I crouched next to my mother as we monitored the television screen. Footage of the explosion that struck Beirut, Lebanon at 6:07 p.m. on August 4, 2020 repeatedly flashed across the monitor. My heart raced, my eyes darted, and my mind wandered, gripped by the terror of images that resembled scenes from an apocalypse film. The place I call home was a site for man-made destruction. The neighborhood streets I walked through as a child were unrecognizable, and the cafes and restaurants where I shared laughs with loved ones were destroyed, taking all the memories with it. What was supposed to be a normal Tuesday morning turned into a day of calling and messaging family and friends to make sure they were alive.

Unfortunately, growing up as a Lebanese-American immigrant, these kinds of check-ins were not particularly unusual. From the 2005 assassination bombing of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri, to the subsequent various political assassination bombings, to the 2006 war, messaging loved ones to see if they were okay after an explosion was not an unfamiliar experience.

However, the explosion on August 4 was different. Lebanon was already in a precarious situation, facing the global pandemic and enduring one of its worst economic crises. At the time, it seemed impossible for conditions to get worse there. But, they did. August 4 was a crime committed by the country’s own leadership. The preamble to the Lebanese Constitution states that Lebanon is committed to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, thereby including the commitment to “right to life.” Yet, on August 4, Lebanon’s notoriously corrupt leadership did exactly the opposite. They failed to prevent a foreseeable risk to human life by poorly storing nearly 2,700 tons of highly explosive ammonium nitrate at the Beirut port for six years, with evidence indicating that some officials knew of the death that could result from unsafely housing the chemical. This resulted in one of the largest non-nuclear explosions in history, killing at least 202, injuring 6,500, displacing about 300,000 individuals, and destroying a city.

My family and I are some of the lucky ones. We moved to the United States from Beirut when I was a child. As I was young, I did not really comprehend why we moved or the benefits of living in a country like the United States. As I grew older, I understood that my parents moved to secure more stability, something they craved as they experienced Lebanon shatter in the 1975–1990 Civil War.

My parents left Lebanon during the Civil War to work abroad. They had hoped to eventually return back to Lebanon—to their families, friends, and homes. Nonetheless, the political situation never seemed to improve. So, when my family had the opportunity to immigrate to the United States, we came. We would visit Lebanon when we could, experiencing a more privileged life on our trips—a life where if anything happened or instability struck again, we would be able to flee because of a little document known as the U.S. passport.

I visited Lebanon on the one-year anniversary of the August 4 explosion. On previous visits, family and friends would usually toy with me the idea of coming back to Lebanon but they now push against the idea of it. They remark how lucky we are to be able to live abroad and how lucky we are to escape the worsening conditions in Lebanon.

Lebanon is currently experiencing multiple humanitarian crises. There is a great and deep economic crisis; Lebanon has the highest inflation rate in the world, surpassing Zimbabwe and Venezuela. In a mere two years, the poverty rate in Lebanon has doubled to 82 percent. A fuel shortage has cut electricity supply, threatening hospitals’ ability to provide care, shutting down businesses, and limiting power to everyday necessities, including refrigerators for food. The economic crisis, COVID-19 pandemic, and fuel cuts have significantly impacted the public school sector. The reopening of public schools has been delayed as schools are unable to pay teachers to match the hyperinflation rates, and unable to guarantee that there will be fuel for buses or heating in classrooms for the winter. Additionally, the country is currently experiencing a healthcare crisis with a medicine shortage, depriving individuals of the ability to obtain healthcare for a variety of medical matters, from little headaches all the way to cancer. While we usually packed little gifts for loved ones on our trips to Lebanon, our luggage was filled with basic medication such as Tylenol this time, as pharmacies across Lebanon remain short in supply.

Lebanon is also home to various displaced communities and it has the highest refugee population per capita in the world. The situation in Lebanon has affected everyone, but it has had a particular effect on these refugee communities, who face social and economic marginalization. The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestinian refugees in the Near East (UNRWA) reported that the crisis has limited the power of the cash assistance Palestinian refugees receive while the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) reported that the crisis has had a deteriorating impact on the Syrian refugee community, with families resorting to various coping mechanisms, including child labor, to deal with the extreme economic conditions.

So, amidst all these crises in the country, it is no surprise that immigration from Lebanon is turning into a mass exodus, with a record number of passports being issued each day as individuals try to find employment and a more stable livelihood abroad. There are also reports of increased crossings into Europe through the Mediterranean Sea to flee the poor economic and social conditions.

As I sit nearly 6,000 miles away in the comfort of my air-conditioned home with fully functioning electricity and watch the news, I cannot help but feel guilty at times for all that I enjoy—a feeling common within the Lebanese diaspora. My U.S. passport allows me to travel to most countries freely, pharmacies in the United States are stocked with medication, and fuel and electricity are available to power my fridge for food and my Wi-Fi for work.

It is admittedly difficult to imagine what the future will look like for Lebanon. I had (perhaps naively) thought that the destruction of the city on August 4, 2020 would be the lowest point and that the situation would change from there. Yet, more than one year after the August 4 explosion, I see repeated news headlines on growing hunger rates, increasing calls to the country’s only suicide hotline, and continued currency devaluation.

Systematic change and reform need to occur to mitigate the damage of the explosion, the economic situation, and the political crisis. Countries able to accept migrants and refugees should streamline processes. Many scholars, academics, and researchers have argued for such changes, and it will take time for conditions to improve.

For now, I hold on to hope. It is not hope in the newly formed Lebanese government nor in the foreign leaders visiting and promising to help Lebanon. Rather, it is hope in the people. I have hope in the individuals fighting for justice for their loved ones lost in the August 4 explosion. I have hope in the judge leading the August 4 investigation, who is pushing against the country’s culture of impunity to hold officials accountable. I have hope in the everyday volunteers who are working tirelessly to rebuild Beirut. I have hope in the alternative and civil society groups challenging the status quo of politics in the upcoming 2022 parliamentary elections. I have hope in the Lebanese diaspora who have been active in mobilizing funds, sending medication, and providing aid.

I have hope, as it seems like it is all that there is left.