The Chain of Seemingly Unendable Assasinations in Lebanon

The Chain of Seemingly Unendable Assasinations in Lebanon

The metal guard rail hangs from the highway overpass like a Christmas garland, the mangled frame of a large road sign dangling beside it like a misshapen ornament. The road is littered with chunks of concrete too large to be lifted without strenuous effort.
This wreckage stands about 10 meters above a massive crater - the site of a car bomb loaded with 60 kilograms of TNT (some estimated 70) which killed Internal Security Forces (ISF) Captain Wissam Eid, his driver, and at least three others Friday morning. Some security officials claimed that six had died. Over three dozen were said to be wounded in the blast, some critically.
In an adjacent parking lot, there are the skeletal shells of blackened cars, still parked in neat rows. Those nearest to the explosion are simply heaps of charred metal. No doors, no windshields, no upholstery - some had burned for hours. Others, further from the blast, are more intact. There is a white Mercedes, a Peugeot, a Honda, all gray from smoke, their windows shattered. The security official standing nearby says that 45 cars were blown up, burned or "broken" in the explosion.
Just after 10 a.m. the car bomb was remotely detonated in Hazmieh, a predominantly Christian suburb in eastern Beirut. The car was parked beneath the six-lane overpass of the highway. It exploded as Eid"s car was passing by.
Scores of people arrived with the first responders as towers of smoke billowed from the wreckage. In video footage obtained by The Daily Star, tagged 10:05 a.m., hundreds of people can be seen running on and below the highway to the site of the blast. A video from 10:17, at the site of the attack, shows a footless leg and the remnants of a hand extending from a bloodstained blanket.
A five-story Nokia building stands above the parking lot, not 30 meters from the center of the explosion. Every window is missing - not broken, but missing. The sheets of glass were blown completely from their frames. One pane lies shattered but intact some 20 meters across the street.
People had been working in the Nokia Building and the attached Meatel Building. In a remarkable stroke of luck, the wall of the building most directly facing the explosion had no windows. This alone saved the lives of many inside.
Those nearer the blast were not as lucky. The remains of one of those who was killed was initially unidentifiable.
A miraculously unaffected sign stands just across the street from the bomb"s crater. It points east and reads: Mount Lebanon Hospital.
Just above the sign are two advertisements, equally unchanged. One is for Fructis Shampoo, the other is for Florid Aluminum. They stand in stark contrast to blackened debris, empty window frames, and twisted chasses that litter the rest of the area.
Beneath the far side of the overpass there is a 2-meter-high mound of dirt and rubble that runs parallel with the highway for dozens of meters.
A security official says that pieces of metal, concrete, and plastic were blown as far as 400 meters in the blast. This reporter follows the police officer"s suggestion and walks about that distance eastbound on the highway. A twisted, 8-meter metal poll lies in the middle of the road near a couple of hubcaps.
By the afternoon the site is completely cordoned off. The shouts, screams and sirens give way to a methodical police investigation. Fewer people arrive in search of loved ones and those looking for belongings are turned away.
A French television crew is denied entry, and they begin filming from behind the yellow crime-scene tape. As they are filming, a large Nissan van and a covered personnel carrier arrive with dozens more ISF men.
The inbound traffic lanes above the site are completely blocked. Policemen, on site now for seven hours, smoke and show pictures. They smile the weary, bewildered smiles of those less worried for themselves than for their country. "This f**king place," says one.
The Beirut-bound lanes of the highway are closed for kilometers - as far as one can see. As the sun sets the road takes on an eerily abandoned, post-apocalyptic feel.
Off the highway in a cafe, the young proprietor asks about the blast. His brother works in the Meatel Building, and he says he ran, in terror, to the site moments after the explosion.
Above the counter there is a picture of another young man about his age. "This is Tony," he says, "my best friend. He was killed in the Antoine Ghanem explosion in September."