In the aftermath of Beirut’s explosion, the daily life of citizens in Lebanon was defined by one prominent scene: Lebanese and non-Lebanese manpower, from all ages, genders, areas and religious backgrounds relentlessly crowding in Beirut’s distorted streets to help the city get back into shape. The daily grind consisted of huge numbers of repaired windows and doors, distributed food parcels, secured shelters, cleaned streets and infinite needs assessments. We never knew just how much we loved Beirut until we lost it. We never knew the full power of our unity until we were all felt equally targeted.
A few hours after the catastrophe, relief efforts had already taken over on the ground and social media. Torn by the survivor’s guilt, almost everyone in Lebanon took full responsibility in fixing what happened. People didn’t wait for the government to respond, knowing that it would fail them again. Their personal pages were re-appropriated as megaphones announcing needed and available aid. Still sensing the shockwave that ripped Beirut and our bodies apart, the Lebanese virtually joined efforts to respond to the most urgent needs – providing shelter for the homeless and locating lost victims. Through Instagram stories, people offered their own flats to host afflicted individuals. Many social media pages were created for securing aid – each embracing “Beirut” into its title and targeting distinct needs.
The Lebanese collective response was not the outcome of the Lebanese’s “passive resilience” – the Lebanese, although they have endured a lot of crises, do not simply adapt to or live by the state’s rude and insufferable performance. Their collective efforts came out of a collective disbelief in the ruling system. They wanted to promptly fill an urgent gap that they knew authorities would not raise a finger to address. Until today, the government’s efforts are minimal and do not measure up to the work done by individuals and volunteer-led initiatives. Citizens in Lebanon have zero trust in the government and the ruling parties, and they have all the reason not to. At the end, it is the government that sought and hid a latent nuclear-like bomb in Beirut right next to innocent workers, commuters and residents living in the heart of the city or by the sea. It is the government’s negligence that made us lose souls, walls, cultural heritage, lit roofs, coffeeshops and streets that used to hold treasured memories – all of which have evaporated into the mushroom cloud.
Virtual collective efforts from the first night translated into practical action on the ground the next morning. Traumatized, grieving and in rage, people rallied to Beirut’s most devastated neighborhoods. Under the heavy sun, taking as much precautions as possible against the pandemic, people moved from house to house to help. Armed with brooms, sweepers, gloves, masks and helmets, they cleared rubble and glass, sealed broken windows and doors, and checked on residents of damaged houses. People from all walks of life and all over Lebanon worked in areas that they had never visited before and carried out unusual heavy physical work.
The scene was emotionally moving – how could a nation that just experienced one of the biggest explosions in history wake up with a collective willpower to rebuild its damaged capital? Everyone in Lebanon either felt the sway or heard the echoing sound of the explosion. They were all affected, either physically or emotionally. Walking through the hardest-hit areas, including Gemmayzeh and Mar Mikhael, one could not but notice the rich diversity within. Big aid buses arrived from every area and strangers formed groups spontaneously. Religious differences were visible through dress-codes and names. While Lebanon is a religiously diverse country, such scenes of en masse communal solidarity are relatively novel. The country is violently divided by sectarian 30-year-old politics. Still living the residues of the Civil War, each area is dominated by one color. To this day, we prize examples of diversified communal belonging when witnessed on the ground. The grotesque explosion woke us to collect what is left from our scattered identity and reframe it into one unified perception of what a “Lebanese Nation” can look like. The Lebanese tend to romanticize scenes of unity and solidarity, hoping to normalize them again.
To live under the mercy of a dysfunctional government means to live in a constant state of cautious, responsible and sustainable thinking. From spontaneous chaotic reactions, the Lebanese initiatives developed into more organized response plans. “Nation Station” is one of the representative examples of sustainable ongoing relief efforts. Starting with a group of locals, Hussein, Aya, Josephine and Mazen, the station was established in the Geitawi area to provide food and show solidarity. Later, John and his team from “Nylon’s Generation” joined their efforts, turning the station into a relief center for the neighborhood and vulnerable communities. With effective organization, data collection, donation distribution and coordination with volunteers, the station is evolving into a long-term, self-sustaining community hub that also promotes social interaction and a sense of community. Like most initiatives, it embodies a better alternative for the government – one that embraces diversity instead of abusing it to create endless cracks within the Lebanese society.
Since the explosion, the Lebanese responsibly multitasked with a broken heart – cleaning the city, mourning victims and protesting with a utopian dream of a civil inclusive state, social justice and accountability. One lesson we can learn from the tragedy is that power lies in our united efforts. We are not destined to rebuild what corrupted hands have ruined every time. Instead, this tragedy has given us a stronger motive to revive the demands of the October 17 Revolution and focus on what we need: justice for the victims and decent living for those who survived.