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Ah, the era of notifications, that sweet melody of the 21st century that resonates with the harmony of an alarm at 3 in the morning. Ding! Your smartphone, that ever-faithful companion, calls out to you with the urgency of a general on the battlefield. “Last call,” you think, heart pounding, ready to face the invasion of the most catastrophic news: an asteroid approaching or a water leak in your home detected by a spy satellite. Yet, this initial alarm often belies the mundane reality of another flash sale notification, setting the stage for a deeper exploration of contrasts.
But as the imagination runs wild, the real peril, although less cosmic, is no less pressing. Beyond apocalyptic scenarios, the reality in the south of Lebanon, where war wreaks havoc with its procession of battles and human losses, threatens to ignite other regions. In this area where violence rages, everyday life is a struggle for survival, a constant reminder of the fragility of existence.
Yet, in another Lebanon, astonishingly disconnected from this harsh reality, and where a large part of the population survives thanks to NGOs, life goes on in a strangely ordinary course. Here, notifications do not signal the arrival of missiles, but that of flash sales, promotions on the latest technological gadgets, and those objects of desire whose absence would make our existence as dull as a lecture on the art of watching paint dry. This attraction to sales, in a context where every expense must be weighed and measured, calls attention and highlights a form of resilience, or even denial, in the face of an overwhelming economic reality.
It’s an existence where urgency is measured not in security alerts, but in limited-time offers, threatening to plunge our social life into darkness, not from a generator failure, but from missing a shoe sale that ends tomorrow. This surreal dichotomy paints the portrait of a Lebanon at two speeds, where the gravity of war and the depth of the economic crisis coexist with the frivolity of sales. While some fight for their survival, others battle for the best deals, rushing for fur-lined boots and warm down jackets — the price to pay for having enjoyed a swim in the sea in the middle of December.
In this urban jungle, where the smartphone reigns supreme, every “Ding!” is a call to arms in a price war where all blows are allowed. It’s a world where urgency has lost its luster, melted into the daily life of promotions and limited offers, reminding us to lift our eyes from our screens, if only to pay homage to human resilience, which, even in adversity, finds a reason to persevere.
The apocalypse, it seems, will have to wait. For even in the face of the threat of a war that could spread and an economic crisis that strangles, a part of the Lebanese population chooses to continue on their path, clinging to their little routines and daily pleasures. This complex reality, where maintaining some normality becomes almost an act of resistance, underscores a refusal to let war and the economic crisis define the entirety of Lebanese existence.
In sum, in this Lebanon, where the echoes of distant conflicts and the cries of an unprecedented crisis mingle with notifications of promotions, the irony of our time reveals itself in all its complexity. Perhaps one day, a real “last call” will remind us of the importance of the present moment. This call to awareness, unlike the trivial alarms of our daily lives, beckons us to reconsider our priorities, both personal and global. Or then again, it might just be another promotion for pizzas. After all, who could resist?
