Four weeks after a day of Israeli airstrikes that killed more than 350 people across Lebanon, families are still sifting through rubble in search of the dead — and, in some cases, simply searching for answers. The assault, which has come to be known as "Black Wednesday," took place on 8 April, when Israel dropped more than 100 bombs on Lebanon in just ten minutes, striking densely populated neighbourhoods across the country, from Beirut's southern suburbs and waterfront to the port city of Sidon and the Bekaa Valley in the east.

The strikes coincided with the announcement of a temporary ceasefire between the United States and Iran — a pause that briefly raised hopes among ordinary Lebanese that the worst was over. Many residents of neighbourhoods like Hay el Sellom, in Beirut's southern suburbs, and Ein el Mreisseh, along the city's waterfront Corniche, had considered their areas relatively safe up to that point. In Hay el Sellom, the Lebanese health ministry says more than 80 people were killed, including at least 15 children. In Ein el Mreisseh, Ali Aboud's sister Zahraa, 26, a biochemistry graduate pursuing her master's degree, was in her room at their aunt's apartment when the building was struck. Twenty-two bodies were pulled from the ruins; Zahraa has not yet been found. "Every time a new body was found, I prayed it wasn't Zahraa," Ali said.

Survivors and bereaved families describe scenes of sudden, total devastation. In Hay el Sellom, Mohammed lost his son Abbas when three floors of their building collapsed. "I wish it was just my home that I lost, and that my son survived," he said. "This brick can be rebuilt. But nothing will bring back my son." Another resident, Ghassan Jawad, was buried alive when his building collapsed. He credits his cat with saving his life by digging a hole so he could breathe until neighbours arrived with hammers and metal bars to free him. His mother and sisters were among those who did not survive. In the Corniche al Mazraa district of central Beirut — a busy commercial area struck for the first time that day — a fitness instructor described looking out of her seventh-floor window after the blast to find "the world was black" and people covered in blood.

Israel said it was targeting Hezbollah command centres and military sites. Hezbollah is an Iran-backed armed group and political movement that operates primarily in Lebanon and had fired rockets into Israel in early March. The Israeli military said it killed 250 Hezbollah operatives on 8 April. Some identified targets did have verifiable ties to the group, including a senior official killed at a religious complex in Sidon. However, journalists and families on the ground challenge the characterisation of many of the sites as military targets. In Ein el Mreisseh, Ali Aboud insisted the building held no Hezbollah connection: "This is a mixed area from different sects. There were 22 bodies. All those pulled from the rubble were women and children." The Israeli military did not respond to specific questions about the targeting of several neighbourhoods.

For survivors, the grief is compounded by a sense of compounding tragedy. Ola Al-Attar, a 32-year-old mother of two who was killed while at work at a dental clinic, had already lost her husband in the catastrophic 2020 Beirut port explosion — one of the largest non-nuclear blasts in history, which killed 218 people. She had spent years campaigning for accountability for that disaster. Her daughters, aged 12 and seven, are now orphaned. "My sister and I, we have become orphans," her 12-year-old, also named Zahraa, said. "But I will study. I will raise my head so that my mother and my father can be proud of me." The scale of a single day's violence, and the civilian lives it erased, has left communities across Lebanon grappling not only with grief but with deep uncertainty about when — or whether — the destruction will end.