#beirutblast

Port Explosion in Beirut,

A few minutes after 6pm on August 4, 2020, a massive explosion shook Beirut, obliterating its port and destroying swathes of the city. 

At least 200 people were killed and more than 6,000 injured when 2,750 tons of ammonium nitrate detonated. The material had been stored in a warehouse in Beirut’s port since being seized by custom authorities in 2014, despite repeated warnings of the danger from port officials and its proximity to a densely populated area of the city. 

Photographer: Lorenzo Tugnoli,

Contrasto, for The Washington Post 

Born to immigrant parents who escaped the civil war to come to Australia, we have been so lucky.

I have been able to visit my home country 9 times, a country I have adopted through the stories of my parent’s past, and the connection to my extended family still there.

I have had the opportunity to return to this country that shaped my parents and family into the people they are, the country that shapes our traditions, morals, identity and religion. I have a strong link with this country that speaks a different language to my own, who is so behind in so many ways, who is confusing to others.

When you step off the plane, there is a sense of relief. Like the transit was an inconvenience on your journey to see your people. the line through customs accosts you with every plane that lands, no matter the time of the day. The sharp looks from men and women in military attire asking where you are going, who’s house you are staying at, because saying your grandparent’s name and the village your family is from being sufficiently an address in a country with minimal road names and an address as a descriptor of a house on a hill, next to a shop, on the street with the gate. You get to your luggage, on carousels as old as time, with men in jumpsuits at the ready to take your luggage out to the waiting car, for a fee of course.

They take your luggage and you run out the gate to see whoever you can, whichever family member that was tasked with picking you up. Always, a waiting face. It is joyful seeing someone you have only seen via screen, a voice memo or a text message for years. It’s exciting to go through the gates, but I feel like I’ve made it when we go through the tunnel and see the hundreds of sign boards lining the autostrad.

We usually drive to Jal El Dib first, I always stick my head out to see Si Bon on the left, see which signs have made their way onto the side of the highway, to see which new cars have made their way to the worn roads with minimal road rules. Otherwise, if my father’s family collects us, we go straight to Aamchit, with the familiar McDonalds at the turn off. During the drive, I always look out to the ocean, the only place I can call home which has ocean views from almost every house we stay in. My friends don’t understand how I stay in a country for two months where I can’t flush my toilet paper, I can’t drink out of a tap or where there are no addresses or public transport. But I have a connection with Lebanon which cannot be explained. I’ve been across the country more times than I can count. Stayed in the north, south, and everywhere in between. I’ve sat at the water in Batroun, and in Saida. I’ve eaten in roof tops and on board walks. I’ve spent months in the mountains following my grandparents around, weeks in the city through university dorm rooms and partying in the clubs, and I have watched the lights of Israel and Syria over the border from the safety of our country.

Today is August 6th, 2020. Today, and yesterday, I have had a heavy heart, sadness that I haven’t been able to lift. A need to record the feelings that may overcome me. I feel I have no right to this sadness, my country is Australia, my nationality is Australian, my language is English, but my heart is Lebanese. My family and friends in a country that has had no rest for a year. A revolution, a pandemic and now a catastrophe. Someone on social media mentioned that Lebanon only knows tragedy. In our apartment, there was a hole in the balcony railing, my Teta told me it was where a bullet had come through the window and broken the glass. I thought it was the only war remnant I would have to see.

Driving through the streets in the early 2000’s and seeing the buildings that had never rebuilt, half a building completely destroyed, and people living in the other half. An acceptance that this is all they had so they would live in it as best they could.

I think of those times where I noticed what war does to a country, how damage to the country is a remnant of the fear these people had for years. I remember that It was the only time I had ever seen destruction. I’d witnessed 9/11 occur on tv, in the early morning before I went to school. I remember thinking of how sad it was, how scared they must feel. Today is a different feeling to that. It is a sorrow for my chosen home, a home that I have in my heart, not my passport. It is a sorrow for a people who are already struggling, who are already scared, and a people who deserve better. It is a sorrow for the country I can never return to, one that will never be the same. A country I wish I could help but am scared to for fear that donations will be intercepted or which will lose their value.

I am sad, but I don’t deserve to be. It is not my country; it is a place I love with my heart. But my heart hurts for my family. The people who have seen the outside world, the West, yet returned to their home because they weren’t welcome, because they love it or because they cannot stand to leave their families. I would ask why people would stay in Lebanon, a country with seemingly nothing. The only reason to stay is because it is home. Because it holds a nation, traditions, food, memories and home.

Seeing the support, it is garnering from the diaspora and others throughout these last two days has been astounding. However, I fear it will all be lost, like all the countries before it, and even now, that have seen tragedy. We will be forgotten by the greater masses, but I hope that We, the Lebanese people around the world can acknowledge that our country needs us. A marathon to keep the beautiful, corrupt and endlessly fascinating country afloat for our children and for theirs.