The Lebanese Are Tired of Being Resilient

As Israel continues its bombardment of Hezbollah in Lebanon, most people in Beirut are trying to evacuate. 

Jad Assi, on the other hand, has set up a donation table in the heart of the war-torn city.

The 34-year-old has been risking his life, driving across the capital—collecting food, water, and pillows—for people in need. The sound of explosions and plumes of black and orange smoke filling Beirut’s sky reminds him of the time he’d faced death before.

On August 4, 2020, he was driving to the gym when one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in history occurred at the Beirut port. His Nissan Sunny was jolted ten meters. Somehow, Assi was left unscathed. But when he opened his car door, he saw blood, dead bodies, and an image that traumatizes him to this day: two children crying over the body of their father, who was missing an arm.

“Everyone around me was dead,” the 34-year-old tells me. “I was traumatized. I stay traumatized. I thought it was a higher calling for me to stay here and be a beacon of hope for the people of my country.”

The tour guide and content creator represents what it means to be Lebanese: He is passionate about his country and determined to keep its spirit alive. But my gosh, it is emotionally and physically exhausting.

Beirut—once considered the Paris of the Middle East—is known for its rich history, Mediterranean beaches, renowned cuisine, and wild nightlife. But, for more than a century, it has also been at the mercy of greater powers who have taken advantage of Lebanon’s weak and divided government, using the land as a military playground to fight for regional dominance.

The occupiers who have put boots on the ground in this gorgeous corner of the Mediterranean Sea include the Ottoman Empire, the French, the Syrians, the Iranians, the Palestine Liberation Organization, the Israelis, and, over the last four decades, Hezbollah.

On October 8, a day after the Hamas-led massacre in Israel, Hezbollah began shelling Israel from the southern Lebanese border. The two sides have been exchanging fire ever since. Two weeks ago, Israel ramped things up and started a massive bombing campaign against Hezbollah, including the group’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah. This week, Iran fired missiles at Israel, further setting the region on edge.

President Joe Biden is putting his full support behind Israel—even hailing Nasrallah’s death as a “measure of justice.”

But these strikes have also massacred more than 1,000 Lebanese, nearly a quarter of them women and children, according to the Health Ministry. They have wounded more than 6,000 others and displaced over a million Lebanese.

Many are trekking to Syria. Some are sleeping on beaches and streets. Others are cramming into schools, which have shut down and become emergency shelters. People have to fend for themselves because Lebanon’s government is non-functioning—crippled by political and religious divisions—and failing to provide aid. So, citizens like Assi have been using social media to plead for donations.

“We don’t have a government,” he said. “The government is finding ways to steal more money from the people in crisis. I feel this country needs a hero, and we don’t have one.”

But it’s not easy being the hero. 

“When you hear an explosion, you get scared for a couple of seconds, and then you’re like, ‘Fuck that shit, if I die, I die,” Assi said. “I’ve been through a lot. So we become, like, numb. You don’t feel anything anymore. People call us resilient, but I don’t think we’re resilient. We’re just too fucking numb.”

Lebanon’s national symbol is the cedar tree, which is mentioned 72 times in the Bible and is proudly portrayed on the country’s flag. The tree represents resilience and endurance, qualities that describe the Lebanese.

“I went to the ER, to my 12-hour shift, without sleeping a single minute last night,” said Dr. Dania El Hallak, a second-year resident at Mount Lebanon Hospital. “All night, they were bombing. I can hear everything—I can hear the rockets passing. I can hear the strikes. I can hear the airplanes.”

The 26-year-old says her ER has been inundated with victims in the last two weeks.

“I am scared for my life. I’m scared for my family’s life. I’m scared for the place I work in,” she said.

So why does she keep showing up?

“I show up because I’m one of them,” El Hallak said. “Lebanese people are the definition of what it means to be a human….We’re going to always be resilient—no matter what happens. Lebanese will always equal resilience.”

Among the smallest and least populous nations in the Middle East, Lebanon has rarely enjoyed peace and prosperity in recent decades—an irony since Lebanese ex-pats in the diaspora (they’re settled throughout the world but heavily in the United States, Brazil, and Europe) are, by and large, extremely successful. Looking at American politics, the Lebanese punch above their weight with Democrats like former Senate Majority Leader George Mitchell and Republicans like the Sununu dynasty of New Hampshire. There are only about 2 million Lebanese-Americans. The proud diaspora often spend their summers in red-roofed villas in their mountainous homeland. But that has not been the case recently after decades of Hezbollah setting up shop and Israelis fighting them with jets, artillery, and occasionally occupying ground forces, which now again seems imminent. 

