Thousands of Exploding Devices in Lebanon Trigger a Nation That Has Been on Edge for Years 

Police officers inspect a car inside of which a hand-held pager exploded, Beirut, on Sept. 17, 2024. (AP)
Police officers inspect a car inside of which a hand-held pager exploded, Beirut, on Sept. 17, 2024. (AP)
TT

Thousands of Exploding Devices in Lebanon Trigger a Nation That Has Been on Edge for Years 

Police officers inspect a car inside of which a hand-held pager exploded, Beirut, on Sept. 17, 2024. (AP)
Police officers inspect a car inside of which a hand-held pager exploded, Beirut, on Sept. 17, 2024. (AP)

Chris Knayzeh was in a town overlooking Lebanon's capital when he heard the rumbling aftershock of the 2020 Beirut port blast. Hundreds of tons of haphazardly stored ammonium nitrates had exploded, killing and injuring thousands of people.

Already struggling with the country’s economic collapse, the sight of the gigantic mushroom cloud unleashed by the blast was the last straw. Like many other Lebanese, he quit his job and booked a one-way ticket out of Lebanon.

Knayzeh was in Lebanon visiting when news broke Tuesday that hundreds of handheld pagers had exploded across the country, killing 12, injuring thousands and setting off fires. Israel, local news reports said, was targeting the devices of the armed Hezbollah group. Stuck in Beirut traffic, Knayzeh started panicking that drivers around him could potentially be carrying devices that would explode.

Within minutes, hospitals were flooded with patients, bringing back painful reminders of the port blast four years ago that killed more than 200 people and injured more than 6,000, leaving enduring mental and psychological scars for those who lived through it.

In total, the explosions of pagers and walkie-talkies over two days killed at least 37 people and injured more than 3,000. Israel is widely believed to be behind the blasts, although it has neither confirmed nor denied responsibility.

“The country's state is unreal,” Knayzeh told The Associated Press.

The port blast was one of the biggest non-nuclear explosions ever recorded, and it came on top of a historic economic meltdown, financial collapse and a feeling of helplessness after nationwide protests against corruption that failed to achieve their goals. It compounded years of crises that have upended the lives of people in this small country.

Four years after the port catastrophe, an investigation has run aground. The ravaged Mediterranean port remains untouched, its towering silos standing broken and shredded as a symbol of a country in ruins. Political divisions and paralysis have left the country without a president or functioning government for more than two years. Poverty is on the rise.

On top of that and in parallel with Israel’s war in Gaza, Lebanon has been on the brink of all-out war with Israel for the past year, with Israel and Hezbollah trading fire and Israeli warplanes breaking the sound barrier over Beirut almost daily, terrorizing people in their homes and offices.

“I can’t believe this is happening again. How many more disasters must we endure?” said Jocelyn Hallak, a mother of three, two of whom now work abroad and the third headed out after graduation next year. “All this pain, when will it end?”

A full-blown war with Israel could be devastating for Lebanon. The country’s crisis-battered health care system had been preparing for the possibility of conflict with Israel even before hospitals became inundated with the wounded from the latest explosions, many of them in critical condition and requiring extended hospital stays.

Still, Knayzeh, now a lecturer at a university in France, can't stay away. He returns regularly to see his girlfriend and family. He flinches whenever he hears construction work and other sudden loud sounds. When in France, surrounded by normalcy, he agonizes over family at home while following the ongoing clashes from afar.

“It’s the attachment to our country I guess, or at the very least attachment to our loved ones who couldn’t leave with us,” he said.

This summer, tens of thousands of Lebanese expatriates came to visit family and friends despite the tensions. Their remittances and money they spend during the holidays help keep the country afloat and in some cases are the main source of income for families. Many, however, cut their vacations short in chaotic airport scenes, fearing major escalation after the dual assassinations of Hezbollah and Hamas commanders in Beirut and Tehran last month, blamed on Israel.

Even in a country that has vaulted from one crisis to another for decades, the level of confusion, insecurity and anger is reaching new heights. Many thought the port blast was the most surreal and frightening thing they would ever experience — until thousands of pagers exploded in people’s hands and pockets across the country this week.

“I saw horrific things that day,” said Mohammad al-Mousawi, who was running an errand in Beirut’s southern suburb, where Hezbollah has a strong presence, when the pagers began blowing up.

“Suddenly, we started seeing scooters whizzing by carrying defaced men, some without fingers, some with their guts spilling out. Then the ambulances started coming.”

It reminded him of the 2020 port blast, he said. “The number of injuries and ambulances was unbelievable.”

“One more horror shaping our collective existence,” wrote Maha Yahya, the Beirut-based director of the Malcolm H. Kerr Carnegie Middle East Center.

“The shock, the disarray, the trauma is reminiscent of Beirut after the port explosion. Only this time it was not limited to a city but spread across the country,” she said in a social media post.

