The blast, the survivors, the trial ahead

On Aug. 4, 2020, thousands of people were simply living an ordinary day. At 6:07 p.m., in a matter of seconds, their lives exploded, quite literally. Some survived by inches, but others never made it home. Six years later, Beirut still carries the scars of that day, so do its people. Behind every shattered building was a family forever changed, a body marked by injury, or a mind haunted by trauma.

We will never stop telling these stories. The memories endure, the wounds remain, and for those who lived through Aug. 4, forgetting has never been an option.

Fireworks, flames and the apocalypse

When the fire first broke out at the Beirut port on August 4, 2020, Wadih Sayegh was with friends at a restaurant overlooking the harbor.

"A waiter came over and told us to look at the port," he recalled. "He said it looked like fireworks." They stood watching the flames, unaware that, within seconds, their lives would be irreversibly altered. Then came the sound of what Wadih described as "a missile."

Unlike his friends, who instinctively ducked, he remained standing, unable to imagine that the explosion would unleash devastation across half the city.

"At the very last second, I felt something coming toward me," he told The Beiruter. "I tried to throw myself to the ground, but it was too late." The blast hurled him across the restaurant. His head slammed into a metal pole. He survived, but only after receiving 168 stitches to his head.

"I cut that pole and took it home," he said. "I still have it today. My blood is still on it."

Bleeding heavily, Wadih began walking through the shattered streets of Mar Mikhaël. Hospital after hospital turned him away, overwhelmed by the thousands of wounded flooding their emergency rooms. He kept walking, witnessing the magnitude of the catastrophe with every street he crossed, until he finally reached a hospital in Dekwaneh, where doctors stitched his wounds. Six years later, the physical scars remain. So does the emotional wound left by years of delayed justice. The explosion also changed the course of his life. Before August 4, Wadih never imagined leaving Lebanon. He had built a successful business and believed he had every reason to stay.

"I was living well. I had no reason to leave." But after the blast, he made the painful decision to emigrate. Today, he lives in the United Arab Emirates. Ironically, he said, even during periods of regional tension, including the recent Iranian attacks targeting the UAE, he has felt safer there than he ever did in the country he once called home.

The aftermath of the Beirut Port explosion on the streets of Mar Mikhaël. Photo credit: Wadih Sayegh.

Inshallah

For Wadih, the scars of August 4 are engraved into both his body and his life. For others, the explosion became a race against time to save those who could still be saved.

Etienne Sabbagh, Secretary-General of Lebanon's Syndicate of Restaurant Owners, was at home in Ashrafieh with his wife and child when the blast shattered every window in their apartment.

"The house exploded," he told The Beiruter. "Glass covered me, but thankfully my wife and my son were unharmed."

Sabbagh rushed to Mar Mikhaël, where he owns a restaurant. The journey, which normally takes five minutes by bike, lasted 45 minutes through streets buried under rubble, abandoned cars and panic. When he finally arrived, he found his restaurant devastated.

"Three of my employees were injured, and the restaurant was completely wiped out." The destruction stretched far beyond his business.

"On our street alone, six people were dead. On the parallel street, another twenty had been killed."

Like countless residents that evening, Sabbagh became an impromptu first responder. Together with others, he helped pull the wounded from the debris and transport them to hospitals, both nearby and farther away, as Beirut's medical system buckled under the weight of thousands of casualties. In the weeks that followed, assistance came, but not from the state.

"The Lebanese Army came to assess the damage after the explosion, but we didn't receive anything from the government, he said.

Instead, Lebanon's Syndicate of Restaurant Owners, working alongside NGOs and with support from the World Bank, helped around 65 restaurants rebuild. Additional initiatives were launched to assist small and medium-sized businesses in recovering from one of the worst non-nuclear explosions in history.

The aftermath exposed a painful reality that has become all too familiar to Lebanese citizens. In Lebanon, people always end up relying on outside help because the state does not. Six years later, as expectations rise once again over the long-awaited indictment in the Beirut port investigation, hope remains tempered by years of disappointment. Asked whether he believes justice will finally advance this August, Sabbagh answered: "Inshallah."

While survivors continue to bear the scars of the explosion, the investigation is now approaching its most consequential legal stage.