Beirut.

As you walk from Mar Mkhayel towards Downtown Beirut you are bombarded by sensation and feeling.

You stroll past the sound of conversations in the trendy cafes accompanied by the ever-so-present smell of cigarette smoke on the streets. You walk by the resounding silence in the eyes of the lonely shop-owners — the eyes that have long forgotten the hope with which they first opened that shop.

You continue your walk, and you feel that you are constantly greeted by both beauty and violence. Both pleasant nostalgia as well as tragic reality.

The vibrant historical houses of Gemmayzeh, each showing off their own gorgeous trifore window. Seeing these decorated buildings, regardless of where you come from, you cannot help but reminisce about a time that is now in the distant past. The time when the balconies of these houses hosted smiling faces, and laughter ricocheted against the walls and mixed in with the melodies of Sabah or Fairouz playing on the imported family radio. The times when people had the space in their hearts and the means, to care for the shapes of the ornamental cuts in the windows of their homes.

Yet these warm memories are then suddenly interrupted by the skeleton of the Électricité du Liban building. Through its holes and ruins you see a hideous reminder of reality, the remnants of Beirut’s port, the heart of the city that ceased to beat on August 4, 2020. All across Mar Mkhayel, Gemmayzeh and the surrounding areas, you stumble upon reminders of this tragic event: the abandoned and destroyed buildings, the exposed and bent steel bars, posters with the faces of the perished, graffiti or leaflets with hopeless messages. Beirut will lull you into daydreams only to fiercely snatch you back to reality.

You lower your head, and like a ship entering the open waters, you reach Martyrs’ Square. Here you become witness to the towering presence of the city’s most prominent mosque and church. These two handsome and magnificent structures reflect the socio-cultural essence of Lebanon — this carefully mis-managed and tense arrangement that haunts not only Beirut but all of Lebanon. As handsome and as magnificent as these two buildings are, their glory comes at a price. Oddly enough, this price makes itself known even through the mere location of these buildings — Martyr’s Square. There is almost a degree of irony that a place meant to honor the martyrs of a nation is overshadowed by the presence of iconic monuments to institutions which sacrificed countless souls to such “martyrdom”.

You quickly glance both ways as you try to time your run across the busy intersection of the Square. As you make it through, you momentarily lock eyes with one of the faces on the photographs posted in memory of the explosion’s victims. Before you can feel anything, like everybody else who has the choice, you slip into the alleyways of glamour at Saifi Village. Here, there is no memory of an explosion, of war or of economic collapse. Here, there are no martyrs.

Yet this isolated vacuum does not last for long. As you progress on your journey towards Downtown, you come across new traces of suffering. Again, you find the ruins of a prosperous past and the people who, out of the most extreme fringes of emotional fatigue, have long stopped to dampen their exhausted faces with tears. Step by step, under the burning summer heat, you make your way into the depths of Downtown. You long for a quick bite and a refreshing drink at PAUL. Once again, you are in a place where you — and those who have the choice — can play pretend for some time.

In short, Beirut reminds you of a man — a sophisticated and cultured man. A man that was once the talk of the town, the pride of his family and the envy of his colleagues. Yet today, for one reason or another, this same man is walking on the streets alone — in pain, with deep scars and infected wounds. He is walking, stumbling, unaware of his surroundings and without a real purpose, with empty pockets, mismatched socks, and holes in his shoes.

Yet when you give him a deeper look, you notice that the dirty jacket he is wearing once belonged to a handsome suit. That the man’s step is careful and full of learned class from an era when these things mattered. You notice that he is also looking at you, in fact he is smiling at you, reaching out for a handshake. The way that he greets you tells you that he once hosted luxurious parties, knew peace and spoiled his loved ones and that the warmth of his soul is eternal. You ask him: “Where are you going?”

Without hearing a word back, you find your answer in the empty horror of his eyes.