When Pau Palaus returned from his first trip to Lebanon, in May, he organized an event in the Plaça d’Arbúcies to explain the experience to his neighbors. He lives on the outskirts of the village in a farmhouse called Ca l’Ocell, where he has a small stage to rehearse shows and set up small-scale performances. Roser Loscos' violin was playing in the square, and the children were asking him questions. “And did you bring food to Lebanon?”, a girl asked him. Pau is a clown; with his company, he has visited about thirty countries, won awards like the Zirkólika, and a few years ago he set up the association Contaminando Sonrisas, with which he organizes solidarity expeditions to countries in conflict or places that have suffered natural disasters. It was the bombings in April, launched by Israel over the south of the country but also in the capital, and the contacts Pau maintains with some Lebanese clowns that prompted him to travel to Lebanon. Not to bring food, precisely, but rather “hope”: “Talking so much about the number of deaths, in the end we end up dehumanizing war, and what I try to do is bring a little humanity to the conflict”. He usually shares these trips with a small team of collaborators, but this time, for logistical reasons, he had to travel alone. He performed mainly in the most popular neighborhoods of Beirut, including Dahieh, the suburbs where Hezbollah is considered to have its main urban base, and where Israel usually has its sights set. In total there were 27 performances in less than two weeks, many improvised in the middle of the street, during days when bombs continued to fall despite the theoretical ceasefire. A ceasefire that never quite is, as has been demonstrated in recent weeks. “The bombings that fall during a ceasefire are the most dangerous, because people let their guard down. I thought I would find an empty city, with everything closed and people at home, and it's the opposite, shops are open, life goes on almost normally. In Beirut I spent the day watching the drones that flew over us all the time, but they didn't pay any attention to them.” During the last two days of my stay in Beirut, the suburbs suffered a new wave of attacks, in which the government of Israel claimed to have killed a high commander of Hezbollah, the Shiite paramilitary group allied with Iran. It is estimated that since the United States and Israel launched the offensive against Iran, there have been more than 3,000 deaths in Lebanon and one and a half million displaced people, mainly due to bombings ordered from Tel Aviv to attack southern Lebanon and occupy about thirty border towns. “During a performance I was giving, a group of people received a call saying that two missiles had fallen in their village and seven people had died. There was a bit of a commotion, but the show continued, and when it ended, those same people came to congratulate me as if nothing had happened.” During his nine days in Lebanon, Pau recounts having a dream: hundreds of buses arriving in Beirut loaded with clowns and invading the country. He told this to two Lebanese documentary filmmakers who were helping him set up performances in Beirut, and from this, a new project has emerged and is now underway: to record an eight-episode series in eight countries in the Middle East and North Africa to demonstrate that the work of a clown can be a symbol of peace and also of transformation. “They stopped making documentaries focused on war some time ago because they found it too emotionally taxing, but now they see the possibility of addressing it from the perspective of hope. The intention is to invite other artists who are willing to perform with me in these places,” he explains. The series will likely begin filming in August, taking advantage of Pau being invited to a circus festival in the town of Ramallah, in the West Bank.A destroyed capitalIn recent months, Pau has met some Lebanese clowns and artists, and from this have come different collaborations. Last week, for example, Contaminando Sonrisas promoted from Catalonia – with economic and logistical support – a series of performances by a pair of local artists who perform mask and puppet shows. “They were born in Syria but had to exile themselves to Lebanon and grew up in Shatila, a refugee camp in the heart of Beirut built in 1949 to host Palestinians fleeing the war. It can be said that it is already part of the city itself, but it is a very degraded place, with mafias and corruption, where young people have many difficulties finding work. Meeting this pair of artists with so much sensitivity has been like finding a flower in the middle of the rubble," he explains. This coming Wednesday, Pau will once again leave for Lebanon to perform in other areas particularly hard-hit by the war. He will visit the Bekaa Valley, near the Syrian border; two refugee camps in Tripoli, further north, and the peripheral neighborhoods of Beirut. In addition, he will conduct a free training workshop for about fifteen local clowns. “Many public services have not been functioning for years and the population has had to self-manage. I don't know if they have much hope left, but they have a lot of resilience,” he adds. During his performances in May, he was able to personally verify the accounts that Western media correspondents have been giving in recent times. On the one hand, the destruction that continues to plague the capital. “There are many damaged buildings, and for each one, they can tell you what year it was attacked. Apart from an explosion at the port [in 2020], which was brutal and it is still unknown who was responsible. The Lebanese say that life is what happens between one war and another, because conflicts have been constant throughout their history,” he laments.

Forty-four years after the start of the Israeli invasion of Lebanon on June 6, 1982, which led to the siege of the capital, Beirut faces an increasingly widespread feeling: exhaustion. Not that of a specific war, but that of a city that has lived for more than four decades amidst intermittent conflicts, incomplete reconstructions, and crises that never seem to be resolved.

The attack, yet another in a war that seems to have no end, was not in the south or in the Shiite outlying neighborhoods of Beirut. It took place in Hazmieh, a residential area far from the usual front lines. It is the second attack in this Christian area in the east of the city, and it struck a building housing displaced families. According to local authorities, the man targeted in the bombing had arrived just an hour earlier. He was not listed as a tenant. One person was killed.

Beirut trembled once again this Thursday under the constant drone of planes and drones flying over the Lebanese capital. Israeli airstrikes have rekindled a fear that many thought had been overcome. According to the Ministry of Health, there are already at least 217 dead—70 of whom were members of Hezbollah—and nearly 800 wounded. Sirens wailed from south to north, a stark reminder that war has once again become a part of daily life.

"Beirut will soon resemble Khan Yunis." With these words, Israel's Finance Minister, the ultranationalist Bezalel Smotrich, issued a warning on Thursday that has precipitated chaos in the Lebanese capital. Hours later, the Israeli military issued an unprecedented evacuation order for Beirut's most populated southern suburbs, urging civilians to leave their homes to save their lives. As final military preparations accelerated and fighter jets circled overhead, the city braced for what many feared: the massive bombardment that began in the early hours of the morning. The Israeli military confirmed on Friday that it had launched 26 waves of attacks in the Dhiyeh district of southern Beirut. Israeli fighter jets bombed cities in southern and eastern Lebanon, including Douris in the Bekaa Valley, as well as the southern suburbs of the capital, Beirut. The Israeli army has announced that it has begun attacking the "infrastructure" of the Lebanese Shiite group Hezbollah in the Dahiye area, following Thursday's evacuation order for densely populated neighborhoods such as Ghobeiry, Haret Hreik, Hadath, and Burj al-Hezbollah.

This Sunday, Haret Hreik, a Hezbollah stronghold on the southern outskirts of Beirut, trembled once again to the roar of warplanes. The seemingly peaceful afternoon was shattered in seconds by the thunder of several explosions. Entire families rushed from their homes in terror, some children crying in their mothers' arms as they ran into the street. Amidst smoke and dust, the rubble of a residential building struck by at least six missiles was tallied. According to local medical sources, at least five people were killed and twenty wounded. Volunteers and medical personnel worked tirelessly, improvising makeshift beds, organizing spaces, and treating the injured with cuts, fractures, and burns. "We can't take any more of this," said a neighbor, her voice trembling with anger and exhaustion.

Tuesday's events further highlighted that the situation in southern Lebanon is nearing a point of no return. Israel maintained pressure throughout the day with attacks in the east and south of the country, while the United States escalated its rhetoric against the Lebanese army and cast doubt on the continuation of its funding to forces loyal to the Beirut government.