It was 2:14 in the afternoon when the first bomb fell. The blast sounded like a heavy truck overturning just outside our office — a violent crash of metal that made the building shudder. The strike had hit somewhere nearby, reports AP.
Within seconds, plumes of smoke rose across Beirut’s skyline — along the coastal corniche, over its busiest intersections, from its wealthiest neighborhoods to its poorest. Boom. Boom. Boom. We stopped counting. One staffer rushed in from downstairs, her face drained of color, her lips trembling.
In the 10 years I’ve called Beirut home, the city has endured repeated Israeli bombardments, targeted attacks on Hezbollah members and the devastating port explosion of 2020. But Wednesday was different. For the first time, the city felt breathless.
In just 10 minutes, Israel said it struck 100 targets across Lebanon — most in Beirut. More than 300 people were killed, including over 100 women, children and elderly. Late-night broadcasts compared the scale to one of the deadliest days of Israel’s 1982 invasion, when roughly 300 people were killed over 10 hours of shelling.
Hours before the bombardment, many Lebanese had hoped a newly announced ceasefire in the Iran war might bring relief after more than a month of fighting between Israel and the Iran-backed Hezbollah.
It remains unclear what was hit. Israel said it targeted Hezbollah command centers, but reported killing only one aide to the group’s secretary general.
As bombs fell, panic spread. Commuters were trapped in traffic, racing home to move their families without knowing where the next strike might land. Phone lines buckled under the surge — people shouted over crackling connections, searching for loved ones or urging relatives to flee. Drivers stared at columns of black and white smoke, unsure which roads were still safe.
In the hardest-hit areas, the chaos was overwhelming. Faces were smeared with soot. At Corniche al-Mazraa, an Associated Press photographer saw charred cars stacked atop one another, a body crushed inside.
On Mar Elias Street, a blast sent dust and debris billowing, swallowing an entire block. Across the street, Sahar Charara huddled inside her apartment.
Since the 2020 port explosion — when her children were injured — Charara had avoided witnessing the aftermath of violence. But when the dust settled, she looked outside.
An elderly woman stood frozen, screaming for minutes.
“There was so much horror in her voice,” Charara said.
When she stepped outside an hour later, she spoke briefly with a neighbor whose shop had been destroyed. The woman’s face carried a blank look of horror.
Later, the building’s doorman told her another neighbor had fallen from a balcony to her death.
Near the corniche, Nahida Khalil felt a strike hit close to her home. Moments later, she saw smoke rising from her brother’s building down the street.
The next 15 minutes stretched endlessly as she tried to reach him. Finally, his wife answered, screaming that their building had been hit.
Inside, they had groped through smoke-filled rooms to gather their three children before fleeing. Outside, they saw half the building flattened — the rest teetering as rescuers searched the wreckage.
“I lived through every war since 1975. I’ve never felt fear like this,” Khalil said. “These strikes are meant to terrorize — to shatter the ceasefire and divide us.”
A few hundred meters away in Tallet al-Khayyat, residents fled as traffic snarled in every direction. One apartment building collapsed within seconds of being struck. A survivor described hearing the stones grind before the structure gave way.
By nightfall, families were still searching for safety — and for answers. Some spread out across different rooms as they slept, hoping that if another strike came, someone might survive.
Rescue efforts continued through the night.
In Ain Mreisseh, at Khalil’s family building, workers briefly found hope when a 92-year-old man was pulled out alive. By Thursday morning, they were still searching for several more bodies. A father stood atop the rubble, helping dig — his 23-year-old daughter among the missing.
Hospitals struggled to identify dozens of victims.
The final strike came shortly after midnight, hitting Beirut’s southern suburbs, long a target during the war. It destroyed Mohammed Mehdi’s barbershop, a fixture of 30 years.
Mehdi and his family had already fled their home in Chiyah, now sleeping in a dentist’s clinic. Still, he had kept the shop open — a place to meet friends, share coffee and offer the occasional haircut. On Wednesday, he closed it as the bombs began falling.
“They carried out 100 strikes,” he said quietly. “Ours was the 101st.”
Now he mourns the dead — and the life he built.
“I’m still in shock,” he said. “I don’t know where things are going. I lost my job — and that loss may stay with me for a long time.”
Bd-pratidin English/ Jisan
