‘Did the explosion discriminate? Did it ask people if they were Lebanese or Syrian before it killed them?’

Ghassan ‘Abu Ahmad’ Barakat, Labour Worker, 68, as told to Zahra Hankir in Karantina, Beirut. Translated from Arabic. Photos by Lynn Chaya. Ghassan’s account of the Beirut blast and its aftermath is the sixth in a series titled FORGOTTEN QUARTER: THE SURVIVORS OF KARANTINA.

I’m a labor worker here, in Karantina, but I am originally from Latakia, in Syria. I work for my neighbors, their neighbors, and their neighbors. I have lived in Karantina for about 20 years. But I have been either living in or visiting Lebanon for over 50 years. I started visiting the country from Syria in 1970, just before the civil war erupted. I moved here briefly that decade, but I left due to the war, before returning in 1997.

On the day of the explosion, I wasn’t here [where I used to live], by chance, thank God, as parts of the property collapsed. I was working at the site of great tragedy, the building in which several people died, do you know which one I’m talking about? The one in which the Syrian man Ahmad lost his wife and two daughters. I was working in the garden adjacent to the building that day, watering plants and doing some other odd jobs.

While I was working, at around 6 p.m., I started to hear strange noises. I thought they were fireworks. There was a loud, scary sound. And then the big explosion hit us. And when it did, debris fell on my head. I felt angry and confused. At that very moment, I was sitting on a water hose storage box. When I heard the big bang, I went into brace position — I briefly served in the Syrian army a long time ago, so my movements were instinctual. When I started to look around, everything was dark. There were no trees, no buildings, no roads, and no sky. All I could see was death, and all I could hear was screaming.

I knew the poor girls; I knew the two girls who passed away [and their mother]. They’re the children of the neighborhood. Ahmad, like me, has lived here in Karantina for a long while. We all know each other.

When I managed to get myself out of the debris, I saw that Ahmad had rushed [from work] to the building, and I said, “Ahmad, what happened? What happened?” And he responded, “They’re dead! They’re dead!” [Two of his daughters had died in the blast, but the other two were alive and trapped in the rubble. I didn’t know that at the time.]

I went to the wreckage site, and I heard one of the girls call out, “Abu Ahmad! Abu Ahmad!” A floor of the [three-story] building had collapsed, and another was partially destroyed.

A young man helped me try to lift one of the sisters out of the destruction. I thought she was dead. But when I grasped her hair, she started screaming. She was alive, by the grace of God. But we couldn’t pull her out, as she was trapped under the debris. More people joined us, and with the help of a crane, we eventually managed to lift her from the rubble. She wasn’t severely injured, thank God. [The other sister who lived was on the verge of death. She was on the ground floor. The security forces eventually pulled her out from the wreckage.] Moments after we left the site of the disaster, the rest of the roof caved in. I could see it falling above my head.

The first two days after the explosion, my feelings wavered. I didn’t sleep for two nights straight. I was wide awake. The memory of what happened weighed me down. The sounds of the screaming, the wailing, and the pain haunted me. I also recalled my two dead sons… I lost two of my young sons, in Syria, and some other relatives, in the war. [Listen to me, Lebanon must be careful. If a war erupts here, you won’t see the end of it.]

Ahmad, one of my sons who passed away, lived with me here in Lebanon, but he died there in Syria. We were very close. People say that as time passes, the pain and grief associated with losing a loved one become more manageable. You get used to it, they say. But I am telling you now, you forget nothing, and the pain and grief do not ease, they merely intensify. You remember more. You remember every single detail, every word. The pain grows and grows, and it is never, ever bearable.

After the explosion, I started to imagine Ahmad around me, walking these same streets. And I’d remember Mohammad, too (my other son who passed away). You know how parents can sometimes speak harshly to their children? I look back on those days, and I have profound regret, such deep sadness.

I used to live here in these rooms with the very few items I own. I don’t pay rent, and everyone knows I lived here. No one has ever told me to leave. And people know if they need me [for work], I am always here. Some of the walls here collapsed during the explosion.

I want to be honest with you, if you’ll excuse me. It’s difficult for me to bring this up, but it is the truth. There is discrimination here: Syrians and Lebanese are not treated the same.

