Hope for Justice in 2020 Beirut Port Explosion Fades

Paul Naggear, stands next a portrait of his daughter Alexandra, who was killed in 2020 massive blast at Beirut's seaport, during an interview in the town of Beit Mery in the hills east of Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, July 12, 2022. (AP Photo/Hassan Ammar)
Paul Naggear, stands next a portrait of his daughter Alexandra, who was killed in 2020 massive blast at Beirut's seaport, during an interview in the town of Beit Mery in the hills east of Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, July 12, 2022. (AP Photo/Hassan Ammar)
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Hope for Justice in 2020 Beirut Port Explosion Fades

Paul Naggear, stands next a portrait of his daughter Alexandra, who was killed in 2020 massive blast at Beirut's seaport, during an interview in the town of Beit Mery in the hills east of Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, July 12, 2022. (AP Photo/Hassan Ammar)
Paul Naggear, stands next a portrait of his daughter Alexandra, who was killed in 2020 massive blast at Beirut's seaport, during an interview in the town of Beit Mery in the hills east of Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, July 12, 2022. (AP Photo/Hassan Ammar)

It’s been two years since his 3-year-old daughter, Alexandra, was killed in a massive explosion at Beirut’s port — and Paul Naggear has lost hope that outrage over the disaster will bring justice and force change in Lebanon.

The investigation into one of the world's biggest non-nuclear explosions has been blocked for months by Lebanon’s political powers. Many blame the Lebanese government's longtime corruption and mismanagement for the tragedy, but the elite's decades-old lock on power has ensured they are untouchable.
In fact, some of those charged in the probe were re-elected to parliament earlier this year.

Even as the wrecked silos at the port have been burning for weeks — a fire ignited by the fermenting grains still inside them — authorities seemed to have given up on trying to put out the blaze. A section of the silos collapsed Sunday in a huge cloud of dust.

“It has been two years and nothing’s happened,” Naggear, said of the Aug. 4, 2020 disaster, when hundreds of tons of highly explosive ammonium nitrate, a material used in fertilizers, detonated at the port. "It’s as if my daughter was just hit by a car.”

The blast caused a pressure wave that shattered everything in its path across the capital.

Naggear, his wife, Tracy Awad, and little Alexandra were in their apartment overlooking the port when the massive force sent glass, furniture and other debris flying. Naggear and his wife suffered cuts and bruises. Alexandra, or Lexou, as they called her, was severely injured and died in the hospital.

She was the second-youngest victim of the explosion, which killed more than 215 people and injured more than 6,000.

It later emerged that the ammonium nitrate had been shipped to Lebanon in 2013 and stored improperly at a port warehouse ever since. Senior political and security officials knew of its presence but did nothing.

Lebanon’s factional political leaders, who have divvied up power among themselves for decades, closed ranks to thwart any accountability.

Tarek Bitar, the judge leading the investigation, charged four former senior government officials with intentional killing and negligence that led to the deaths of dozens of people. He also charged several top security officials in the case.

But his work has been blocked for eight months pending a Court of Cassation ruling after three former Cabinet ministers filed legal challenges. The court can’t rule until a number of vacancies caused by judges retiring are filled. The appointments, signed by the justice minister, are still awaiting approval from the finance minister, an ally of Parliament Speaker Nabih Berri.

Judicial officials with knowledge of Bitar’s investigation told The Associated Press it was in advanced stages of answering key questions — including who owned the nitrates, how they entered the port and how the explosion happened. They spoke on condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to speak publicly about the investigation.

Bitar is the second judge to take the case. The first judge was forced out after complaints were raised against him by two Cabinet ministers, and if the same happens to Bitar it would likely be the final blow to the investigation.

The lack of justice compounds the pain of relatives and friends of blast victims. They feel let down and abandoned, not only by the government but by public apathy as the months and years have dragged on.

Initially after the explosion, there were large protests and sit-ins demanding justice. It raised hopes that Lebanon’s politicians might be held accountable.

