A sonic boom knocks a painting off the wall. My housemate’s flight out is cancelled once, then twice. We consider what we’ve stockpiled already (tuna, water, pasta) and what we could use more of (coffee, gas, water, soap, whiskey, cigarettes – good for bartering?) We discuss whether my new solar charger will be able to charge laptops if the electricity gets permanently cut off. I am conscious of how lucky we are that we can stockpile.
People in Beirut speak about what’s happening as “the situation”. They discuss it even as life goes on: trade, weddings, jokes, clubbing, the daily struggle for survival among those less well off. Uncertainty is nothing new for the Lebanese, many friends have told me.
This is a small country and, though some people refer to when “the war” might start, war has been ongoing in the nearby south since last year. More than 100,000 people have been displaced – some multiple times. As of August 20th, Lebanon’s health ministry said 564 Lebanese people had been killed and 1,848 injured. This included at least 128 civilians, according to a tally by the AFP news agency. Meanwhile, at least 22 soldiers and 26 civilians have been killed on the Israeli side, AFP says, citing army figures.
In Lebanon, “the situation” has affected life for people in a million different ways – some more serious than others.
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It has affected death and funerals. One man I know, whose family originally comes from a border village in the south, described how he needed military permission and was given only an hour to bury his father in the land his father loved the most, with just a small group of mourners allowed to accompany them.
“The situation” has even affected dating. With GPS signals seemingly jammed by Israel since last October, Lebanese singles complain that dating apps keep matching them with Israelis, claiming they’re mere kilometres away. A Lebanese-American man in his 30s told me he had his account frozen for writing “no Israel[is]” in his bio, in an attempt to filter them out.
International media continue to run articles with headlines suggesting the Middle East is “on the brink”. There is the argument that phrases like this are ridiculously sweeping and alarmist, obscuring the fact that humans live here, like everywhere else, and most continue to just try to carry on with their lives.
Here, people also smile sadly, wondering if the brink has not already been passed, given the more than 40,400 people reportedly killed in Gaza and many more missing under the rubble, the orphaned and injured children, the level of starvation.
[ Netanyahu says attacks on Hizbullah in Lebanon ‘not the end of the story’Opens in new window ]
For Lebanon itself, has the brink not been passed too? The economic crisis, which began in 2019, saw the currency lose more than 95 per cent of its value, the banks locking depositors out of their savings and poverty rates skyrocketing. The August 2020 Beirut port explosion – one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in history – killed 218 people and displaced more than 300,000, but there has never been any justice for it.
This is a country haemorrhaging its people. Of thousands interviewed by Arab Barometer between February and April 2024, 38 per cent said that they would like to leave, though they face challenges.
“The situation” meant that those already gone risked missing or cutting short summer trips to see their families. On Reddit, a poster called it “Lebanese roulette”, as people constantly posted asking for advice on whether they could make it safely in and out, enjoy being with their families and get back in time to keep their jobs.
It is not just Lebanese people affected by what is happening. There are roughly 1.5 million Syrian refugees in Lebanon, the vast majority of whom do not have the option to leave.
There are also estimated to be about 135,000 migrant workers, from countries like Sri Lanka, the Philippines, Sierra Leone and Bangladesh. On Sunday, as news filtered through about the exchanges of rockets, missiles and drones between Israel and Hizbullah that morning, hundreds of them gathered for a cricket tournament in a car park in central Beirut. There was coconut rice and juice, an opening ceremony and stiff competition. The Sri Lankan ambassador attended.
Many were likely wondering if they should stay or go – the Philippines, for example, is offering voluntary return from Lebanon, but if you leave, you are barred from coming back. A Filipino woman told me she just wants to stay a bit longer, to make a little bit more money, unless there is certainty that full war is coming.
But how can anyone be certain?
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