The human cost

In many ways, August 4, 2020, began much like any other day for Mariana Fodoulian, a veterinarian in Beirut. Her shift at Le Veto in Achrafieh was punctuated by phone calls with her 29-year-old sister Gaïa and their friends to plan a post-work shopping trip to the Adidas store in Khalde to take advantage of its closing-down sale.

Lebanon was a year deep into crippling economic collapse – one of the worst in modern history – and many businesses were shutting up shop as a result. The situation had been exacerbated by the Covid-19 epidemic, and the Adidas outlet was the latest casualty.

Despite the normality of her day, Mariana says she had a strange feeling of restlessness – especially in the lead up to 6.07pm, a moment in time that would forever scar the Lebanese consciousness, adding yet another painful chapter to the country's turbulent recent history.

In the hours that followed the most powerful non-nuclear explosion ever recorded, Mariana would rush from overwhelmed hospital to another, carrying her sister's bloody body in her arms and employing her skills as a vet in a desperate and frantic effort to save her.

“The day was weird," says Mariana. “I work as a veterinarian, so we were at the clinic. Me and my colleague were feeling like we needed to go somewhere. I don’t know why we were feeling this way. So we left work for a while and went walking around Achrafieh.” The east Beirut neighbourhood is where Mariana lived and worked.

Although their post-work plans were adjusted slightly throughout the day, Mariana was supposed to leave work at 5.30pm to meet Gaia before the pair would head to the shop together. But Mariana got caught up at work.

“It was almost 6.04pm, 6.05pm … I went to the bathroom so I could prepare myself to leave ... And then I felt a horrific earthquake,” says Mariana.

“I didn’t know anything else was happening so ... I went outside the building so I could be safe."

Located directly opposite the port, Achrafieh was one of the worst-affected neighbourhoods. Mariana's immediate thoughts were of her mother, who liked to drive around the area.

“I called her. I thought my sister was at home and she was safe. My mother was shouting and telling me that 'your sister is dying'.

"I didn’t know what she meant. For me, maybe it was like 'where is my sister? Maybe she is walking the dog?' Maybe my mum thought like this. We didn’t know that this kind of explosion happened here in the area. I went to the car park so I could leave to go home. A lot of cars were there, so I was stuck and couldn’t take my car. I had to run from the clinic to the house."

That run remains a blur for Mariana. She raced through the streets on broken glass, passing through the devastation and chaos that the blast inflicted. Injured people lay along the roads, bleeding. Thick dust filled the air.

“I really don’t remember the way from the clinic to the house. I don’t remember people, I don’t remember anything. I'm sure that I passed through a lot, but one thing was sure: I had to reach home.”

The family lived on the tenth floor of their building, but the lift was broken. The concierge was in shock, asking who she was as Mariana entered and hurtled up the stairs to her flat. “I saw my sister on the floor, on her back,” Mariana recalls.

Blue spots – a potential sign of internal bleeding – had appeared around Gaia’s eyes and neck. With the help of two other people in the building, she carried Gaia to the nearest hospital on foot. The roads were impassable.

Chaos greeted them at Saint George Hospital University Medical Centre. Like all healthcare facilities in the area, it was overwhelmed.

“A lot of people were on the floor – dead people, people who were really in very bad shape, injured a lot. There was a lot of blood everywhere," says Mariana.

"All my veterinary friends came to the hospital to help me. We had to intubate my sister and I did the IV.

“Nurses were running from place to place until an ambulance came. We had to run to an ambulance and put my sister in. In the ambulance, I remember, was a guy who was injured very badly, maybe he lost all his teeth. He was trying to tell us that he needed to call someone to tell them he was OK. I was on the floor of the ambulance next to my sister trying to manually pump her oxygen.”

They went from one hospital to another but all were full and unable to take more patients. Many of Beirut's hospitals were already short of medical supplies due to the pandemic and financial crisis. The blast, which killed at least 220 people and injured more than 7,000 while severely damaging or completely destroying surrounding infrastructure, overwhelmed them entirely.

Less than two weeks after the blast, an assessment by the World Health Organisation found that half of the 55 healthcare facilities in the city were "non-functional".

