In Lebanon, staying alive is purely a matter of chance. Shell-shocked at home on August 4, the day Beirut Port exploded and reduced the surrounding areas to smithereens and oblivion, I could only recall the civil war days. I was once watching TV in the living room and my parents insisted that I come to the table to eat pomegranates fresh from my grandfather’s orchard in southern Lebanon. A minute after moving to the table, a bullet struck the spot where I was sitting.
Flash forward to August 4 this year. I was on the living room sofa when I felt it shaking. I ran to the kitchen to check on my mum as I felt a stronger tremor. From the window, I saw orange dust spewing into the sky. I knew it was an explosion a second or two before hearing it. My brother had gone out just a few minutes earlier. I tried calling him, but couldn’t get through. We sent WhatsApp messages. He replied after three long minutes.
The impact of the explosion was so powerful that people across Beirut...
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