‘Death seems to be knocking at my door’
Joseph Khalil Nasr, Taxi Driver, 64, as told to Zahra Hankir in Karantina, Beirut. Translated from Arabic. Photos by Lynn Chaya. Joseph’s account of the Beirut blast and its aftermath is the second in a series titled FORGOTTEN QUARTER: THE SURVIVORS OF KARANTINA.
My name is Joseph Nasr, and I’m a son of Medawar, Karantina. I was born in Karantina, and I have lived here my entire life. I built this home as a young man with my father. I’m a man of modest means, but I’m happy. I’m married with two children. My home consisted of just four rooms. I have a small garden in front of it, which I love to spend time in. I lived here with my wife and my elderly mother, who I take care of.
The evening the explosion happened, I came home after a long day of work and parked my car right outside my flat. My wife and mother weren’t home. There was no electricity, no fan. You know what this country is like — power is a rare commodity! At 5:55 p.m., I was relaxing on my couch. Then I heard strange sounds, like fireworks. I expected the electricity to return at 6 p.m., as it sometimes does. I thought since there’s no fan and no entertainment in the house, why not pop outside briefly to see what’s going on until then. I think maybe God was protecting me. (Or perhaps the electricity shortages saved me!).
I stood in the garden, and I heard a terrifying sound, like shelling. It reminded me of the war. My neighbor Josephine stood on her balcony and asked me what was going on. Then there were muffled sounds, like planes were flying overhead. I thought maybe they were Israeli planes. The sounds intensified, and I told Josephine, let’s go indoors, what if something hits us? I had barely even finished my sentence, and suddenly I was thrown from my garden into my living room; Josephine was thrown from her balcony into her bedroom. (Had I been in the house when the blast happened, sitting on my couch, I would have been killed, that is for sure. God protected me and saved my life. And if the metal door in front of my apartment wasn’t open when the force of the blast threw me into the house, I’d have died. I thank God, and I thank all of the prophets for saving me.)
At first, I couldn’t quite understand what happened. I was in a trance. When I came around, I realized I was covered in blood. The glass had cut my arms and legs. I wasn’t sure what to do. There’s a small pharmacy nearby, so I decided to make my way there. Everyone was covered in blood, not just me. Some people were wailing, some were crying, some were asking for help, and some were running down the street. It was utter chaos. There was rubble everywhere. The walls of our friends’ homes had caved in on them.
When I arrived at the pharmacy, I found Arlette (75), her sister (70) and her mum (90) there, crying. They’d lost everything. The entire pharmacy had been destroyed. Everything fell to the ground. All of the medication was strewn on the floor. Debris blocked the door, and I couldn’t reach them. I called out for Arlette’s nephew, and we managed to wedge the door open, even though we were both bleeding and injured. Thankfully we managed to get them out, and they were not severely wounded.
In the hours that followed, I tried to help other people in the area. What we witnessed when we were helping get people out of the rubble, we will never, ever forget. Especially those who we couldn’t [get out of the wreckage]. And you have to understand; this is a tight-knit community. We all know each other. We live together. We love one another, and we take care of each other. The entire area has been shaken by this disaster. The area has gone from tragedy to tragedy. We survived the civil war together. We’ve seen a lot here. If there was just one piece of bread and one olive left in the entire neighborhood, we would eat them together. We hardly even get by here. The most successful among us are taxi drivers (laughs). We look out for one another. So that’s what we did, we looked out for one another that evening.
One of our neighbors on the third floor was trapped until we were able to reach him. He had lost a lot of blood. We wrapped him up in sheets and carried him to the highway to flag down an ambulance. There were sirens everywhere. Elie Halabi removed himself from the rubble of his own home while his sister-in-law was calling out for him from their building. We kept telling him someone else would remove her from the rubble to convince him to get into the ambulance. (The poor man. What he experienced is a disaster that can’t ever be measured or overcome.)
At about 11 p.m., I walked to a pharmacy to finally get the glass removed from my wounds. In those moments, I felt that the entire world was worth nothing. I was hurt, and I was angry. I thought shame on you, shame on these politicians. This is my country. We are innocent people. We’re doing our best to survive. I make a living from that taxi. And now it’s destroyed. How could this happen? And no one has come to check up on us.
I feel such sadness that the community’s people have had to rely on one another in this way. It’s been ten days, and no one in the government has said, “how are you?” No one has offered financial support. We just want to live, that’s all we’re asking for.
My house, there’s nothing left in it! The walls fell. But it’s not just me. It’s the entire neighborhood that’s been hit. There’s nothing left. It’s been floored. It’s like the Battle of Stalingrad here. This is our Stalingrad. If you’d like to see Stalingrad, come and visit us here in Karantina, so you can see, with your own eyes, what this explosion did to the neighborhood and the community.
My life before this explosion was wonderful. I had everything I needed. There’s a saying that you love where you were born, no matter where it is. If you were born in a dumpster, you’d love the dumpster. If you were born near a swamp, you’d love the swamp. I don’t care what people think of Karantina. I have loved this place my entire life, and I am committed to it. I have two sons who live abroad. But I have never thought of leaving this country or Karantina; it is my home.
I thank God, I thank Jesus, and I thank Muhammad that I am still alive. I thank God that my mother and wife were not at home, because if they were, they would not have survived, and I wouldn’t survive if anything happened to them. No matter what, our lives mean something. People can survive in the desert. They can survive in camps. I don’t care about wealth or poverty. What’s most important is that our lives are treated with respect.
We’re grateful for the little we get from aid organizations. I did get a box of food, and I appreciate that. But what we need is financial support. We need logistical support. My entire home has gone. And I would never beg for money.
Some people have managed to secure money through fundraisers on Facebook. I would never accept that. I do not beg. I live in dignity, and I will die in dignity. A priest tried to give me $300, but I did not accept it, because I know he needs it more than I do. I’m trying to get people to donate to the church because the church needs it! Political parties have been giving to people who align with them politically. But I’m independent.
I’m just sitting around these days, waiting for renovations to be completed. I’m sleeping at my brother’s house. But one of my brothers now has the coronavirus, and he gave it to my mother. She’s 86 and in quarantine now. We’re trying to keep her alive. But I don’t know if she’ll survive this. The hospitals are overrun. We’re trying to give her everything she needs at home. She can barely even walk now. I just hope she survives. She has already been through so much. If I could, I would give everything up to save her. Family is everything to me.
We lost our home, and I feel like I escaped death, but death seems to be knocking at my door. We survived the explosion, but we might not survive coronavirus.
