August 4, 2020, started as a run-of-the-mill Tuesday for the people of Beirut. As the early evening hours crept in, dusk teasing the skies after a summer's day, many people who lived and worked around the Port of Beirut were preparing to retire.
What happened next would not only tragically end more than 220 lives, but forever change many more. At 6.07pm, an explosion rocked the city. Beirut was brought to chaos.
While much of the city has been rebuilt in the years since, many people still bear the scars.
“Everything changed, every little detail, every aspect of life. Physically, mentally and materially, our lives were forever altered,” says Tony Khayat, a Lebanese national who lived opposite the port in Rue Madrid, Mar Mikhael.
At the time of the blast, Khayat had gone out to run an errand. “Had I been at home, sitting in my lounge, which is about 150 metres away in open air distance, the outcome would have been devastating. I would have probably been dead or badly injured,” he tells The National.
Speaking about that day – and life since – is understandably difficult for Khayat. “It's overwhelming to process such trauma within a short time frame. Even five years later, I'm still trying to make sense of it, still grappling with the emotions.”
Khayat is not alone. “Every time I speak of August 4, a shock crawls through me,” Dima Anis Raydan tells The National. Visiting from her village in Bekaa, Raydan was stuck in traffic when, moments after noticing smoke in the distance, she felt the impact of shattered glass and saw her white T‑shirt “turn red with blood”.
Raydan left Lebanon the following year, “but Beirut followed me in my body,” she says.
Like many with ties to the capital – not just Lebanese – Raydan is still coming to terms with the events of that day. Although tragedies have been continuing throughout Lebanon and the region at large, moving forward from the events of August 4 is particularly painful.
“Every conversation raises the same haunting question: Why did this happen to us, the people who loved Beirut?” she asks.
Lebanon at breaking point
The blast represented a breaking point, says Dr Dana Jammal, counselling psychologist at Thrive Wellbeing Centre. The people of Lebanon were already “worn down emotionally by years of economic collapse, political crisis and mass trauma,” she says.
While the country has a long history of resilience in the face of adversity, from civil wars to political instability, the Beirut explosion was different, according to Dr Alexandre Machado, clinical neuropsychologist at Hakkini. “It was not the result of war or conflict but a catastrophic accident caused by negligence,” he explains.
“From a neuropsychological perspective, humans are better equipped to handle familiar or predictable threats. The Beirut explosion occurred during a moment of relative calm, shattering any sense of security.”
The shock element feeds into the long-term trauma many are experiencing, making it, “harder for people to reconcile with the event, as it disrupted their mental preparation and sense of control,” he adds.
Derek Issacs, a British national who moved to the UAE in 2018 after living in Beirut for 17 years, tells The National: “I am as shocked today as I was then. I always will be. I still can't put into words how I felt. It still affects me deeply, even though I wasn't physically there.”
Before his move, Issacs was flatmates with Khayat for many years. Much of his life – community, possessions, even rescue cat Little Frank – remained in that flat they had shared. He recalls being cut off from loved ones for hours after seeing the blast online, feeling sick and helpless, stuck inside due to Covid restrictions. “Finally, I got through. Tony was a mess. He told me the apartment was gone, completely destroyed, as were all the surrounding streets. Everything inside was lost.”
Miraculously, his cat, Little Frank, who took shelter in a wardrobe, was OK bar a few cuts and scuffs, but many of his friends and neighbours weren't so lucky. Issacs would later go on to seek out therapy. He still feels lost, often finding himself reliving the day, hoping for a different outcome. As Raydan puts it: “It split lives into 'before' and 'after.'”
Burden, betrayal and blame
The lack of accountability is the “missing puzzle piece” that haunts victims, says Khayat.
“Some collective traumas cut more deeply because they bear more than the burden of loss – they bear the burden of betrayal,” says Dr Jammal. “National tragedies like this are so painful because they are the collision of collective injustice with personal grief.”
Dr Machado adds: “The scale of the event – such as significant loss of life or widespread destruction – affects not just individuals but entire communities, creating collective grief.”
As Khayat puts it, the catastrophe affected “nearly every Lebanese person in some way.”
The largest non-nuclear blast in modern history, estimates say more than 6,000 were injured, while more than 220 died and over 100 remain missing. Infrastructure damage led to 300,000 displaced individuals. The blast was heard over 200km away in Cyprus and was equivalent to a 3.3 magnitude earthquake.
Although Raydan was there on the day, watching as “strangers became rescuers,” it impacted Lebanese society at large as it “uprooted communities, accelerated emigration and reshaped Beirut’s identity.”
Encouraging collective healing
She, like many others, have found strength in shared grief. “Healing comes from solidarity,” she says. “For me, true healing began only when I listened to others' grief.”
"Shared narratives can help people to make sense of tragedy, allowing both individuals and societies to start to heal,” says Dr Machado.
Especially in cases where there is no accountability, the power of art, solidarity and community in both “reinstalling dignity” and ensuring “people feel heard, valued and seen,” shouldn't be underestimated, adds Dr Jammal.
Do memorials bring closure?
In the years since, debate has surrounded the site left in the wake of the blast. Crumbling grain silos – some of which already burnt down in a fire two years later – still tower over the city. Some protest for the ugly reminder to be removed, while others insist they remain to honour those lost.
While many gather outside their old flat each year with candles, Issacs believes that until there is a sense of closure, “we can't have a real memorial yet. I hope one day we'll get to that point, that we'll have the justice and truth that makes a memorial meaningful. But until then, it feels too soon.”
Raydan, meanwhile, notes that as an architect and urban planner, she inherently respects the power of memorials, but “not now. Not yet.” For her, it might take a century or so, when those who lived through it become history, for the time to be right.
Khayak describes a memorial as “essential” while understanding why some others push back currently. While he sees many thoughtful gestures each year, he says they feel “fragmented.” He believes a collective effort should come from the government, considering its role to represent the people.
Protecting personal well-being
While societal healing is challenging, experts say survivors can protect their own well-being on anniversary dates.
Dr Machado encourages those impacted to seek support. “These moments serve not only to honour those who have passed but also to reflect on how far we have come, offering comfort by recognising the distance from that painful reality,” he says. “This reflection can provide a sense of hope and resilience, acknowledging both individual and collective growth.”
Trauma anniversaries can reignite intense emotions, so approaching them gently is important, adds Dr Jammal. “Give yourself permission to experience what emerges – anger, grief or numbness. Plan ahead by creating rituals that feel meaningful and grounding.”
"Most importantly, do not put pressure on oneself to move on,” she adds. “Having a hard time doesn’t mean you’re regressing – it’s a natural response to a continuing wound.”
