'They exploded again': Wave of walkie-talkie detonations rocks grieving Lebanon

Chaos erupts as large explosion occurs during memorial for victims of Hezbollah device attack

A man holds a walkie talkie after he removed the battery during the funeral of those killed when hundreds of paging devices exploded in a deadly wave across Lebanon on Tuesday, in Beirut's southern suShow more

Live updates: Follow the latest on Israel-Gaza

No one expected it to happen again.

It was supposed to be a funeral. Not an ordinary one, given the unusual circumstances – thousands had turned up in Beirut’s southern suburb of Dahieh to mourn four of the 12 people killed in Tuesday’s pager attack that injured nearly three thousand people across Lebanon and parts of Syria when the hand-held devices, used by Hezbollah to communicate, detonated.

The scale of the unorthodox attack was unprecedented, attributed to Israel, and debilitated hundreds of people – mostly Hezbollah fighters who lost fingers, whole hands, or their eyes.

The mourning ceremony was under way and the speeches had commenced when an explosion went off. It was a loud, unmistakable boom.

Immediately dozens of panicked women and children exited the funeral compound, running.

“His hands got blown off! Oh god, his hands got blown off by the device,” a boy no older than 13 years old cried to The National before racing off with his siblings.

An elderly woman made it through the exit gates of the funeral compound before crumpling to the ground. She asked no one in particular, “Why is this happening? Why?”

The news had yet to reach the furthest corners of the large, roped-off compound. The funeral and speeches continued, almost everyone else unperturbed.

A small distance away, a nonchalant Hezbollah security guard dismissed claims of an explosion, saying the sound was caused by “fireworks”. His delayed intel was, perhaps, an illustration of how Hezbollah’s communication capabilities have been affected by Israel’s attack the previous day.

The sound of ambulances infiltrated the air.

It turned out the explosion was one of many – not just in Dahieh but throughout Lebanon. It was another countrywide attack.

A man with his motorbike parked under his in-law’s house, who had come to pick up his daughter from near where the funeral was taking place, told The National he had seen people in another part of Dahieh near the Bahman hospital “torn to pieces.”

“I live there. It happened under my house,” he said. “It’s the walky-talkies and other electronic devices. They exploded again.”

Lebanon's Health Ministry said at least 20 people were killed and 450 more injured by Wednesday’s wave of detonations – the second attack in as many days.

In the span of two days, the device detonations killed 32 people and maimed countless others.

People had just begun recovering from the shock of the previous day’s pager attack. By Wednesday morning life had nearly returned to normal despite the nationwide closure of schools, universities, and some businesses for mourning. Beirut’s ubiquitous motorbikes were back on the roads and people were walking in the street as if fear and loss had not very recently rocked their nation.

Under Dahieh’s Harkous bridge, the nearby St George hospital was holding a blood drive. At least 200 people gathered to donate blood needed by those injured in Tuesday’s attacks.

The National was permitted to report from the blood drive on the condition that people’s full names not be used. In Lebanon, topics relating to Israel or Hezbollah’s security are highly sensitive.

Behind a barrier of yellow tape, a large group of women protested what they perceived as the donation drive’s sexist preference for male donors. A doctor explained to that they had not brought a tarp to partition the tents to allow covered women to donate away from the prying eyes of men.

“Why didn’t you?” a woman in black hijab asked, near tears. “Why? Did we not suffer loss too? Do we not deserve the right to donate blood to our brothers and sisters??”

In the nearby neighbourhood of Tariq Jdideh – a predominantly Sunni Beirut neighbourhood that is sometimes at odds with Hezbollah and sometimes allied with it depending on the political events at hand – business was running as usual. Two mechanics, Mohammad and Alaa, sat in front of their shop. They were discussing Tuesday’s pager attacks.

“I never imagined something like this would happen,” Alaa said.

The mechanic shop is situated across from the Maqassed hospital, where dozens of people were treated the previous day. The duo said the neighbourhood’s residents had all immediately organised to allow ambulances through and to donate blood.

“Hezbollah or no Hezbollah – this wasn’t an attack on just them, this was an attack on all of us, all of Lebanon,” Mohammad told The National.

“My wife was visiting her friends when she called me yesterday. She told me she heard two explosions in the building and to come pick her up right away. On my way there panicked people were driving fast in the opposite direction screaming ‘throw away your phones!’ I tossed my phone in the back seat of the car. I parked and went inside the building to get my wife. There was blood everywhere, all over the entrance of the building.”

“On the way back I saw hands – whole hands, not attached to arms – just lying alone in pools of blood on the street,” he added.

Hours later, at the Dahieh funeral after the second wave of detonations had already taken place, a group of women in black chadors told The National that the attacks were simply “a test of our endurance as a resistance. We won’t capitulate to the Israeli enemy and we won’t be shaken.”