With the fifth anniversary of Beirut’s 2020 port explosion on Monday, one might expect to see memorials and other acts of remembrance across the city, but many in Lebanon are simply trying to move on.
Between the continuing economic crisis, regional conflicts and political inaction, the outrage over the Beirut blast and public demands for justice have grown quieter and quieter. The official investigation remains unfinished, and many remain sceptical that those responsible will ever be held to account.
Complicating matters further is the fact that Lebanon lacks a reliable public record. Archives are poorly maintained, if they are kept at all.
Illuminating and solidifying forgotten heritage has long been a great passion for artist, author and amateur historian Eddy Choueiry, who has brought together his academic background in philosophy and psychology with a quietly patriotic love for the legacy of Lebanon.
In the wake of the August 4 blast, however, his creative practice took on a new meaning, unpicking a disaster years in the making. Half a decade later, he plans to present the findings of his research, first in a public lecture hosted by Assabil Public Library in Beirut, and later in a soon-to-release book.
“After the explosion, my target was to make a book to represent what we call in French a travail de deuil, or work of mourning,” Choueiry tells The National. “It's a mourning process and, as is usual with this process, I wanted to do it through art, culture and heritage, so I started the book one week after the blast.”
The history of the Port of Beirut stretches back to the Ottoman Empire, which, in 1887, put control of the port into the hands of the French company Compagnie du Port, des quais et des Entrepots de Beyrouth. The Port of Beirut quickly grew to become a key shipping centre for the region, continuing to expand during the French Mandate thanks to greater funding and trade from France, even after Lebanon became an independent nation in 1943. In 1960, the company was renamed the Gestion et Exploitation du Port de Beyrouth.
Unfortunately, the Port of Beirut also earned a reputation for corruption and smuggling. Abandoned crew and cargo were also common occurrences, as was the case with the MV Rhosus, the Moldovan ship which, in 2013, delivered 2,750 tonnes of ammonium nitrate that caused the 2020 blast.
Many of the records of the port were destroyed by the explosion, but Choueiry managed to uncover a trove of physical documents kept in the Gestion et Exploitation du Port de Beyrouth offices. It took four years just to go through all the files, which include letters, photographs, maps, contracts and even newspaper articles.
“The old archives of the harbour had been saved – although still damaged – because they were in a closet,” says Choueiry. “I discovered a lot of documents, so I limited my research to the Ottoman period, the French Mandate period, and then – after our independence – the construction of the silos.”
Unbeknownst to most in Lebanon, the 2020 explosion at the port of Beirut, although the most devastating, was not the first such blast. In fact, three other explosions had taken place, in 1919, 1928 and 1934. In the case of the first two events, only one fatality was reported from each incident. In the case of the third, 20 people were killed and 14 were injured.
The 1934 case stands out in particular in eerie similarity to the events of 2020. Back then, Warehouse S was used to store hazardous and explosive materials – including gunpowder and TNT – under restricted access but, due to limited space, this holding area had also started to be used for other goods, including flammable textiles and foodstuffs. Questions were also raised regarding the collapse of Warehouse S’s roof and the failure of the sprinkler system to prevent fire from spreading through the building following the explosion. Ultimately, no responsible party was ever identified, and the damaged site was built over.
“The authorities launched an inquiry into the cause of that explosion,” Choueiry explains, “but it led nowhere. Even at the time, it was predicted [in the local press] that it would lead nowhere, as with the two previous port explosions that happened in 1919 and 1928; that the third – 1934 – was going to be the same, without consequences.”
Despite the recurring historical pattern of worsening accidents caused by the improper storage and handling of hazardous materials at the port, no lessons were seemingly learnt. When the new grain silos were completed and put into operation in 1970, the port authorities designated Warehouse 12 – the eventual epicentre of the 2020 explosion – as the holding area for such materials; a building almost directly co-located with the silos.
“This is crazy,” says Choueiry. “The silos stocked grain and wheat for the whole of Lebanon. Who could imagine putting this warehouse in front of the silos? There is no excuse in 2020 that nobody knew about the importance of nitrate, and how it's so dangerous. They are not doing their jobs as they should. It's negligence.”
Today, the remains of the damaged silos stand over the Port of Beirut as a scarred reminder of the latest tragedy to befall the harbour, but ensuring that it will be the last requires that Lebanon change its relationship with its complex and often painful past. Through this “mourning work”, Choueiry and those like him are attempting to put Lebanon’s ephemeral history into concrete forms that will persist and provide clarity for future generations, in the hope that this cycle of abuse, impunity and failure can finally be broken for good.
“We shouldn't forget this injustice that happened to Beirut and to Lebanon,” says Choueiry. “We are crossing our fingers with the 2020 explosion that – if we are fortunate – we will have answers. God knows how long it's going to take, to tell the truth about what really happened.”
“If you put yourself face-to-face with catastrophe, it's going to be an eternal trauma,” he continues. “But, if you try to make enough of it into something related to your identity, to your culture, now you are making something fruitful.”
