Nafiseh Kohnavard
Function, BBC Middle East Correspondent, Beirut
"We smile to look better in the pictures when they are taken," jokes Marwan, head waiter at a hotel in Beirut.
He and his colleagues stare at the sky, trying to spot an Israeli reconnaissance drone buzzing overhead.
Neither the music playing in the background nor the song of the birds can silence its deep hum.
It sounds like someone left a hair dryer on or a motorcycle making circles in the clouds.
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Marwan's hotel is not in an area with a strong presence of Hezbollah, the powerful Lebanese military-political group.
He is in Ashrafieh, an affluent Christian neighborhood that Israel has not targeted in previous wars.
I am also placed there.
Two days later, two Israeli missiles thunder over Ashrafieh.
I hear children and adults in the neighborhood screaming.
People run to balconies or open windows in an attempt to understand what just happened.
Within seconds, the explosion shakes the tree-lined streets.
Everyone in my building turns to Dahiyeh, a southern suburb of Beirut, a Hezbollah stronghold that is partially visible from Ashrafieh.
But we soon realize that the impact hit an area that is a five minute drive from us.
Local media reports that the target was Wafik Safa, a senior Hezbollah security officer who is also his son-in-law recently of the assassinated leader Hasan Nasrallah.
Safa reportedly survived.
The building that was hit was full of people who had recently fled to Beirut.
The Israeli army did not issue any warning before the attack and at least 22 people died.
It was the deadliest attack to date.
“Oh, my God. What would have happened if we were walking down the street?" exclaims the neighbor.
"I go to work on that street."
"What are the guarantees that they won't hit a building on our street next time, if they have a target?" asks another.
This recent unrest in Lebanon began on September 17 and 18, when waves of pager explosions killed at least 32 people and wounded more than 5.000, both Hezbollah fighters and civilians.
Many have lost their eyes and/or hands.
Airstrikes intensified in the south, as well as in the southern suburbs of Beirut, killing senior Hezbollah commanders, including Nasrallah.
On September 30, Israel launched a ground invasion of Lebanon.
Officials claim that 1.600 people have been killed in Israel's bombing in recent weeks.
I saw many of the impacts from my terrace.
The past three weeks have felt like someone "rewinded them with a remote control," waiter Marvan tells me.
"We still haven't had time to digest what exactly happened."
I have spoken to him many times in the last 12 months since the Hezbollah-Israel conflict has intensified.
He has lived here all his life and witnessed all the wars of both sides.
But he was always an optimist and never believed that this round of fighting would escalate into a war.
"I take back everything I told you," he tells me now.
"I didn't want to believe it, but we are at war."
Beirut has completely changed. It is clearly visible.
The streets are crowded with cars, some of which are left in the middle of the boulevard.
Hundreds of people who fled the Israeli invasion in the south of the country took refuge in the suburbs of the capital, hiding in schools in "safer" neighborhoods.
Many of them are forced to sleep on the streets.
On the highway to the airport and to the south, billboards show the face of Hassan Nasrallah, the slain leader of Hezbollah.
People who are for and against Hezbollah tell me that this seems surreal.
In other areas, placards that previously read "Lebanon does not want war" now read: "Pray for Lebanon."
The city's famous Trg mučenika, a usual place for protests and mass Christmas celebrations, turned into a city of tents.
Families are printed under the skeleton of an iron Christmas tree.
Around the severed clenched fist erected above the square after the 2019 youth protests are blankets, mattresses and tents made of whatever people could find.
More similar scenes are around every corner.
Temporary homes stretch from the square all the way to the sea.
Most of the families here are Syrian refugees, who have been displaced again and denied access to shelters restricted to Lebanese citizens only.
But many Lebanese families were also left homeless.
Just a kilometer away, 26-year-old Nadine tries to distract herself for a few hours.
She is one of the very few customers at "Alia's Books", a bookstore and bar in Beirut's Gemajze district.
"I don't feel safe anymore," she tells me.
"We constantly hear explosions at night.
"I keep asking myself: what if we get bombed here? What if they shoot at the car in front of us?".
For a long time, Beirut residents believed that the conflict would remain confined to the Hezbollah-controlled border villages in southern Lebanon.
Nasrallah, who led a powerful Shiite political and military organization, said he did not want to lead the country into war, and that the front against Israel was solely to support the Palestinians in Gaza.
