It was we. It was we who destroyed you. It was we who destroyed ourselves. We are all dead, you and us. Yes, dead.
How beautiful you were, my love. How desired, how loved you were with all your flaws so attractive and irresistible. You were so much me, so much us.
You, Beirut, the most beautiful city for reasons that were not always visible to the old eyes of your sons,
We treated you badly. We were not up to your greatness, to your message, to our vocation.
We lost the way. We lost you on the way. We apologize.
Maybe it was you who exploded, it was you who exploded us. Maybe it was you the kamikaze. You couldn’t take it anymore. You suicided us.
Beirut, we have to rise from death. We have always done it. My grandmother used to tell me that Beirut has been destroyed and rebuilt seven times over in history. Accept to rise one more time, we beg you.
We will rebuild you with the ashes of the Beirutis who have died, with their dreams, their hopes, their struggles, their fears, their beauty.
Everything will rise up more fulfilled. We will change, Beirut. We swear to you.
Rise, my beautiful. We will make ourselves a city that, like a womb, shall embrace everyone, and endow them with the power to always be born and reborn again.
We love you so much.
*Lawyer and researcher in interreligious realities and politics