It is almost half past midnight, and I find myself attempting sleep for the second time tonight. The first attempt was short-lived—fifteen minutes, maybe less—before I was jolted awake by three deafening booms. Israel has struck again. For the sixth consecutive night. Or is it the seventh? Time loses its meaning, when you live by the rhythm of explosions and evacuation orders.
Whenever I feel myself spiralling into this loop of accessing the current state of Lebanon, I remember where I stand. At the very least, I still have a roof over my head, a bed to lie in, and my family nearby. I can attempt to rest, if only for a few hours, before dawn comes again. And I wake up to read the news of what I missed during the past few hours.
In the past three weeks, Israel has intensified its assaults on Lebanon. Each time we believe it cannot get worse, it does. Each day becomes a cycle—sifting through endless news, scrolling through pleas for shelter and donations, driving through the heartbreaking streets of Beirut, hoping Israel’s missiles will not hit the building next to mine. Nowhere is safe any more.
All of these emotions—stress, fear, anxiety, uncertainty, and an overwhelming sense of abandonment—are wrapped into one intense ball of feelings nestled at the pit of my stomach.
But what burdens me most is witnessing the displacement of so many, and feeling helpless about it. Families, children, the elderly, young couples, are scattered along sidewalks, congregating by the seafront, huddling wherever there is space. Beirut offers no real public space, so they sit where they can, exhausted, their expressions hollow and vacant. It is devastating. I stand there, powerless, knowing this could just as easily be me, be my family. These people were forced to flee their homes, not knowing if or when they will ever return. It feels as though history is cruelly repeating itself: the same aggressor, the same tragic cycle.
I am frightened. Terrified, in fact. But I do not want to leave Lebanon. When people ask me why I don’t leave, I ask why no one questions the occupier—why is it always us who are expected to abandon our country, our homes, our lives? If I were to leave, it would not be a clean escape. I wouldn’t be able to experience winter the same way, tainted by the question: is this a storm, or is this another explosion?
If I leave, I will never be able to forget how the lust for violence, paired with unchecked power, can wreak such devastation. I would not be able to function as I once did, because I would always be tinted by the memories of this place—staring at the small screen for updates, the big screen for news, and the medium screen for a semblance of normalcy.
So no, I am not leaving.
Not now, at least.
It is this “not now” that is the most unbearable. The uncertainty. The feeling of screaming into a void, knowing no one is coming to help us. We are left to navigate this alone. The government is absent, a hollow shell. Forget the war, if you can, but even then, there is nothing left to support us in the aftermath. There is no foundation left to lean on. There is only so much we can bear before we collapse.
I am not hopeful, I am not strong, nor resilient. I am frightened, tired, and anxious.
It’s now half past one in the morning, and I’ll try to sleep again. But all I can think about is how, not far from me, there are people who haven’t slept peacefully a single night in weeks.
