Three years ago, a huge explosion ripped the city apart – and with it people’s hopes for rebuilding. The most vulnerable, many of them women, are bearing the brunt of Lebanon’s endless disasters
The fourth of August 2020 was an extremely hot and humid day in Lebanon. I was stuck at home at my computer, working remotely because of the pandemic. I was finishing my afternoon shift as a senior producer and correspondent for Associated Press, covering Lebanon and the wider Middle East. I was at the mercy of an unreliable internet connection and enduring, like most Lebanese, the scorching heat and recurrent power cuts. Lebanon’s power outages date back to the 15-year civil war that ended in 1990, and have still not been resolved to this day.
My house is about 7 miles from Beirut, nestled on a hill that overlooks a small and peaceful pine wood. Beirut and its surroundings had become a stifling concrete jungle, and I was feeling lucky to have trees to look at and access to some outdoor space during the long summer days. I had no plans to go to the city that day. At about 6pm I went to the kitchen to feed my cat, which was waiting for me in the garden. It was our daily ritual. As I opened the window and emptied the canned food into a bowl, I heard the familiar roar of warplanes racing through our skies. Israeli warplanes have been violating Lebanese airspace for decades, but the jet fighters were exceptionally frequent that summer.
