Living in Beirut: A Struggle for Survival Amidst Chaos

Life Amidst the Chaos in Beirut

The windows of my apartment in Beirut tremble violently with the force of the blasts echoing through the city. I can hear screams and the palpable terror that fills the air, a stark reminder of the ever-present specter of death. For weeks now, sleep has evaded me. How can one find rest amidst explosions and an overwhelming sense of dread?

For over three weeks, Israel has relentlessly bombarded Beirut and deployed troops into the southern regions in its campaign against Hezbollah, the militant Lebanese political and paramilitary organization that stands as Israel’s sworn adversary. The toll has been staggering: more than 2,300 lives lost, over 10,000 wounded in the past year — the majority in these recent weeks — with at least one million people displaced. The recent assaults have tragically claimed the lives of at least 127 children.

No place is safe; no one feels secure. This is not living; it is a torturous wait for the looming possibility of death. Yet, the truth is that living in Lebanon for the past five decades often feels like a perpetual wait for the next calamity to strike.

  • First came the civil war, which ravaged the country from 1975 to 1990, resulting in the deaths of 150,000 people and leaving the nation in ruins.
  • Following that were a series of assassinations targeting anti-Hezbollah politicians, journalists, and activists.
  • Then, there was the catastrophic 2006 war between Israel and Hezbollah.
  • In 2019, Lebanon faced one of the most severe economic collapses in modern history.
  • The following year, a catastrophic explosion at the port in Beirut marked one of the most devastating nonnuclear blasts in history, further ravaging the city.

These events have plunged Lebanon deeper into poverty, homelessness, unemployment, insecurity, and a dire lack of basic necessities such as medicine, power, and clean water. The reliance on generators and water deliveries has become a harsh reality of life here.

Having witnessed countless wars and tragedies, I sometimes feel as though I have lived a hundred years. My father, Atallah, hailed from a quaint village in southern Lebanon called Yaroun, nestled along the border with Israel. We honored his final wish last year by burying him there. Tragically, this month, his beloved hometown was reduced to ruins. Can you fathom how many times Yaroun has been destroyed and rebuilt from the ashes? It embodies the phoenix metaphor often applied to the Lebanese people throughout our recent history.

We are often told we are resilient, admired for our ability to bounce back, adapt, and find a way to persevere. “Look at those plucky Lebanese!” they say, celebrating our tenacity.

Once, we took pride in this resilience, whether we expressed it openly or held it close to our hearts. “We bounce right back,” we would tell ourselves and others. “Witness our remarkable recovery.” However, increasingly, I hear a tone of disdain and frustration when people speak of Lebanese resilience. We no longer wish to be resilient; we yearn for the simple right to live — to live with a sense of hope for the future, rather than this relentless “carpe diem” existence that only serves to numb us to our problems and blind us to the lessons of our past.

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