Eventually, Mariana and her colleagues found room for Gaia at a hospital in Zalka in Beirut’s northern suburbs, but her condition was deteriorating and she had begun vomiting blood.

Doctors took Gaia into another room for treatment as Mariana was made to wait outside. Two hours later, after receiving no update on her sister, Mariana went through another entrance to the room to check on her sister.

“We saw her on the table, dead. No one told us. No one even came to tell us about her.”

Two days later, when it was time to bury Gaia, a friend offered to collect her body.

“He saw that she was still on the same table, not even in the fridge, not cleaned. They kept her as she was on the table. That was the hardest part of all.”

The National has met and spoken to Mariana several times in the years since the blast. The conversations often revolve around the same issues – the lack of justice, the plans for the silos and the general outrage at the plethora of problems Lebanon continues to face.

But Mariana never gave up fighting. Every fourth of August at 6.07 pm, families of the victims meet at a memorial overlooking the wrecked silos to remember their loved ones and ensure that no one forgets.

“We didn’t have time to grieve," Mariana says. “We had to fight for justice from day one and we are still fighting. We have been through a lot in these five years. Many attempts have been made to stop the investigation, to make the judge stop his work or remove him.

"But we are still continuing. The most important part is that we have to work hard for it. Because if we don’t talk about August 4 or we don’t ask for justice, people will forget and then the investigation might stop. We need to continue our fight until the end.”

Probe update

Five years on from the explosion, justice remains elusive for the hundreds of thousands of people who lost family or property.

Today, the investigation is being presided over by Judge Tarek Bitar, who took over in early 2021 after his predecessor Fadi Sawan was dismissed amid political pressure. Mr Bitar resumed questioning in February this year, despite the refusal of the previous public prosecutor, Ghassan Oueidat, to co-operate with the probe.

These recent developments in the stalled investigation offer a glimmer of hope for progress but are still a far cry from promising a swift path to justice.

“Judge Bitar moved forward with scheduling hearings despite a prior directive from Ghassan Oueidat instructing the Public Prosecution and judicial police not to comply with his warrants,” said lawyer Cecile Roukoz, who represents families of the victims and whose brother died in the blast.

The ban imposed by Mr Oueidat was lifted in March by the new public prosecutor, Jamal Hajjar, after 26 months of deadlock. Under Mr Bitar’s renewed mandate, high-profile figures – including lawmakers, former ministers, judges and port and security officials – were summoned for questioning.

“He kept politicians and judges for the end,” said Ms Roukoz. She said only the former Public Works Minister and current member of parliament Ghazi Zeaiter and ex-prosecutor Mr Oueidat remain to be heard.

Mr Bitar has faced years of obstacles that at one point appeared to have halted the investigation altogether. Officials implicated in the case accused him of being biased in his investigation, refused to testify, demanded his removal and filed legal complaints against him.

In 2023, Mr Oueidat, then-chief prosecutor, ordered the release of 17 port and customs officials held in pre-trial detention, prompting accusations from Mr Bitar and legal experts of unlawful obstruction.

“Judge Bitar has completed all scheduled hearings except those for Ghazi Zeaiter and Ghassan Oueidat,” said Ms Roukoz. “Zeaiter failed to appear – even though the regular session of Parliament had concluded, meaning he no longer benefits from parliamentary immunity.”

On June 27, Mr Zeaiter refused to respond to Mr Bitar’s summons. Instead, his attorney appeared on his behalf and submitted documents showing that he had filed a state liability lawsuit challenging the judge’s decisions. The lawyer also presented a brief argument claiming that, as a sitting MP and with Parliament convened in extraordinary session, his client remains shielded by immunity.

After the regular parliamentary session closed, President Joseph Aoun signed a decree convening an extraordinary legislative session – an act Mr Zeaiter’s defence claims bars prosecution. But Ms Roukoz disputes this interpretation.

“Article 97 of Parliament’s internal bylaws states that if a prosecution is initiated while Parliament is not in session – whether regular or extraordinary – it may continue even during an extraordinary session, provided the speaker of Parliament is informed via the Justice Ministry,” she said. “This article is very clear. The investigation can proceed. It is the duty of the judge to carry it through, and that’s what he’s doing,” she said.

