Nestled along the Mediterranean coast, Beirut is a city of contradictions—a place where ancient Roman ruins stand shoulder-to-shoulder with bullet-ridden buildings, where French colonial architecture mingles with sleek modern high-rises. This is a city that has survived civil wars, explosions, and economic collapse, yet somehow manages to pulse with an irrepressible energy.
The August 4, 2020, port explosion was a defining moment for Beirut, ripping through the city and leaving scars both physical and emotional. Yet, in true Beiruti fashion, the response was not one of defeat but of resilience. Street art murals now cover blast-damaged walls, turning pain into protest and memory into art. The explosion also reignited debates about government corruption, a topic that remains at the forefront of Lebanese discourse today.
No discussion of Beirut’s culture is complete without diving into its legendary food scene. Mezze—a spread of small dishes like hummus, tabbouleh, and kibbeh—isn’t just a meal; it’s a social ritual. In a country grappling with hyperinflation and food shortages, these shared plates have taken on new meaning. Restaurants like Em Sherif and Le Chef remain bastions of tradition, even as many locals struggle to afford basic groceries.
With Lebanon’s economy in freefall, a new wave of underground dining experiences has emerged. Chefs and home cooks host secret supper clubs, offering prix-fixe menus in exchange for fresh dollars—a currency now more stable than the plummeting Lebanese lira. These gatherings aren’t just about food; they’re acts of defiance against a broken system.
Beirut’s nightlife has long been legendary, with venues like BO18 and The Grand Factory drawing international DJs and revelers. Even amid power cuts and fuel shortages, the party doesn’t stop—generators hum, and the city dances until dawn. But this hedonism exists alongside stark inequality. While some sip $20 cocktails, others queue for hours at bakeries for subsidized bread.
In response to the economic crisis, a DIY art and music scene has flourished. Abandoned buildings and rooftops transform into impromptu venues where experimental electronic music meets protest art. These events, often organized via WhatsApp or Instagram, are as much about community as they are about escapism.
Walk the streets of Beirut, and you’ll hear a linguistic ballet: Lebanese Arabic peppered with French phrases and English slang. This reflects Lebanon’s colonial past and its present as a globalized hub. Even protest chants—like “Kellon yaane kellon” (“All of them means all of them”)—blend languages seamlessly.
With over half of Lebanon’s population now living abroad due to the crisis, the diaspora plays a crucial role in shaping cultural narratives. Lebanese expats in Paris, Dubai, and Montreal keep traditions alive through virtual cooking classes, diaspora-run relief funds, and viral TikTok trends showcasing Beirut’s enduring cool factor.
Beirut is a city of churches and mosques, where Maronite chants echo alongside the call to prayer. Yet sectarian tensions simmer beneath the surface, exacerbated by political gridlock. Neighborhoods like Gemmayzeh (mixed) and Dahiyeh (predominantly Shia) tell different stories of belonging and exclusion.
Grassroots movements are challenging divisions. Organizations like Adyan Foundation promote interfaith dialogue, while youth-led projects—such as mixed-faith cleanup crews after the port explosion—offer glimpses of a more united future.
From the iconic “We Are Not Numbers” murals to stencils of politicians as vampires, Beirut’s walls scream what its people cannot always say aloud. Artists like Yazan Halwani and Lynn Hajj use public spaces to critique corruption and commemorate victims of state neglect.
Despite funding shortages, Beirut’s indie filmmakers are producing bold works. Movies like “The Sea Ahead” (2021) and “Memory Box” (2021) grapple with trauma and memory, offering cinematic love letters to a city that refuses to be erased.
Lebanon’s youth are leaving in droves—doctors, engineers, artists. Those who stay face impossible choices: fight for change or flee for survival. Yet some, like the founders of Beit Beirut, a museum documenting the city’s history, are digging in their heels.
In a country where banks have frozen accounts, crypto has become a lifeline. Beirut’s tech-savvy millennials trade Bitcoin and use decentralized finance to bypass a collapsed banking system. It’s a risky bet, but in Lebanon, everything is a gamble.
Beirut is not just a city; it’s a state of mind. It’s the smell of za’atar in the morning, the sound of a protest drum at midnight, the taste of arak under a bullet-pocked balcony. To know Beirut is to love it—fiercely, painfully, unconditionally.