But public fervor waned as Lebanese became absorbed with surviving the country’s economic collapse. Also, deadly gun battles erupted last year between Hezbollah supporters protesting against Bitar and members of a Christian faction, raising fears that pressing the investigation could push Lebanon into factional conflict.

Now only a handful of people show up at protests and sit-ins organized by relatives of the victims.

Families remain wracked by grief.

For Muhieddine Ladkani, whose father, Mohammed, was killed, time has stood still.

When they first heard explosions coming from the port, his father took the family into their apartment's entrance hall, believing it would be safe since there were no windows. But the blast tore the front door off its hinges and sent a cupboard slamming into the elder Ladkani. He was in a coma for weeks with a brain hemorrhage. He died 31 days later.

Ladkani, a 29-year-old law student, said his family still can’t talk about that day.

“We still cannot remember, and we cannot gather as a family,” he said. “My brothers and uncles have my father’s photos as their profile photo. I don’t. Whenever I remember my father, I collapse.”

“It is something that I don’t want to believe. I can’t live with it,” Ladkani said. Those who voted for the politicians charged in the disaster are also responsible for his father's death, he added.

“The ink on the fingers of the voters who voted for them is not ink but the blood of the victims,” Ladkani said.

One of the charged and reelected politicians, former public works minister Ghazi Zeiter, told the AP he had the right to run for parliament again because there is no court verdict against him. He said Bitar has no right to charge him because legislators and ministers have a special court where they are usually tried.

Amid the deadlock, some victims' families are turning to courts outside Lebanon.

In mid-July, families filed a $250 million lawsuit against an American-Norwegian firm, TGS, suspected of involvement in bringing the explosive material to the port. TGS has denied any wrongdoing.

Naggear said his family, two others and the Bar Association have filed a lawsuit in Britain against the London-registered chemical trading company, Savaro Ltd., which investigative journalists in Lebanon say chartered the shipment, intending to take the nitrates from Georgia to an explosives firm in Mozambique.

Naggear said he is losing hope.

He and his wife, who is a dual Lebanese-Canadian citizen, had thought about leaving Lebanon after the blast. But the large public protests in the immediate aftermath gave them hope that change was possible.

But after this year's parliamentary election results, they are again seriously considering leaving.

Still, they vow to continue working for justice. At a recent sit-in, they showed up with their 4-month-old baby, Axel.

“They are trying to make us forget ... but we will not stop, for (Alexandra’s) sake until we reach the truth and justice,” Naggear said.

The Naggears have repaired their apartment, but they haven’t stayed there since Axel’s birth, fearing it was still not safe.

The fire burning in the ruins of the grain silos only feeds the sense of danger. A northern section of the structure collapsed on Sunday, and experts say more parts are at risk of falling. At night, orange flames can be seen licking at the base of the northern silo, glowing eerily in the darkness.



Palestinian Children in East Jerusalem Could Lose Their Schools as Israeli-Ordered Closures Loom 

Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)
Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)
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Palestinian Children in East Jerusalem Could Lose Their Schools as Israeli-Ordered Closures Loom 

Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)
Laith Shweikeh, 9, sits at his desk at the UNRWA Boys' School run by the UN agency for Palestinian refugees in the Shuafat Refugee Camp in east Jerusalem, Tuesday, April 29, 2025. (AP)

Standing in the east Jerusalem school he attended as a young boy, Palestinian construction worker Ahmad Shweikeh studies his son’s careful penmanship. This classroom may be closed Friday, leaving 9-year-old Laith with nowhere to study.

Shweikeh, 38, says he wants Laith — a shy boy, top of his class — to become a surgeon.

"I never expected this," Shweikeh said. "I watched some of my classmates from here become engineers and doctors. I hoped Laith would follow in their footsteps."

The school is one of six across east Jerusalem run by the United Nations agency for Palestinian refugees called UNRWA. Israeli soldiers in riot gear showed up at the schools last month and ordered them to shut down within 30 days. Now parents worry that their children will lose precious opportunities to learn. And they fret for their children's safety if they are made to enroll in Israeli schools.

