British Broadcasting Corporation“Make us smile so we look better in the photos they take,” joked Marwan, the head waiter at a Beirut hotel.
He and a colleague stared at the sky, trying to spot the Israeli surveillance drones buzzing overhead.
Neither the background music nor the chirping of birds could mask its low hum. It’s like someone turning on a hair dryer, or a motorcycle circling the clouds.
The hotel in Marwan is not located in an area where Hezbollah has a strong presence.
It is located in Achrafieh, a wealthy Christian district that has not been targeted by Israel in previous wars. This is also my base.
A few days later, two Israeli missiles roared over Ashrafiyeh.
I heard children and adults nearby screaming. People ran to balconies or opened windows to try to figure out what had just happened.
Within seconds, a powerful explosion rocked the tree-lined street.
Everyone in my building was looking at Dahiya, the Hezbollah-dominated southern suburb of Beirut that is partially visible from Ashrafiyeh.
But we soon realized the strike was happening in an area just five minutes’ drive away.
ReutersLocal media said the target was Wafiq Safa, a senior Hezbollah security official and brother-in-law of recently slain leader Hassan Nasrallah. He reportedly survived.
The building that was attacked was packed with people who had recently fled to Beirut. The Israeli army did not issue any warning, resulting in the deaths of at least 22 people. It was the deadliest attack to date.
“Oh my God. What if we pass that street?” one neighbor exclaimed. “I pass that street when I go to work.” “
“If they have a target, how do you ensure they don’t hit a building on our street next time?” asked another.
Lebanon’s latest unrest began on September 17 and 18, when a wave of pager explosions killed at least 32 people and injured more than 5,000, including Hezbollah fighters and civilians. Many lost eyes or hands, or both.
Air strikes intensified in the south and on Beirut’s southern suburbs, killing senior Hezbollah commanders including Nasrallah. On September 30, Israel invaded southern Lebanon.
Officials say Israeli bombings have killed more than 1,600 people in the past few weeks.
I have seen many strikes on my balcony.
Marwan, the waiter, told me that the past three weeks have felt like “fast forward.” “We haven’t digested what exactly happened.”
I have spoken to him many times over the past 12 months since tensions broke out between Hezbollah and Israel.
He lived here all his life and witnessed all the wars between the two sides. But he has always been optimistic and never believed that this round of fighting would escalate into a war.
“I retract what I told you,” he tells me now. “I don’t want to believe it, but we are at war.”
The face of Beirut has completely changed.
The streets were filled with parked cars, some parked in the middle of the boulevard. Hundreds of people fleeing Israeli operations in the south of the country have fled to the outskirts of the capital, taking refuge in schools in “safer” neighborhoods. Many people find themselves sleeping rough.
Hassan Nasrallah’s face is displayed on billboards on highways leading to the airport and south. People who support and oppose Hezbollah tell me it feels surreal.
In other areas, posters that previously read “Lebanon does not want war” now read “Pray for Lebanon.”
The city’s iconic Martyrs’ Square, which usually hosts protests and huge Christmas celebrations, has been transformed into a tent city.
A family huddles under the frame of an iron Christmas tree. After youth protests in 2019, a clenched fist was installed above the square, surrounded by blankets, mattresses and tents made from other materials people could find.
More of the same awaits us around every corner. Temporary houses stretch from the square to the seaside.
Most of the families here are Syrian refugees who find themselves displaced again and barred from shelters restricted to Lebanese nationals.
But many Lebanese families also find themselves homeless.
Just over a kilometer away, 26-year-old Nadine tried to divert her attention for a few hours.
She is one of the very few customers at Aaliya’s Books, a bookstore bar in Beirut’s Gemmayze neighborhood.
“I don’t feel safe anymore,” she told me. “We heard explosions all night long.
“I keep asking myself: What if they bomb here? What if they target a car in front of us?
Beirutis has long believed tensions would be limited to Hezbollah-controlled border villages in southern Lebanon.
Nasrallah, who leads a powerful Shiite political and military organization, said he did not want to plunge the country into war and that the front against Israel was only about supporting the Palestinians in Gaza.
