‘Lots Of Destruction, But This Is The Future’: Photos Inside The Homes Of Beirut
It was in the early evening of Aug. 4 when two blasts convulsed Beirut. First, onlookers saw a major fire at the Mediterranean port. Then there was an explosion, and then another, shooting seismic waves through Lebanon’s capital and a huge mushroom cloud into the sky.
More than 200 people died and thousands were injured. The scale of devastation — of buildings, infrastructure and people’s livelihoods — is difficult to capture as residents take stock of the damage.
Here is a selection of photographs showing Beirut residents in their destroyed home or workplace, along with a glimpse of their experiences in their own words.
«Here is lots of destruction, but this is the future,» says one of the subjects, engineer Riad al-Assaad, who is trying to rebuild. «I see that we have a mission.»
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Jean Moukarzel lives in Beirut’s neighborhood of Gemmayze.
Yasmina Hilal for NPR
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Dr. Peter Noun holds a young patient alongside her mother at St. George Hospital University Medical Center. It is one of four hospitals in Beirut that was destroyed or badly damaged on Aug. 4.
Yasmina Hilal for NPR
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Riad al-Assaad, an engineer, stands in front of the severely damaged residence that belonged to his wife’s ancestors, Villa Sehnaoui. He has been working day and night to clean and rebuild it.
Yasmina Hilal for NPR
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World
Beirut Explosion Looks Like An Accident — And A Sign Of The Country’s Collapse
«Villa Sehnaoui was built around 1920, and was bought by Mitri Sehnaoui in 1930. There is so much history, love and memories behind each room for many generations. We could only recover a few valuable things, all the jars from the Phoenician era were left untouched. What you see here is lots of destruction, but this is the future. I see that we have a mission — a mission to preserve our past for the future generations to see how we survived. This is a house of spirits, it has seen a hundred years of history. What we are trying to do is reconstruct this house. It’s a momentous job, but so is rebuilding a country. So we are reaching out to the younger generation and, with their help and technical abilities, we can rebuild. It’s not enough to just rebuild but also to believe and to fight for justice.»
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Karen Madi, a resident of the neighborhood of Rue Pasteur who works at a gallery in the Karantina neighborhood. Her family emigrated but she chose to stay in Lebanon to build her own home and future.
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A family photo of Karen Madi (left) and her sister Stephanie found on top of shattered glass. «As I saw our 5 and 4-year-old selves resting on the echoes of glimmering ocean hues, I realized that maybe my nightmares were telling me I should never have to be alone,» Karen Madi said.
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Karen Madi
I can’t even remember the sound of the blast, similar to the silence you feel when you’re under a crashing wave.
«I’ve had a recurrent nightmare ever since I was a kid: A tsunami takes over and all I can do is look for my sister to rescue her. I worried about her because I never thought I’d have to go through such a nightmare all alone. And that I did, on Aug. 4. I was the last one to stay at the art gallery. A minute before the explosion, I needed to use the bathroom. The shaking blue painted walls echoed the tsunami waves from my nightmares. ‘No, not like this,’ I said to myself, as I threw myself on the floor and tried to protect my head under the toilet. I can’t even remember the sound of the blast, similar to the silence you feel when you’re under a crashing wave. When I got out of that bathroom, I realized that the world I built in this country came crashing down. I walked all the way home, my sandals crushing over the shimmering glass shards that led to whatever was left of my 70 square meter apartment in Pasteur. The coldness hits you when you silence the screams and cries for help filling the smokey air of the broken city. The moment I saw my building in ruins, I felt a heartbreak like no other. I knew my apartment was completely gone when I saw pictures from my family album and little drawings my boyfriend drew of me on A5 yellow paper scattered on every floor. I live on the third floor. My home is gone and my heart is crushed and all I can see are my favorite memories drowning in glass. In that moment, I realized that my recurrent nightmare, looking for my sister, was a metaphor. As I saw our 5 and 4-year-old selves resting on the echoes of glimmering ocean hues, I realized that maybe my nightmares were telling me I should never have to be alone, and to join the rest of my family who are safe and sound because they’ve fled this catastrophe long before it happened.»
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Habeb al-Hamad Azab, a Syrian refugee, stands in front of his destroyed home in Beirut’s Mar Mikhael neighborhood.
Yasmina Hilal for NPR
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Eli Rezkallah, owner and founder of Plastik Studios, walks around his office in the neighborhood of Gemmayzeh. «To me Plastik’s mere existence was to add colors and light to a war torn city.»
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Eli Rezkallah, owner and founder of Plastik Studios, walks around his office in the neighborhood of Gemmayzeh. «To me Plastik’s mere existence was to add colors and light to a war torn city.»
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Eli Rezkallah
Plastik is an independent publication, the Middle East’s first visual magazine championing young artists and queer individuals from the Middle East and the world. The headquarters were destroyed.
I am grateful that my team and loved ones are all safe … but today I stand here, numb and unable to feel anything.
«Plastik’s mere existence was to add colors and light to a war-torn city. When I first walked into this space, I was 21. I fell in love with it and gambled everything I had to have it. It’s in this happy place that I started Plastik and my dreams took off. This space kept coming back to Beirut despite the repeated heartbreak of living in this city. This is where I met the love of my life and some of my happiest memories. Yes, I am grateful that my team and loved ones are all safe, I am grateful to all the workers that guarded my space when I didn’t have the mental or physical capacity to do so. But today I stand here, numb and unable to feel anything, to be honest. I want to work on my mental health but it’s impossible as long as I’m trapped in this country. The hardest thing is to feel unsafe in your own home, in your own country.»
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