That has all changed.
In Beirut, although the strikes end mostly in the southern suburbs, where Hezbollah dominates, tremors are felt throughout the city.
Many do not sleep at night.
It affects the company's operations.
Alija's Books is usually a lively place, hosting local bands, podcasts and wine tasting nights.
We recorded a report here immediately after the first airstrike on Dahiya, on July 30, in which another Hezbollah man, Fuad Shukr, was killed.
Heavy sonic booms could be heard overhead as Israeli fighters broke through the sound barrier.
But a jazz band played all night, and dancing customers filled the bar.
Now the place is empty, there is no music and no dancing.
"It's sad and frustrating," says bar manager Charlie Haber.
“You come here to lighten the mood, but you'll end up talking about this situation again. Everyone is asking, what's next?".
His restaurant was closed two weeks after Nasrallah's death.
Now it is open again, but it closes at eight in the evening instead of midnight.
Day after day, the psychological pressure on employees and customers is getting worse, says Charlie.
He adds that he spends half a day coming up with a post on Instagram.
"You don't want to sound like, 'Hey, come enjoy yourself and we'll give you a discount on your drink' in this situation," he explains.
It is hard to find any place in this area that is open until late at night.
Loris, a favorite restaurant for many, never closed before one o'clock after midnight.
But now the streets are deserted after 19:XNUMX, says one of the owners, Joe Aun.
Three weeks ago, you couldn't get a table here without a reservation.
Now two or three tables a day are barely occupied.
"We struggle every day. We're sitting here and talking, but in five minutes we might have to close and leave."
Most of the employees at Loris come from the southern suburbs of Beirut or the villages in the south of the country.
"Every day one of them hears that his house has been destroyed," says Džo.
One employee, Ali, did not come to work for 15 days while he tried to find a place for his family to stay.
For weeks they slept under olive trees in the south.
Joe says Loris is trying to stay open to help the employees make a living, but he's not sure how much longer that can last.
Fuel for aggregates is extremely expensive.
I can see the frustration on his face.
"We are against war," he says.
"My employees are from the south, they are Shiites, but they are also against the war, but no one asks us anything.
"We can't do anything else. We have to endure."
In "Alia's Books", both Charlie and Nadine are concerned about the rising tension in the community.
These parts of Beirut are mostly Sunni and Christian, but the new arrivals are mostly Shia.
"I try to help people regardless of their religion or sect, but even in my family there are divisions because of it.
"Some of my family help and find accommodation only for displaced Christians," she says.
On the squares and in the alleys of Ashrafieh and Gemaiza, you can see more and more flags of the Lebanese Forces, a Christian party that strongly opposes Hezbollah.
The party has a long history of armed conflict with Shiite Muslims, as well as with Muslim and Palestinian parties during the civil war of three decades ago.
Nadin thinks it's a message to displaced Shiites who have recently arrived, saying, "Don't come here."
Along with the displacement of people, there are fears that Israel can now target any building in any part of the city in search of Hezbollah fighters or members of its allied groups.
Hezbollah claims that its top officers do not stay in places allocated to displaced people.
None of that is good for local businesses.
Many in Gemayze had already been hit hard by the Beirut port explosion four years ago, which killed 200 people and destroyed more than 700.000 buildings.
Only recently have they started to get back on their feet.
Despite the financial crisis, eventually new venues began to spring up, but many of them have now closed.
Maja Bekhaoui Noun, an entrepreneur and member of the board of the restaurant and bar owners' union, estimates that 85 percent of places that sell food and drinks in downtown Beirut are closed or have limited their hours.
"It all happened so fast that we haven't had time to do the statistics yet, but I can tell you that about 85 percent of the places that sell food and drinks in the center are closed or only open part of the time."
"It's hard to keep these places open for entertainment when there are many people sleeping nearby without enough food and provisions."
Despite the dire situation in Beirut, you can still find popular restaurants and bars about fifteen minutes' drive north.
But Maja says that this is also temporary.
"Shocks can also happen in other locations. There were attacks on some places in the north. There are no guarantees that she will be safe either."
"It was as if someone pressed the pause button and all life stopped in Beirut," she describes.
"Now we are on hold. We are aware of the war in the south, it affects us as well. But none of us expected it to be so close."
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