In the aftermath of the exploding pagers, fear and paranoia has taken hold. Parents kept their children away from schools and universities, fearing more exploding devices. Organizations including the Lebanese civil defense advised personnel to switch off their devices and remove all batteries until further notice. One woman said she disconnected her baby monitor and other household appliances.

Lebanon’s civil aviation authorities have banned the transporting of pagers and walkie-talkies on all airplanes departing from Beirut’s Rafik Hariri International Airport “until further notice.” Some residents were sleeping with their phones in another room.

In the southern city of Tyre, ahead of a speech by Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah, city resident Hassan Hajo acknowledged feeling “a bit depressed” after the pager blasts, a major security breach for a secretive organization like Hezbollah. He was hoping to get a boost from Nasrallah’s speech. “We have been through worse before and we got through it,” he said.

In his speech, Nasrallah vowed to retaliate against Israel for the attacks on devices, while Israel and Hezbollah traded heavy fire across the border. Israel stepped up warnings of a potential larger military operation targeting the group.

Another resident, Marwan Mahfouz, said Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu has been threatening Lebanon with war for the past year and he should just do it.

“If we are going to die, we’ll die. We are already dying. We are already dead,” he said.



With Israeli Tanks on the Ground, Lebanese Unable to Bury Dead

Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher
Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher
TT

With Israeli Tanks on the Ground, Lebanese Unable to Bury Dead

Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher
Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, who was displaced from Beit Lif in southern Lebanon saying there was tank fire around when he tried to venture into his home last week after the truce between Israel and Hezbollah, stands next to belongings in Tyre, southern Lebanon November 30, 2024. REUTERS/Aziz Taher

When a ceasefire between Israel and Hezbollah came into effect last week, Lebanese hotelier Abbas al-Tannoukhi leapt at the chance to bury a dead relative in their southern hometown of Khiyam, battered for weeks by intense clashes.

Tannoukhi's cousin had been killed in one of the final Israeli airstrikes on Beirut's suburbs before Wednesday's ceasefire, which stipulated an end to fighting so residents on both sides of the border could return home.

But with Israeli troops still deployed in southern Lebanon, Tannoukhi coordinated his movements with Lebanon's army. Last Friday, he and his relatives pulled into the family graveyard in Khiyam, six km (four miles) from the border, with an ambulance carrying his cousin's body.

"We just needed 30 minutes (to bury her)," Tannoukhi, 54, said. "But we were surprised when Israeli tanks encircled us - and that's when the gunfire started."

Tannoukhi fled with his relatives on foot through the brush, wounding his hand as he scrambled between rocks and olive groves to reach safety at a checkpoint operated by Lebanese troops.

Soon afterwards, they tried to reach the graveyard again but said they were fired on a second time. Shaky footage filmed by Tannoukhi features sprays of gunfire.

"We couldn't bury her. We had to leave her body there in the ambulance. But we will try again," he told Reuters.

The ordeal highlights the bitterness and confusion for residents of southern Lebanon who have been unable to return home because Israeli troops are still present on Lebanese territory.

Israel's military has issued orders to residents of 60 southern Lebanese towns not to return home, saying they are prohibited from accessing their hometowns until further notice.

The US-brokered ceasefire deal grants both Lebanon and Israel the right to self-defense, but does not include provisions on a buffer zone or restrictions for residents.

"Why did we go back? Because there's a ceasefire," Tannoukhi said. "It's a halt to hostilities. And it is a natural right for a son of the south to go to his house."

The Israeli military did not immediately respond to requests for comment.

PEACE OF MIND

The ceasefire brought an end to over a year of hostilities between Israel and Lebanese armed group Hezbollah, which began firing rockets at Israeli military targets in 2023 in support of its Palestinian ally Hamas in Gaza.

Israel went on the offensive in September, bombing swathes of Lebanon's south, east and the southern suburbs of Beirut. More than 1.2 million people fled their homes.

After the 60-day ceasefire came into effect last Wednesday, residents of Beirut's suburbs returned home to vast destruction, and some Lebanese from the south were able to return to homes further away from the border.

But both sides began accusing each other of breaking the deal, with Israel saying suspicious movements in villages along the south constituted violations and Lebanon's army pointing to Israeli tank fire and airstrikes as breaches.

Mustafa Ibrahim al-Sayyed, a father of 12, was hoping to return home to Beit Lif, about two km from the border.

But nearly a week into the ceasefire, he is still living at a displacement shelter near Tyre, a coastal city about 25 km from the border.

He tried to venture home alone last week, but as soon as he arrived, there was tank fire around the town and he received a warning on his phone that his town was in the Israeli military's "no-go" zone.

Sayyed is still stuck in displacement and wants to get home.

"I hope we go back to our town so we can get peace of mind," he said.