In 1982, the Shiite Muslim group formed in response to the Israeli invasion of Lebanon, which itself was meant to end cross-border attacks from the PLO, which moved en masse into Lebanon after they were kicked out of Jordan in the early 1970s. Since then, it has established itself as a political party, social service agency, and militia—with weapons, tunnels, and bunkers across Lebanon. 

“Israel’s war is not with you,” Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu told the Lebanese last week. “It’s with Hezbollah.”

But Hezbollah is so ingrained in Lebanon that it’s nearly impossible to solely target the group.

FOR THE LEBANESE, IT’S BEEN ONE TRAGEDY AFTER THE OTHER

For the Lebanese, the timing of this war couldn’t be worse.

The country of 5.8 million is already experiencing one of the worst financial meltdowns in modern world history. For decades, the country’s ruling elite has mismanaged and stolen money, which triggered an economic collapse in 2019.

Since then, the currency has continued to plummet, losing more than 99 percent of its value. Poverty is rampant, hospitals run out of medicine, electricity is severely limited, and banks have remained paralyzed.

“People lost their life savings. I lost $400,000,” said Hilal Khashan, professor of political science and department chair at the American University of Beirut. “Hezbollah had nothing to do with—it’s a corrupt political system.”

Then, there were more tragedies: a failed Lebanese revolution, the Covid-19 pandemic, and the deadly Beirut Blast.

On August 4, 2020, the explosion came out of nowhere—ripping through Lebanon’s capital and killing 218 people, injuring more than 6,000, and causing billions of dollars in damages. It was caused by 2,750 tons of ammonium nitrate, which the government allowed to be haphazardly stored at the Beirut port.

More than four years later, no Lebanese official has been charged. Victims’ families are still looking for justice, but the domestic investigation is continuously stalled—largely due to threats by Hezbollah and Lebanese politicians. That’s according to Lebanese attorney Cecile Roukoz, whose brother was killed in the blast.

“We are not healed,” Roukoz tells me. “I’m still having this pain in my stomach until now.”

When Israel’s recent attacks began, she packed up and left home to stay with her sister in a safer area.

“I left Ashrafieh to not hear the sound of bombings … because I’m still having this trauma.”

LEBANESE NEED TO FIND A NATIONAL IDENTITY TO PROTECT THEMSELVES

The only way to stop outsiders from fighting over power in Lebanon is for Lebanese leaders to stop fighting over power themselves.

“If Lebanon had a strong and capable political system, if the Lebanese had a political vision, Hezbollah wouldn’t be able to rise in the first place,” Khashan said. “The rise of Hezbollah was made possible because of the division of Lebanon.”

Lebanon’s government is based on a sectarian power-sharing structure in which all religious sects have representation. The president, prime minister, and speaker must be split between a Maronite Catholic, Sunni Muslim, and Shia Muslim.

On paper, it seems like one way to ease sectarian violence. But the system is deeply flawed, with sects constantly competing for power and treating state institutions like sources of income.

Khashan says Lebanon needs a national identity and a mission that can unite its political parties.

One thing they can agree on is their national pride.

“Where can you find a country on earth that is only 10 thousand square kilometers that has four seasons, an abundance of water, and is on the coast of the Mediterranean?” Assi said. “Jesus was here, Virgin Mary was here, all the religions started from our country. Every civilization lived here. There’s so much history, so much heritage.”

Right now, Lebanese people of all religious and political backgrounds come together to help each other. Amid the bloodshed, they volunteer on the streets, at emergency shelters, and in hospitals.

They’re resilient, after all.

“I decided to stay here, I decided not to let the fear paralyze me,” said Dr. Georges Ghanem, the LAU Medical Center Hospital Division Head.

His hospital was inundated with patients on September 17 after a wave of exploding pagers left thousands injured and several dead—including an 11-year-old boy who didn’t make it.

“I refuse to let all these bad things, which we encounter in Lebanon, impact my will to continue delivering what I want to the people in need. Because I love Lebanon, I love my people.”

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