It was a beautiful day in Lebanon on Saturday, Oct. 19. A perfect sky, whose deep blue magically blended with that of the sea along the bay of Jounieh. Here, on either side of the highway, there were just a handful of cars. ...And in the midst of this little life that remained, in a 2000s Honda CRV, was presumably a high-ranking member of Hezbollah’s intelligence services. To his right, in the passenger seat, was his Iranian wife. The motorist driving behind the Honda had no idea. Until she received a call from an unknown number, and a voice on the other end formally urged her—in perfect Lebanese Arabic, no less—to slow down and pull over “immediately” to the side of the highway.For reasons she didn’t understand, the woman complied with the warning. No sooner had her vehicle parked on the side of the highway than an invisible drone began raining down “little” missiles on the CRV one after the other. From his balcony, a man filmed the scene. The Honda passed through the falling missiles, which left their shrapnel on the pavement.Like in a video game, the man filming from his window narrated the scene live. “Look, look, they hit the guy’s car from there to... Look, now they’ve suddenly stopped on the side of the road. It’s happening right there, on the Sahel Alma highway. Look, now they’re rushing out of the car towards the bushes. My God, look, the drone just targeted them, and they’re burned, there’s nothing left of them but a pile of dust. My God. Holy Virgin.”
I realize how this war that is raining down on Lebanon has surpassed the realm of the understandable, the graspable, the familiar, if I dare say, to challenge science fiction.I could have believed I was being told the plot of a dystopian film on Sept. 17 when, at the same second, everywhere in Beirut and Lebanon, pagers placed in pockets, cupped in hands, in bags, on belts around the waists of Hezbollah members exploded in unison. In supermarkets, shopping malls, and bedrooms. And then suddenly, the emergency rooms of hospitals transformed into scenes of an invisible war, filled with severed limbs, missing eyes, exploded genitals, crushed legs, and arms.I could have thought this same horror film continued the next day when, at the same hour as the day before, walkie-talkies exploded everywhere, at the same time across the country, and that without a sound, the streets, sidewalks, and apartments became in an instant a battlefield with bodies lying on the ground and ghostly enemies. I believe this horror film will never stop when, at any moment of the day, I receive an image of a crushed and burning car, minivan, or scooter, after being targeted by an imperceptible drone, while the motorists around continue their journey, tracing their path without stopping, almost as if this vision has become common, ordinary, banal.Like science fiction, this diagram representing the high command of Hezbollah that, day after day, for more than a month, evolves with faces of men stamped with “eliminated by Israel.” Like a feeling of dystopia, the day Hassan Nasrallah, the master of the game whom many long believed could turn the table with the strength of his finger, vanished into a 14th basement, under the weight of tons of bombs and buildings reduced to ash. Like science fiction, the idea that we might never see him again, that we will no longer wait for his speeches with knotted stomachs, that we will no longer hang onto each of his words to know where we are going and what awaits us.
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