, analyzing the complex web of fears and doubts shared by our generation. Each of us speaks as if in front of a crowd, delivering emotional monologues on countless topics. We listened, truly listened, to one another. We talked about our longing for simplicity, for a life devoid of the need for constant courage and heroism.

We wrestled with the question: Is it better to remember or to forget? Our conversations about our homes are vivid and personal, as if we are describing a loved one, a live human being of flesh, blood, and feelings.

We blame the city

My friend pointed out something I had never considered before: "We blame the city," she said. It's true. I have been blaming and cursing Beirut for years. But Beirut is not responsible for our misery. In these moments, I realized how the city has become an integral part of our lives and our stories. Shared experiences, unspoken understanding, and a collective spirit bind us to Beirut in a way that transcends mere geography. Every cup of coffee, every walk, every conversation is a step in our ongoing journey of healing and rediscovery, reminding us of the deep love we feel for this city and each other. It seems as though the walls listen to our endless conversations about the explosion, which often repeat as we recount our experiences and share our fears.

My friend pointed out something I had never considered before: "We blame the city," she said. It's true. I have been blaming and cursing Beirut for years. But Beirut is not responsible for our misery. In these moments, I realized how the city has become an integral part of our lives and our stories. Shared experiences, unspoken understanding, and a collective spirit bind us to Beirut in a way that transcends mere geography. Every cup of coffee, every walk, every conversation is a step in our ongoing journey of healing, reminding us of the deep love we feel for this city and each other.

Scars of the city

The streets of Beirut, once vibrant with life, now bear the scars of that devastating moment. We, the survivors, walk these streets, our minds replaying scenes of the catastrophe and our hearts heavy with a mixture of fear and resilience. Every day is a struggle between moving forward and being pulled back by the invisible chains of trauma. Uncertainty has become an unwelcome companion. Every sound—every vibration—brings a wave of panic. We question our safety, our future, and our ability to rebuild not just our city but ourselves. The psychological burden is immense. It is a relentless battle that drains our strength but fuels our determination to endure and survive.

A new day

Today, I wander aimlessly through Beirut, this miserable city that still captivates me. I roam its streets, choosing a song that calms my nerves and makes me feel that somewhere within these cracked walls, a glimmer of hope is hidden and will unexpectedly reveal itself. It is a stubborn, steadfast hope. It is present in the collective effort to rebuild, in the laughter that occasionally pierces our sorrow during our gatherings, in our struggle against those who hoped we would become a pile of corpses and that Beirut would become a mass grave.

Every day is a struggle between moving forward and being pulled back by the invisible chains of trauma. Uncertainty has become an unwelcome companion. Every sound—every vibration—brings a wave of panic. We question our safety, our future, and our ability to rebuild not just our city, but ourselves. The psychological burden is immense, a relentless battle that drains our strength but fuels our determination to endure and survive.

I sip my morning coffee and flip through a book by Rabee Jaber. I see myself as one of the characters in most of his novels, walking the alleys and squares of Beirut in search of myself and the city. And I remember the question: "Where were you on the day of the explosion?"

This time, my answer is clear and resolute: “I was here, and I am still here. I rebuild myself, and then I fall apart. At times, I feel happy, and at others, I am consumed by frustration and the overwhelming despair that seeps into every corner of this city. But despite it all, I am still here. I am the city, and I love Beirut. I am learning to love myself.”

* The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22