Picture it—Beirut, in May, sometime in the 2010s. It was another year, another planned public event. A day marked to speak truth to power, to highlight corruption, abuse, and repression, and to call for accountability. The gathering had become an annual moment, organized by a local civic organization. It brought together different groups working on justice, human rights, and social equality. It was supposed to be half a day of public discussions, a forum for raising voices against impunity. Some had grown weary of the repetitive format, but everyone knew how important it was to show up and remain visible—strategically so. The event was set to take place at a small venue in Hamra.
Just before noon on the day prior, a call came in from the director of the organizing group. Officers in civilian clothing from a state security body had shown up at the venue and pressured the management to cancel the booking. The owners, despite their sympathies with civil society’s goals, were forced to comply. A crisis meeting was immediately called. A handful of organizers, allies, and volunteers were summoned to gather at the civic organization’s office to plan the next move. A parallel group of lawyers and legal advocates convened in support.
Sitting at work after that call, a cloud of heaviness set in. The feeling of dread was familiar. Just then, someone from the community walked past and remarked how peaceful and inspiring the workplace seemed—”no stress here!” they said. A smile was forced in response. If only they knew.
After regrouping with food and emails, calls were made to allies. With a full meal consumed like fuel, it was time to move. The car ride through the city felt like a ritual—steeling the nerves before battle.
By the time everyone gathered at the office, the space was already full. For once, it felt okay to have arrived late. It was a rare moment of pausing to breathe before diving back in.
There was a time when public events were protected by a visible security presence, sometimes even with quiet cooperation from state institutions. That day felt like a betrayal. How did we move from reluctant tolerance to open censorship—without even being told why?
Back at the meeting, different locations were floated. Private citizens offered their spaces, refusing to let fear win. There was a strong desire not to cancel. But at some point, reality caught up with defiance. We couldn’t risk it. Many of those involved were vulnerable, unprotected by legal status, income, or family networks. We didn’t yet know how deep the crackdown ran, or what we were truly up against.
Every new person who entered the room was met with cheers. Despite all our differences, we were united in that moment. The weight of responsibility pressed on us. Everyone had their own reasons for pushing forward—some for justice, some for community, some for the younger versions of ourselves that once had no place to turn.
Eventually, a virtual event was proposed. A smaller program. A safer space. Lawyers secured a location to stream from. The group got to work—brainstorming, writing, dividing tasks. In under 24 hours, a new plan was born.
By midnight, only a couple people remained in the room. Longtime allies, bonded by past emergencies and a stubborn refusal to give up. A few hours of sleep were all that separated the day from what would come next.
Sleep didn’t come.
The morning was a blur of technical errands—tripods, microphones, cables. By 11 a.m., the new venue was buzzing. Old friends filled the space—writers, advocates, researchers, and organizers who had spent years walking this road together.
And then, the cameras. News outlets arrived. Some faces were familiar—too familiar. One outlet in particular felt too close to home. Not everyone in our lives supported what we did, even if they knew we did it. Some chose silence, others denial. But still, we showed up.
The live stream began. People took turns presenting, explaining the situation, sharing the work. No one remembers what they said. Only that they didn’t let their voice crack. That they kept breathing. That they made it through.
Thousands tuned in—far more than the few hundred that would have attended in person. The message got through. The action held. And the act of organizing, resisting, regrouping—worked.
From the outside, it may have looked routine, even dull. But the real story was what had happened the 24 hours before—the tension, the panic, the clashing visions, the sleepless planning, and finally, the resolve. Together, a line had been drawn. A small win had been achieved against faceless authority.
This wasn’t the last act of repression. It was only the beginning of a long chapter of shrinking space.
It takes immense resolve to persist in this kind of work. To exist as a public figure in a context of constant surveillance and instability. The toll is often hidden—burdened by the constant need to prove impact, to maintain visibility, to navigate critique from those within and beyond the movement. Some days, it feels like nothing is ever enough.
The most painful truth is that we cannot save everyone. Even when we try with everything we have.
After the event, a few of us went to a local bar. There were laughs, drinks, even brief moments of joy. But inside, something lingered. The quiet ache of always being on guard. Of knowing that even among comrades, one can still feel alone.
Later that week, a conversation with someone close brought the fear back to the surface. “I hope you’re staying away from all this,” they said, referencing the news. “Of course,” was the answer. A lie exchanged between two people who both knew the truth.
Sometimes lies are easier than watching someone worry. Sometimes silence is the only way to keep moving forward. But at the root of it all, the courage to resist came from what had been learned at home: strength, care, resilience, and the ability to laugh through fear.
That’s what remains. That’s what fuels the battle.
A fight for dignity. A collective refusal to disappear. A journey not yet over.