This has all changed.
In Beirut, while the attacks mostly occurred in Hezbollah-dominated southern suburbs, they sent shockwaves throughout the city and kept people awake at night.
Businesses are affected. Aaliya’s Books is usually a lively place, hosting local bands, podcasts and wine tasting nights.
On July 30, Dahiya was hit by the first airstrike, which killed Hezbollah’s second-in-command, Fuad Shukr. We filmed here for coverage.
As the Israeli jet broke the sound barrier, a powerful sonic boom could be heard overhead.
But a jazz band played all night and the bar was packed with dancing patrons. Now the place is empty, no music, no dancing.
“It’s sad and frustrating,” said bar manager Charlie Harper. “You come here to change the mood, but eventually you end up talking about the situation. Everyone is asking, what’s next?
His shop closed for two weeks after Nasrallah was killed. Now they have reopened but close at 8pm instead of midnight.
Charlie said psychological stress among staff and customers was worsening. Even writing a post on Instagram can take half a day, he added, because you “don’t want to look like, ‘Hey, come over and enjoy and we’ll give you a discount on your drink.'”
It’s hard to find a place open late in this area anymore.
Loris is a beloved restaurant that never closed before 01:00, but now the street is deserted by 19:00, said Joe Aoun, one of the owners.
Three weeks ago you couldn’t get a table here without a reservation. Now, there are hardly two to three tables of customers every day.
“We take it day by day. We’re sitting here talking together now, but maybe in five minutes we have to shut down and leave.
Most of Loris’s employees come from Beirut’s southern suburbs or from villages in the south of the country. “Every day any of them heard that his house was destroyed,” Joe said.
One employee, Ali, has not come to work for 15 days because he is looking for housing for his family. They slept for weeks under olive trees in the south.
Joe said Loris is trying to stay open to help employees make a living, but he’s not sure how long that can last. Generator fuel is very expensive.
I saw the frustration on his face.
“We are against war,” he said. “My staff from the south are Shiites, but they are also against the war. But no one asks us for our opinion. There is nothing we can do. We just have to hold on.
Back at Arya’s house, both Charlie and Nadine are worried about rising tensions in the community.
These areas of Beirut are mainly Sunni Muslims and Christians, but the newcomers are mainly Shia.
“I personally try to help people regardless of their religion or denomination, but even within my family there are divisions. My family only helps and houses displaced Christians,” she said.
In the squares and alleys of Ashrafiyeh and Gemeizeh, an increasing number of flags of the Lebanese Forces, a Christian political party vehemently opposed to Hezbollah, can be seen.
The party has a long history of armed conflict with Shia Muslims and Muslim and Palestinian parties during the civil war three decades ago.
Nadine sees this as a message to the recently arrived displaced Shiites saying “don’t come here”.
With the movement of people, there are also concerns that Israel can now target any building in any neighborhood in search of Hezbollah fighters or members of the coalition group.
Hezbollah said its senior officials would not stay in areas designated for displaced people.
None of this bodes well for local businesses.
Many people in Jemez were severely affected by the Beirut port explosion four years ago that killed 200 people and destroyed more than 70,000 buildings. They have only recently begun to get back on their feet.
Despite the financial crisis, new venues continued to pop up in the area, but many of them have now closed.
Maya Bekhazi Noun is an entrepreneur and a board member of the Restaurant and Bar Owners Alliance.
“Everything happened so fast that we can’t do any statistics yet, but I can tell you that about 85% of the dining establishments in downtown Beirut are closed or only open during limited hours.”
“It’s hard to keep these places open when a lot of people are sleeping and there’s not enough food and supplies nearby.”
Despite the dire situation in Beirut, you can still find bustling restaurants and bars about 15 minutes north. But Maya says this is also temporary.
“There may be strikes elsewhere. There are attacks in some places in the north. There is no guarantee they will be safe.
It was as if someone pressed a button and life in Beirut stopped, she said.
“We were on hold. We knew there was a war in the South and were somehow affected by it, but many people like me didn’t expect it to be so close.