Let me ask you a question: Did the explosion discriminate? Did it ask people if they were Lebanese or Syrian before it killed them? [No.] Then why are people discriminating now, during such a painful time? Why are some people getting aid, while others aren’t? Why aren’t we being spoken about in the media? I am telling you now, that more than 100 Syrians are still missing from that explosion. The foreign labour workers at the port are all Syrian (while the employees are Lebanese). But no one is talking about us.

They are showing us that we are powerless and that they have the authority. The authorities are cracking down on Syrians in the area, asking about where they’re living and whether they have paperwork to live there, in those destroyed homes, or not. And people don’t even know what they’re going to do next, or where they’re going to go. No one is asking what we need. People are checking up on me, sure. But it’s the army that’s checking up on me. And because I don’t have a Lebanese ID, I might not be able to get the same aid as Lebanese. I’m not saying I’m opposed to some organizations focusing mostly on Lebanese. But why discriminate?

I have many stories to tell because as you can see, I’m quite old. I’ve spent most of my life moving around, outside my country. I spent time in Cyprus, Turkey, Greece, and Jordan. In 1970, I graduated from a technical college specializing in electrical engineering in Syria. In 1973, I came to the American University of Beirut to register for an aviation engineering degree. I was advised by someone at the university to hold off, given how unstable the situation was in Lebanon at the time. The person said, “we don’t even know if there will be a Lebanon in the coming years.” Then the civil war happened, followed by the Israeli invasion. After I moved back to Lebanon in 1997, I hopped around a bit; I didn’t get here to Karantina until 2000–2001. Despite all that instability, I didn’t need much, but I also didn’t have much by way of money. That said, I fathered five children (including Ahmad and Mohammad): three boys and two girls. They are all educated and I am very proud of them.

The day of the explosion, after I left the site of the tragedy, I got back [here to where I lived] at about 10 p.m. I found the property like this; its walls had caved in. I was hurt when I saw the wreckage. I cried; this is where I lived. But I was also thankful I wasn’t here. Had I been here, I would have been buried under the rubble. My friends had come to check up on me, and they were worried I was dead. They said they called out for me, to make sure I was okay. That touched me. Many people have offered me a place to stay. I’m staying with some Syrian friends now — we’re sleeping outdoors on mattresses. I might start working with them. There’s also a room there, and they might rent it out to me. The rent is 300,000 lira a month. I might sort myself out and stay with them. I’m spending my days here now, though, because people know they can reach me here.

I have been going to work these days not for the sake of work, but to distract myself. I’m experiencing something I hope others do not. When I remember those moments, the wailing and the crying, I feel pain and sadness. I cried for those girls like I cried when I lost my sons. One of my sons was 25, and the other was 23. One of them was engaged and was fixing up his house; he had his entire future in front of him. They both did. They all did.

I hope what happened to the rest of the Arab world does not happen to Lebanon. That explosion was a calamity, a calamity that hasn’t been seen in the region before. And some of the explosion was absorbed [by the grain silo]. Imagine if it hadn’t been. Things would have been so much worse, so many more lives would have been lost and destroyed.

The moment of the explosion, I wasn’t scared, I reacted to what was unfolding around me. But then the next day, the fear started to sink in. Today, more than three weeks later, I am still feeling it. I am experiencing what amounts to a nervous breakdown. My ability to withstand pain isn’t like it was in the past. I have involuntary movements, and I’m not even conscious of them. I know I’m old, I know that; but there are things I saw that day that I will never forget.

But God is great. God is great. This was his plan. It was written.

I’m working hard. I’m a skilled worker, and I am focusing on my work now. But sometimes, I must admit, I don’t have the stamina for the job. As for my home, much of what I owned is now dust, but that’s not what matters.

Music calms me down, especially the music of Mohammad Jamal. It brings back beautiful memories. I used to go out with my best friends in Aleppo, to cafes in the evenings. We’d have a drink and pistachios. I used to put money in the jukebox and request Mohammad Jamal songs. Those days were beautiful. Things won’t ever be the same.

What do I need today? I need God’s forgiveness. And I want to see goodness. I want there to be peace. I want the youth to steer clear of political parties and sects and extremism. I want you all to love each other. You’re like my children. I promise you, you are like my children.