The closure orders come after Israel banned UNRWA from operating on Israeli soil earlier this year, the culmination of a long campaign against the agency that intensified following the Hamas attacks on Israel Oct. 7, 2023.

UNRWA is the main provider of education and health care to Palestinian refugees across east Jerusalem, which Israel captured in the 1967 Mideast war. While UNRWA schools in the Israeli-occupied West Bank have not received closing orders, the closures have left in limbo the nearly 800 Palestinian students in first through ninth grade in east Jerusalem. Israel has annexed east Jerusalem and considers the entire city its unified capital.

Israel says it will reassign students to other schools The Israeli Ministry of Education says it will place the students into other Jerusalem schools. But parents, teachers and administrators caution that closing the main schools for the children of Palestinian refugees in east Jerusalem promises a surge in absenteeism.

For students in the Shuafat refugee camp, like Laith, switching to Israeli schools means crossing the hulking barrier that separates their homes from the rest of Jerusalem every day.

Some students aren’t even eligible to use the crossing, said Fahed Qatousa, the deputy principal of the UNRWA boys’ school in Shuafat. About 100 students in UNRWA schools in Shuafat have West Bank identifications, which will complicate their entry past the barrier, according to Qatousa.

"I will not in any way send Laith to a school where he has to go through a checkpoint or traffic," Shweikeh said.

In a statement to The Associated Press, the Israeli Ministry of Education said it was closing the schools because they were operating without a license. The agency promised "quality educational solutions, significantly higher in level than that provided in the institutions that were closed." It said that it would "ensure the immediate and optimal integration of all students."

Qatousa fears the students will lose their chance to be educated.

"Israeli schools are overcrowded and cannot take a large number of students. This will lead to a high rate of not attending schools among our students. For girls, they will marry earlier. For boys, they will join the Israeli job market," Qatousa said.

Laith remembers the moment last month when the troops entered his school.

"The soldiers talked to the schoolteachers and told them that they were going to close the school," Laith said. "I don’t want the school to close. I want to stay here and continue to complete my education."

His teacher, Duaa Zourba, who has worked at the school for 21 years, said teachers were "psychologically hurt" by Israel's order.

"Some of the teachers panicked. They started crying because of the situation, because they were very upset with that, with the decisions. I mean, how can we leave this place? We’ve been here for years. We have our own memories," Zourba said.

Israel claims that UNRWA schools teach antisemitic content and anti-Israel sentiment. An UNRWA review of textbooks in 2022-2023 found that just under 4% of pages contained "issues of concern to UN values, guidance, or position on the conflict."

An independent panel reviewed the neutrality of UNRWA after Israel alleged that a dozen of its employees in Gaza participated in Hamas’ Oct. 7 attacks. The panel issued a series of recommendations, including that UNRWA adopt a "zero-tolerance policy" on antisemitic views or hate speech in textbooks.

The Israeli Education Ministry says parents have been directed to register their children at other schools in Jerusalem. Parents told the AP they have not done so.

Zourba said she still plans to hold exams as scheduled for late May. UNRWA administrators pledged to keep the schools open for as long as possible — until Israeli authorities force them to shut down.

The day AP reporters visited the school, Israeli police fired tear gas into the school’s front yard as boys played soccer outside. The gas billowed through the hallways, sending children sprinting indoors, drooling, coughing and crying.

Police spokesperson Mirit Ben Mayor said the forces were responding to rock-throwing inside the camp but denied targeting the school specifically.

As gas filtered through the school, Zourba donned a disposable mask and ran to check on her students.

"As teachers in Shuafat, our first job has always been to ensure the protection and the safety of our kids," she said. "Whenever there’s a raid, we close windows. We close doors so that they don’t smell very heavy tear gas."

"The goal," she said, "is for the kids to always think of this school as a safe place, to remember that there’s a place for them."