Immunity vs jurisdiction

At the heart of the legal standoff lies the clash between parliamentary immunity and judicial reach. The constitution’s Article 71 grants immunity to sitting and former ministers, directing their cases to Lebanon’s Supreme Council.

Mr Zeaiter has invoked this shield, claiming his case falls under the jurisdiction of the High Court for presidents and ministers, a rarely convened and politically appointed body. Ms Roukoz says this defence is invalid here.

“Judge Bitar has already ruled that these are criminal offences and therefore fall within the jurisdiction of the Court of Justice,” she said.

Mr Zeaiter failed to appear for another hearing on July 19, again citing the jurisdictional argument and parliamentary immunity during the extraordinary session.

That determination aligns with past legal moves: in 2021, Mr Bitar issued warrants against former public works minister Youssef Fenianos, as well as former finance minister and current member of parliament Ali Hassan Khalil, accusing them of intentional killing and negligence that led to the deadly blast. Mr Fenianos in turn asked for Mr Bitar’s removal over “legitimate suspicion” of how he handled his case. In early 2024, Lebanon’s top court suspended the arrest warrants for the two former cabinet ministers.

Mr Oueidat also defied a July 21 subpoena, asserting through a letter that Mr Bitar “has neither legitimacy nor jurisdiction” to question him, and arguing that Article 354 of the Criminal Code requires judges to be tried only before special courts.

From symbols to justice

The resumption of the Beirut port blast investigation has coincided with a major political shift in Lebanon. The election of President Aoun and the appointment of Prime Minister Nawaf Salam, himself a former judge at the International Court of Justice, has prompted cautious optimism among many Lebanese hoping for accountability.

Both leaders are viewed as a departure from the entrenched political class widely blamed for the corruption and negligence that led to Lebanon’s worst peacetime disaster. Mr Aoun and Mr Salam have publicly pledged that, under their leadership, no one will be above the law. Justice Minister Adel Nassar echoed that message in an interview in July with The National, saying Lebanon “cannot pretend” to be a functioning state if it fails to provide answers about the explosion.

“When you have a blast of the dramatic impact of the port blast, a state that is not able to give answers and ensure accountability to its citizens is a state not fulfilling its role,” said Mr Nassar.

Lebanon’s modern history is marked by a persistent culture of impunity – one that has enabled political violence, sectarian militias and widespread corruption to flourish unchecked. Human Rights Watch and other rights groups have repeatedly warned that the country’s failure to deliver justice for past crimes has only encouraged future abuses.

As the fifth anniversary of the port blast approaches, many victims’ families say they are no longer moved by speeches or symbolic gestures. They are demanding tangible reforms and clear progress toward justice.

“They all say the right things,” said Ms Roukoz. “But what we need is action – judicial independence, the appointment of judges and a real willingness to follow the law.”

For the victims’ families, justice also means recognition. Ms Roukoz and others are calling for a national memorial at the site of the blast. “There should be a physical reminder of what happened,” she said. “It’s not just a crime scene – it’s part of our national memory. The law on cultural properties allows for such a designation. A section of the silos, or a dedicated structure, should stand in memory of the lives lost.”

She also speaks of the concept of transitional justice – a framework for holding state institutions accountable. “The explosion wasn’t just the result of one person’s failure,” she said. “It was the failure of the entire state – of public safety agencies, customs, the judiciary, everyone who let this happen. For people to forgive, there must be real accountability.”

“We’re not asking politicians to interfere with the judiciary,” added Ms Roukoz. “But we are asking them to exercise their powers where it matters – by appointing judges, forming a functioning judiciary and respecting the separation of powers.”

Looking ahead, Ms Roukoz is clear-eyed. “We’ve stopped putting too much hope in timelines,” she said. “We don’t speak about expectations anymore. This is not a matter of hope – it is a duty. The state must tell us who is responsible and the judiciary must hold them accountable.”

Her words reflect a deeper truth about Lebanon’s long-standing crisis of governance: without justice, the trauma of August 4, 2020, will remain open, raw and unresolved.

“We expect the state to fulfill its duty – to deliver justice and accountability,” Ms Roukoz said. “Only then will those who committed this crime be in prison. It won’t erase our grief – our sadness will remain – but it will ease our anger. Because this cannot be treated the way crimes have been handled in the past.”