Working 13 hours a day for more than a month, Ghassan Awad has driven trucks carrying glass panels from Beirut’s southern suburbs to the ruins of its waterfront.
He has not been so busy since the 2006 war with Israel. Nor have all Lebanon’s other glaziers, who have been at the frontline of making the capital inhabitable in the 31 days since the massive explosion that killed 190 people, injured more than 6,000 and ripped the city apart.
The surge in business is an anomaly in a country where almost everything else has ground to a halt. Beirut, the usually bustling hub, has lost its stoicism, as have many of its people as they piece together their homes and lives.
Much of what was destroyed on 4 August remains in ruin, including the entertainment district of Mar Mikhael, where on Thursday a glimmer of hope emerged from a rescue site. A possible sign of life had been detected under rubble.
In a city in need of miracles, here was one to cling to, if only for a day. But by dusk on Friday, the dozens of rescuers, soldiers and medics who had descended on the site were looking listless. Some were standing down.
The machine used by a Chilean team had detected no new pulses, and there were fears that the readings that sparked the surge of activity may have been faulty. Under a steaming late summer air, onlookers started to stream away as the glaziers’ trucks rolled in.
“Thirty days without water? The most you can survive is four, especially in heat like this,” said Yazen Dahma, a phone shop worker, metres from the rescuers. “Either their machine malfunctioned or something small crawled in under the body and has stayed there. But whatever, let the people dream.”
Up the road in the Gemmayze neighbourhood, a medic sat in an ambulance restocking an overworked supply kit. “There have been miracles in Hawaii and China, but 32 days is sure at the peak of anyone’s endurance,” he shrugged.
The rescue team was otherwise causing little fuss in an entertainment strip that remains abandoned, heading into autumn with only rudimentary repair work done to prepare for coming rains.
One pizzeria was preparing to open its doors sooner. “We are staying,” said Hussein, 22, an employee who, despite being blown across the restaurant in the massive explosion, emerged unscathed except for a cut nose. “This place will reopen and hopefully it will all get better. I have hope, but not a lot.”
In the Achrafieh district, where tower blocks were shredded by the blast, homes and businesses appear relatively normal from the street. But nearly every house and flat has a story of survival. Some have worse stories to tell.
“This is not a city where miracles happen,” said Kawthar Abboud as she bought groceries at a supermarket. While weighing fruit, she glanced half-heartedly at a live feed of the mooted rescue playing on a screen in the background. “I mean, it would be nice, but my main concern is fixing my life. I think a lot of other people would feel the same.”
Community groups and the Red Cross have been at the forefront of recovery efforts, delivering food parcels from Turkey and Algeria and inquiring about residents’ welfare. Police have also been taking damage assessments in what most residents believe will be a futile exercise.
“It is really hard to get insurers to act,” said Charly Haddad, a resident of the suburb of Sodeco. “They’re worried about the reinsurance. They will have to sue the government to get paid, and the government has no money, so this won’t end well.”
With Covid-19 rampaging through Lebanon, an immediate economic resurgence seems unlikely. In the meantime, weary residents are keeping sceptical eyes on the country’s politics, where a new prime minister and a flush of international aid money has kept things ticking over.
“Beirut will have to wait,” said Lauren Khoury, a French Canadian in Sodeco. “Damage of this scale can’t be fixed quickly even in a city that was working before it blew up.”
