The initial distress of the Beirut explosion was enough – but the horrors that followed truly shocked me

As a journalist, I have covered numerous humanitarian stories and interviewed people in the most vulnerable communities, but never have I been so overwhelmed with emotions

It was one of those rare occasions where, as a journalist, I was not merely covering a story but feeling its effect on my own life.

When the blast shook Beirut on 4 August, I fought my own impulses tooth-and-nail not to write anything on social media or speak out. My childhood memories were shaped in the tiny streets of Beirut’s Gemmayze district. Every alleyway, staircase, backroad, cul-de-sac, tells stories which are etched in my memory. The area severely hit by the blast is comparable to London’s Soho – it is where all after-work gatherings take place, our meeting point for every friendly occasion, celebration, or dinner.

The shock of the blast itself paled in comparison to what followed. Horrific news rained down on us like fire and brimstone with no time to process the magnitude of the event.

For two days I couldn’t sleep, eat, think. I was unable to find stories, make contacts, or conjure my reporter’s instincts. First thing on my agenda was to check on my loved ones, and that’s when I was overwhelmed by guilt: I was safe, and my house had not been damaged. No matter who I called, one thing was certain. Everything is gone.

Eventually, I hit the streets covering the story for BBC News’ Arabic service. I vehemently avoided the houses and streets where I know people personally – childhood friends, friendly neighbours, their voices stuck in my head. Denial is, after all, the first stage of grief. That’s when it dawned on me that the best way to make myself useful was to pick up a shovel and broom and start helping clear the streets of rubble.

I have covered numerous humanitarian stories, and interviewed people in the most vulnerable communities, but never have I been so overwhelmed with emotions. Covid-19 became the least of our worries. Wearing face masks became a necessity to protect oneself from the dust and chemicals in the air more so than the pandemic.

My heart ached with every line I read, every picture I saw, and every tear shed.

The list of tragedies was long, and the team started picking stories to film. Stories of missing people and the impact on children were my priority.

There is no greater pain than standing on the edge between life and death, hope and despair, without news of whom we love. There is no greater pain than seeing a child suffer because of the wars, recklessness, and greed of adults.

I hesitated before calling anyone in greater pain than mine. It was not easy to contact families and show sympathy and convince them to speak in front of a camera, even though my sympathy was sincere. Had I been in their shoes, I would have refused.

I stood with the sister of Amin, who was missing for a whole week. Her tears hadn’t dried up. Staring into her eyes, an experienced journalist, I was unable to formulate a question. I just asked her to “let off steam”.

People in despair sometimes think that journalists have information and contacts that could help them find answers. They cling to any thread of hope. In these moments, I felt powerless.

Gemmayze and Mar Mikhael were perhaps among the last bastions of true authentic Beiruti life. A stone’s throw away from the glitz and glamour of downtown Beirut, I had seen with my own eyes these working-class streets transform into hubs of the city’s nightlife.

Until the moment the shockwaves ripped through the stone and glass of the historic buildings, there lived a contradiction seldom seen elsewhere. Above and behind the joyful pubs, the resilient senior citizens of Gemmayze lived a life scrapping the poverty line.

This is why I believe the real tragedy has yet to begin. We are still in the opening act.

Once relief efforts end, aid subsides, and the international news cycle moves on to future affairs, we the Lebanese people will be back to our biggest concern, and I as a BBC journalist will be faced with covering the most difficult of stories; the despair of generations living through the worst of economic crises in a devastated city, in the shadow of a pandemic and what many Lebanese people consider to be a kleptocratic political system. All the while bearing the continuous burden of trauma since the 1975 civil war.

It is a story all too familiar for the Lebanese. Every time we fall, we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and start anew as if nothing happened.

But perhaps, this time, the familiar cycle has been broken.

Julien Hajj[ is a BBC News Arabic reporter.