“Beirut doesn’t die.” We try to believe it. We look into the eyes. We look deep, dive into feelings, observe the bodies twisting left and right under the scorching heat of August. We contemplate all the "souls" that defy all circumstances, walking in convoys shouting at the top of their lungs: “We want justice.” We feel the weight of despair mixed with some hope and some anticipation. But is rain to be expected without clouds? Thick, heavy clouds block the sun’s horizon. Our eyes shine. Our hearts tremble. We realize we are in a vise, in the grip of the "murderous state," and when the state kills its children, justice is no longer to be hoped for. It becomes just to tell it: Leave... Leave... But who reads the lamentations of the wretched in a state that is deaf, mute, and dumb to its disgraceful actions? It is the fourth of August. This is the third fourth of August that comes while the blood has not dried, will not dry, just like the immense pain. Have we entered into a "coma" with the "murderous state," or can we still move with our last breaths? We remember the saying of Ali ibn Abi Talib: Whoever hopes for something seeks it, and whoever fears something flees from it. We have not fled, we will not flee, and we will demand again: "We want justice."
Pictures and Slogans
The firefighters' brigade is here. Here were the young men and women, the magic of Faris, breathing dreams two years ago, before they rushed with their extraordinary spirit to extinguish a fire bigger than them, and bigger than Beirut and Lebanon. It is a fire as large as the will of the murderers, who, with their heroism, nobility, and courage, wanted to extinguish it. These people thought that the state, no matter how it let its people down, would not dare kill them. They were wrong and became victims. Did they rest? Perhaps they rested, but we did not. We live with hearts that have not rested and will not rest because "if comfort lasts too long, it breeds laziness, and if effort increases, it breeds revolution." And this is what we need now: revolution.
We stand before the silos before images crowd our pupils. Here were birds and sparrows a week, a month, a year, and two years ago, feeding on the remnants of containers filled with scattered bags of wheat and flour. No birds or sparrows today. Do not be surprised if a bird flees even from food; birds believe that life and freedom are more precious than wheat. This place, that place, has become filled with death and continuous bleeding. We observe the silos—the memory. They have changed significantly. The state did not ask about them. It did not inquire about the stone, just as it did not inquire about the humans.
The collapse and the memory
We often look towards the silos. They change daily. Their shape has changed significantly in the last two weeks. Those which were torn apart by the blast of August 4, 2020, appear on August 4, 2022, as if they are preparing to play the game of revenge once again against the residents, as if they want to say: My state did this to me too! Is it a coincidence that the new collapse coincides with the act of explosion? We pose questions with no "official" answers. We ask questions as we watch the silos and count them: one, two, three... We are not alone in doing so. Many came yesterday to bid farewell to the silos of wheat in peace. The families of the victims were looking at them and crying. No one, no one at all, will grasp their spiritual significance. Is it not said: Without memory, there is no real connection to place? And everyone, everyone has become aware that "our state" does not want its people to retain their memories. The memory frightens the murderer.
The sorrow is immense. Gatherings began shortly after noon. In front of the Palace of Justice, they raised pictures of the victims and the phrase: Your crime will not pass. Here, behind those walls, many great truths are revealed, and there are those who try—and insist—on covering them up. Concurrently, a second march prepares to launch from the Beirut Fire Brigade's headquarters. A third march has begun from downtown Beirut. Each place and location has its significance. Here, in the heart of Beirut, in the center, the sound of revolutionary songs that the "rebels" have long applauded rises. A new banner also rises bearing the pictures of the martyrs of October 17, with the phrase: Your martyrdom is a debt on every rebel’s neck. They were martyred for our sake, and we will continue for their sake. The martyrs of October 17—for those who have forgotten—are: Eid Abbas, Mohammad Shaaban, Hassan Al-Attar, Omar Zakaria, Alaa Abu Fakhour, Ahmad Tawfiq, Fawaz Al-Samman, and Omar Tayba. Oh God, how many martyrs Lebanon has given and how much blood its people have shed, and how many tears they shed that have not affected a state that resembles a crocodile. It is a state that looks at all those tears as if they are not its tears and at all that blood as if it is not its blood. It is a state that kills and walks in funerals that seem never-ending.
We walk relentlessly. We walk and walk, watching the families of the seaport victims, of all ages, who refuse to tire or give up. Where do they draw all that strength and determination from? They are people who have lost so much... lost "pieces" of their hearts... And those who lose so much and endure fear nothing anymore.
Requests for Justice
International court... International fact-finding committee... Justice... These repeated headlines were stated again yesterday, on August 4, 2022. Families of the victims stopped at many stations yesterday. They stopped in front of the French embassy. They demanded that France submit a request to the Human Rights Council to form an international fact-finding committee. They reminded Macron that he did not fulfill his promises. France, our nurturing mother, has let all these people down. The families stopped at Samir Kassir Park, in front of the Parliament, in front of the statue of the expatriate as well, and more. Coffins were raised, and they announced a new section: Justice commensurate with the catastrophe is required. They reminded the state: Every August 4. They told the world: Stand by us, or you will see your loved ones in coffins as well. Let us stand together and demand justice to curb the torrent of death... Words and details and symbolic stations and even "lifelines" that the "suffering ones" try to hold onto in front of a "authority" whose only function seems to be: obstructing justice.
"There is no justice under the rule of militias and mafias." Slogans and a fire ignite in the hearts. The heat intensifies. Temperatures approached forty degrees. The number of participants is increasing. It is five minutes to five. It is five minutes to five on Thursday, August 4, 2022. Here the silos are collapsing in batches. Stones are falling, and the collapse has occurred. It is a new collapse of two silos from the northern part. Oh God. Is it a coincidence? Do such coincidences really happen? Mothers' tears flowed. They cried for their beloved children once again. Second, third, and fourth... The fall of the two silos, at this very moment in time, opened wounds and scars. Meanwhile, a sign passed by, perhaps by coincidence as well, written in colored pens: Preserve the silos of the Beirut port.
Let the Immunities Fall
Pictures of the victims. Photos of the victims were hung on poles along the Dora-Karantina highway, labeled with three hashtags: #Justice #Demand #Act. Gallows everywhere. “Let immunities fall before accountability.” A slogan. A Lebanese flag stained with blood. T-shirts stained with blood. August 4 is an "open wound" they said once, twice, dozens of times. 232 open wounds. The number of victims is increasing, and those who have (and still do) hold the country and its throats, gamble on our forgetting what they have done. "O politicians, leave." A slogan that must have reached the ears of its owners without blood.
Three hours passed between the start and the moment of the explosion's site. Deputies participated. The clock approaches six and ten minutes. The dust from the two silos has disappeared. The medical teams are mobilized in sorrow. The sirens of the Beirut Fire Brigade and the Civil Defense are raised. It is six and seven minutes. Silence has settled. The bells of churches and the call to prayer sound. Heads and palms are raised to the sky: Oh God. It is the second anniversary. It is the third August 4. As if we are still in that moment. The smell of blood is still strong. The anger continues to be immense. Candles are lit. And a section in the blood of the victims until the alarm sounds and announces the name of the despicable animal who detonated: that we fight, that we struggle, that we confront...
August 4, 2022 has ended. Will the same scene repeat on August 4, 2023? The anger is great, but it is still less than what is required—and necessary—for a genuine revolution that does not stop halfway. They killed the rebels? They succeeded in killing many rebels, but in the end, they will not be able to kill the revolution.
