by Xinhua writer Xie Hao
BEIRUT, Nov. 11 (Xinhua) -- My story with Beirut began on Oct. 5, 2023. Before arriving here as a Xinhua correspondent, my knowledge of the city was shaped solely by books and films.
Known as the "Paris of the Middle East," Beirut greeted me with two faces: elegant French colonial structures stood beside modern apartment buildings, with cafe-lined streets decorated with avant-garde graffiti. Yet, scars of the past were ever-present -- bullet holes from the civil war and remnants of the devastating 2020 port blast were still visible in populated neighborhoods.
"The biggest challenge is the financial crisis. This is the new normal here," my predecessor said, briefing me on the country's years-long economic woes.
At that time, the Lebanese pound was devaluing multiple times a day, with prices on museum and theater tickets scribbled in by hand because reprinting couldn't keep pace with inflation. The currency had lost over 98 percent of its pre-crisis value.
In my apartment, electricity was available only eight hours a day, a luxury by local standards, thanks to the building's private generators.
My Lebanese colleague Firas, however, downplayed the crisis, saying, "It will work out," as if trying to reassure me. With over 40 years in Lebanon, he had seen crises and wars enough for multiple lifetimes, enduring each with calm and patience. "Que sera sera," was his catchphrase, meaning "what will be, will be."
But the "normal" shifted in just three days.
On the morning of Oct. 7, 2023, I was at Saint Joseph University covering a Chinese chess tournament. Lebanese students from the university's Confucius Institute played against Chinese expatriates and peacekeepers, peacefully under the sun.
Then, the news rippled through the crowd that Hamas launched a large-scale attack against Israel. People started whispering, shocked. The Chinese peacekeepers departed immediately, rushing back to their posts on the southern border.
What followed was months of escalating tension. Hezbollah launched attacks on northern Israel, prompting swift counterattacks. The southern border became a zone of daily conflict, each day bringing fresh exchanges of gunfire and casualties.
Gradually, people in Beirut, barely 100 kilometers from the frontline, grew accustomed to the new reality: a different kind of suffering, worse than the economic woes, but with time, it too became a "normal."
However, that illusion was finally shattered on Sept. 17 by a coordinated attack using advanced technology which was later claimed by Israel. Thousands of pagers detonated across the country.
"Pagers? Explosions?" I remember asking Firas on the phone. I was stuck on one of Beirut's main highways as ambulances crawled past in an endless line.
"Yes, pagers. Thousands of them, simultaneously," he replied, sending videos circulating online. The attack was symbolic, revealing Hezbollah's technological disadvantage and the depth of Israeli intelligence penetration.
Gradually and then suddenly, after a year of holding our breath, everything changed dramatically.
Israel began relentlessly pounding Beirut's southern suburb of Dahieh, Hezbollah's stronghold. Within two weeks, nearly all of Hezbollah's senior leaders, including Hassan Nasrallah, were killed. Firas remarked that few Lebanese had ever imagined life without Nasrallah, yet the reality was unfolding.
The war reached our doorstep on Oct. 3, when an Israeli strike targeted a senior Hezbollah official near my residence in Jnah. The entire apartment shook, and smoke from the explosion filled the building.
Like most residents in Beirut, I developed a new routine, checking X constantly for Israeli announcements. The Israeli military provided only a thirty-minute warning -- half an hour to decide what matters most in your life when you were within that 500-meter radius.
By late September, the displacement began in full force. The city's famed coastal corniche and Martyrs' Square turned into makeshift camps. In one of the camps, I met an elderly man from Tyre who had watched his village burn before fleeing north.
"We left everything," he said. "My grandson wanted to bring his bicycle. I told him we'd buy a new one when we return." He paused. "If we return."
Since Sept. 23, Israel has been pounding Dahieh almost on a daily basis. Every night, I go to bed with the deep rumbling of explosions from the southern suburb and wake to see smoke rising from a neighborhood not far from my apartment. Yet for most of the day, the city tries to keep its "normality" as best as it can.
Looking back at my year in Beirut, I've witnessed a city adapt to multiple forms of normality -- from economic crisis to border conflicts to outright war. Each time, the people here found ways to cope, survive, and maintain a semblance of life order amidst the chaos. With each shift, however, the spirit of the "Paris of the Middle East" fades further.
"You think we've hit rock bottom?" Firas asked after we returned from covering an Israeli airstrike near the country's largest public hospital. The Israeli army didn't issue a warning, so there was no time to evacuate. 18 people were killed, including two entire families.
Unsure of how to respond, I simply echoed his words, "Que sera sera. I guess." ■
