Beirut

November 16, 2024. The bombs were falling over Beirut, right in front of my eyes. From inside my home, I watched the explosions tear through the sky one after another. The blasts shook the walls, the windows, the floor, the air itself. Some explosions were heard before they were felt. Others were felt in the chest before the sound even arrived. The suffocating smell of smoke and dust kept spreading through the city and slowly invading everything, even inside the house. I kept walking in circles through my home. In front of me was a blank canvas. I took it out almost mechanically and placed it in front of me without knowing what I was about to do. I did not even know if I was going to paint. I just told myself: do something. Anything. But do not stop. At first, I thought I was only making an exercise, a draft, something to occupy my hands while the bombing continued outside. But forty-five minutes later, the painting had already revealed itself. I barely touched it again afterward. When I looked at it, I discovered something I had not consciously created. Something had erupted out of me. I thought of many titles afterward, but none of them stayed. None of them felt true. Every name sounded constructed, intentional, almost artificial. Until one day, a single word came into my mind with complete clarity: Beirut. Because this is what Beirut does. It gets bombed. Humiliated. Wounded. Broken. Bloodied. Sometimes nearly reduced to ashes. And yet, every single time, Beirut turns toward the light and rises again. It could only be Beirut.